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<?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;CkIHQX8_cCp7ImA9WhRUGUg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573</id><updated>2012-01-30T13:08:50.148-06:00</updated><category term="Fact" /><category term="Fiction" /><title>Might Not Be True</title><subtitle type="html">Facts and Fictions.</subtitle><link rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/feeds/posts/default" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/" /><link rel="next" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default?start-index=26&amp;max-results=25&amp;redirect=false&amp;v=2" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><generator version="7.00" uri="http://www.blogger.com">Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>153</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/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue" /><feedburner:info uri="thingsthatmightnotbetrue" /><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="hub" href="http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/" /><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CkcGQHk7eCp7ImA9WhRUF0w.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-6690840429584586883</id><published>2012-01-27T18:20:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-27T18:20:21.700-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-27T18:20:21.700-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>"Cleveland Rocks"</title><summary type="html">We've all seen it:


Drew Carey Show

We know it:
"I'll move to Cleveland, the day you get that IKEA."
http://www.imdb.com/video/hulu/vi2380267545/
30 Rock

I'm pretty sure that the 2000s got it right. The 90s are out, Carey.

Cleveland does not rock. We're with you Lemon.&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/g9z8ec8G3BI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/6690840429584586883?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/6690840429584586883?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/g9z8ec8G3BI/cleveland-rocks.html" title="&quot;Cleveland Rocks&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://img.youtube.com/vi/MmSW-OM8h8c/default.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2012/01/cleveland-rocks.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DU8ARX8ycCp7ImA9WhRUFkk.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-4267101827395470913</id><published>2012-01-27T01:04:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-27T01:04:04.198-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-27T01:04:04.198-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><title>dear bike riding.</title><summary type="html">you are a formidable way to get exercise without paying a gym membership fee.

however. you are not free. nay. you cost my body both time and money. the chiropractor wasn't working out. $250 down the drain. the very cost of a bicycle, upwards of a hundo. a bike light. stolen. or lost. whichever. doesn't matter. fifteen bones cast to the wind.

while you're still the best mode of transport this &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/zjsAemlO5uQ" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/4267101827395470913?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/4267101827395470913?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/zjsAemlO5uQ/dear-bike-riding.html" title="dear bike riding." /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2012/01/dear-bike-riding.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkcHQXY5cCp7ImA9WhRUFUQ.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-2990673608548430410</id><published>2012-01-26T11:13:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-26T11:13:50.828-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-26T11:13:50.828-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>dear nora</title><summary type="html">My best friend Nora Ephron and I have spent the better part of a week together. It's always fun when a friend arrives from out of town to visit. But I do feel awful that I've been so busy with work and shows. And, yes, of course she understands. What sort of bestie wouldn't? But, what sort of bestie would I be if I didn't feel bad?

I read her book, "I Remember Nothing," and I laughed a lot. But &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/QbMtHSobglA" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/2990673608548430410?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/2990673608548430410?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/QbMtHSobglA/dear-nora.html" title="dear nora" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2012/01/dear-nora.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkMNRns-eip7ImA9WhdSE0g.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-8053577386927165138</id><published>2011-07-22T13:14:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2011-07-22T13:14:57.552-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-07-22T13:14:57.552-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>hiatus</title><summary type="html">also. sorry for the hiatus. this is directed mostly at my friend rebecca and brother kevin who keep bugging me to write.&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/BXio_JfV_0k" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8053577386927165138?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8053577386927165138?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/BXio_JfV_0k/hiatus.html" title="hiatus" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2011/07/hiatus.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DUEBQ30yeip7ImA9WhRUFkk.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-1546055645344218974</id><published>2011-07-22T12:50:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2012-01-27T01:00:52.392-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-27T01:00:52.392-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>If you're 5 feet or below, you're a midget.</title><summary type="html">This doesn't even make sense, guys. I mean, sure. You're short. Sure, you're petite. — But are you disproportionate? If the answer is no, then you're not a legal midget. I might also add that midget is actually a perjorative term, so maybe say something else.

Acceptable terms include: little person and dwarf. I know, I'm a little surprised too. Those seem worse. 

According to Wikipedia, a &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/xlkJrt_O6Ys" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/1546055645344218974?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/1546055645344218974?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/xlkJrt_O6Ys/if-youre-5-feet-or-below-youre-midget.html" title="If you're 5 feet or below, you're a midget." /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2011/07/if-youre-5-feet-or-below-youre-midget.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0UAR3g4fSp7ImA9WhZTGU8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-8859274966769040399</id><published>2011-03-23T20:14:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2011-03-23T20:14:06.635-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-03-23T20:14:06.635-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>Inspiration is Creation</title><summary type="html">Quite the tight rope to walk.

But, alas, we walk it.

Inspiration is what needs to be defined here. Inspiration has the potential to come from even the smallest molecule of energy, thought, or theory. It doesn't have to be one kick in the bum. It's the act of creation that should be inspiration to others that they too must be creators. If you're not creating anything, then you're just taking &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/c-OVS307HPg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8859274966769040399?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8859274966769040399?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/c-OVS307HPg/inspiration-is-creation.html" title="Inspiration is Creation" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2011/03/inspiration-is-creation.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DEQFRno5eCp7ImA9Wx9UF08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-466538499009246931</id><published>2011-02-14T17:31:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2011-02-14T17:31:57.420-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-02-14T17:31:57.420-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><title>Some people are simply destined for greatness.</title><summary type="html">--Reading Christopher Buckley's "Losing Mum and Pup," and realizing this sentence is irrefutably true. 

One thing is for sure, however, if you live your life in a way that suspends the thought of failure, notice will be taken. For the same reasons people love shows like Mad Men, charm and grace are superior to skill, though surely it's clear that it helps immeasurably. It's more often than not &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/LR_4AA4-MW0" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/466538499009246931?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/466538499009246931?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/LR_4AA4-MW0/some-people-are-simply-destined-for.html" title="Some people are simply destined for greatness." /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2011/02/some-people-are-simply-destined-for.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0YHRXs6eSp7ImA9Wx9VFks.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-2520948866374209272</id><published>2011-02-02T11:52:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2011-02-02T11:52:14.511-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-02-02T11:52:14.511-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>"It's nothing personal."</title><summary type="html">It's always something personal. Let's think about this: you're dealing with people. The word "person" resides in the phrase "It's nothing personal."

Boom goes the dynamite. Am I right?

&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/B8ppt-AFNFQ" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/2520948866374209272?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/2520948866374209272?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/B8ppt-AFNFQ/its-nothing-personal.html" title="&quot;It's nothing personal.&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2011/02/its-nothing-personal.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkAGRXk7eip7ImA9Wx9WFU0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-8787678694092555496</id><published>2011-01-20T01:32:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2011-01-20T01:32:04.702-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-01-20T01:32:04.702-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>"Better Late than Never"</title><summary type="html">So, I haven't posted in a while — This Fact or Fiction seemed to fit pretty well, if I say so myself.

Seriously though, it's always better to have something over nothing. And, showing up late versus not showing up at all shows you care, even if it's just a little. Turning in work late, sure not the best thing, but the act of doing it at some point, is better than not at all. And, sure, certain &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/W_wfCmD8IuQ" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8787678694092555496?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8787678694092555496?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/W_wfCmD8IuQ/better-late-than-never.html" title="&quot;Better Late than Never&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2011/01/better-late-than-never.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CkcCRng_fip7ImA9Wx9RFEs.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-5773627438880547553</id><published>2010-12-15T18:41:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2010-12-15T18:41:07.646-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-12-15T18:41:07.646-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><title>A Clean House is a Happy House</title><summary type="html">I had a day off work last week. I cleaned a toilet. I tidied my bedroom. I dusted. A lot.

And, it is immaculate.

Indeed, a dirty house is not just unhappy, it's unenjoyable.


&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/gBgtmP7F5LI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/5773627438880547553?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/5773627438880547553?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/gBgtmP7F5LI/clean-house-is-happy-house.html" title="A Clean House is a Happy House" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/12/clean-house-is-happy-house.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0YAQ3Y5fyp7ImA9Wx9SGE4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-8064168053606276165</id><published>2010-12-08T11:50:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2010-12-08T11:59:02.827-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-12-08T11:59:02.827-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><title>"It is the beautiful bird which gets caged."</title><summary type="html">Here’s my once in a blue moon gander into the political spectrum.

I read recently that China is peeved at the Nobel Peace Prize Committee for awarding a Chinese dissident with this year’s coveted award. (And a few other nations seem to be up in arms as well, among those who are not attending include Russia, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Pakistan, and Iraq.)

Artist and human rights advocate Liu Xiaobo &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/vdR5EHsxTWY" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8064168053606276165?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8064168053606276165?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/vdR5EHsxTWY/declined-invitations-to-2010-nobel.html" title="&quot;It is the beautiful bird which gets caged.&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Xh5cXwHVOwU/TLEl7hibbBI/AAAAAAAAAz4/4pX964rirJM/s72-c/e_chinese_symbols_proverbs_freedom1.gif" height="72" width="72" /><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/12/declined-invitations-to-2010-nobel.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0ABSH8zeSp7ImA9Wx9SFE0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-8095167267204541596</id><published>2010-12-03T13:49:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2010-12-03T13:49:19.181-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-12-03T13:49:19.181-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>"Home is where the heart is — "</title><summary type="html">— unless your whole family ditches you at important holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

At that point there might still be a heart, it's just cold and lifeless.

&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/Ncph0FhGkl8" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8095167267204541596?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8095167267204541596?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/Ncph0FhGkl8/home-is-where-heart-is.html" title="&quot;Home is where the heart is — &quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/12/home-is-where-heart-is.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0ABQXgzcCp7ImA9Wx9SE04.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-8100574680245000360</id><published>2010-12-02T17:15:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2010-12-02T17:15:50.688-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-12-02T17:15:50.688-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><title>"Children act exactly like little drunk people."</title><summary type="html">I saw this as a friend's Facebook status one day, and the reality of this thought struck me like an abusive boyfriend.

That's all that can be said to justify this observation.


The Landlord from Will Ferrell&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/UO_FHndyzus" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8100574680245000360?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8100574680245000360?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/UO_FHndyzus/children-act-exactly-like-little-drunk.html" title="&quot;Children act exactly like little drunk people.&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/12/children-act-exactly-like-little-drunk.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0QHRXg9eCp7ImA9Wx9SEUs.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-7183977212264617755</id><published>2010-11-30T19:02:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2010-11-30T19:02:14.660-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-11-30T19:02:14.660-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>"Those who can't 'do,' teach."</title><summary type="html">Lies. Lies and the lying liars that proliferate these lies have got to hit the road.

This might be true when it comes to gym teachers who didn't make it onto American Gladiators, but for everything else, it's just malarkey. I often have found that the best performers (regardless of their crafts) make the best teachers. Honestly, I wouldn't and don't trust a teacher who hasn't ever gone out for &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/iuzkbN1dsDc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/7183977212264617755?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/7183977212264617755?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/iuzkbN1dsDc/those-who-cant-do-teach.html" title="&quot;Those who can't 'do,' teach.&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/11/those-who-cant-do-teach.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEEHQnc9fSp7ImA9Wx9TGE8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-686300263760562887</id><published>2010-11-26T19:50:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2010-11-26T19:50:33.965-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-11-26T19:50:33.965-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>"[I/You] never kiss and tell."</title><summary type="html">You ever heard of marriage?

Well. I have. And, let me tell you a little something about it  — it's the ultimate when it comes to kissing and telling. Many of my dearest friends have taken the trip down that two-person lane, and every time it happens I get a little happier about the world. It's pretty neat, no? Just the mere idea that commitment can run that deeply. Now, don't jump the gun here, &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/mTDj617sEe4" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/686300263760562887?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/686300263760562887?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/mTDj617sEe4/iyou-never-kiss-and-tell.html" title="&quot;[I/You] never kiss and tell.&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TPBj0x5i4AI/AAAAAAAAAxc/0Yv8SqZpBTo/s72-c/photo.jpeg" height="72" width="72" /><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/11/iyou-never-kiss-and-tell.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkAMQ347eyp7ImA9Wx9TEEs.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-5714836442043208625</id><published>2010-11-18T01:19:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2010-11-18T01:19:42.003-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-11-18T01:19:42.003-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>The phrase: "I feel like" means the same as "I think."</title><summary type="html">I'm just as guilty as the next fool, but this does not actually make sense.

You can feel like eating a sandwich. You can feel like crap. But, you can't equate feeling something for thinking something.

Excuse me, but when I put my little feelers out into the world to generate information/lies/untruths/etc., they've brought back this notion of ridiculousness attached to crazy. That ridiculousity &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/JL9DUYGVtq8" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/5714836442043208625?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/5714836442043208625?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/JL9DUYGVtq8/phrase-i-feel-like-means-same-as-i.html" title="The phrase: &quot;I feel like&quot; means the same as &quot;I think.&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/11/phrase-i-feel-like-means-same-as-i.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DEYBRX85cCp7ImA9Wx5aFEk.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-3078530915144407933</id><published>2010-11-10T21:29:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2010-11-10T21:29:14.128-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-11-10T21:29:14.128-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><title>Those Who Bicycle Are Better Drivers Than Those Who Do Not</title><summary type="html">This almost warrants no explanation. I shall be brief. Bicyclists (and throw in walkers, while we're at it), know their surroundings more so than their four-wheeled friends. You find the ins and outs of a city or town based on taking back roads, finding where things wind up and around, and basically you learn about how terrible drivers can be. That's not to say that bicyclists do not have their &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/PCUnu_D5Gs8" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/3078530915144407933?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/3078530915144407933?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/PCUnu_D5Gs8/those-who-bicycle-are-better-drivers.html" title="Those Who Bicycle Are Better Drivers Than Those Who Do Not" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/11/those-who-bicycle-are-better-drivers.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0IFQ3Y9fip7ImA9Wx5aE0k.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-7197431479869799104</id><published>2010-11-09T16:24:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2010-11-09T16:25:12.866-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-11-09T16:25:12.866-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>"No News is Good News"</title><summary type="html">Speaking from the stance of a Journalism &amp;amp; Mass Communication BA holder, I think it's my social obligation to put the rumors to rest.

This isn't true even if you're a parent who "doesn't wanna know." And here's why:
1. Just because you haven't found out doesn't mean it didn't happen.
2. If you didn't hear anything that's bad or good,that just means your kid isn't doing anything special worthy of&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/WSUOQRsQh6I" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/7197431479869799104?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/7197431479869799104?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/WSUOQRsQh6I/no-news-is-good-news.html" title="&quot;No News is Good News&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/11/no-news-is-good-news.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0MFSXw7cSp7ImA9Wx5aEkg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-7928632974237429022</id><published>2010-11-08T17:36:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2010-11-08T17:36:58.209-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-11-08T17:36:58.209-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>"The grass is always greener on the other side."</title><summary type="html">Either this means life sucks period — or whoever coined it was both perpetually discontent and unable to see that they had it pretty damn good. Bumzies, regardless.

See, lately I've been feeling old, even though I'm really not that old. And, as I continue on living, it's come to mind that I'm actually probably one of the happiest people I know. On the whole, I've got this in the bag. I have my &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/YL5hwen89V0" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/7928632974237429022?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/7928632974237429022?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/YL5hwen89V0/grass-is-always-greener-on-other-side.html" title="&quot;The grass is always greener on the other side.&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/11/grass-is-always-greener-on-other-side.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0MHSXkzeCp7ImA9Wx5aEUQ.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-3096049281863822573</id><published>2010-11-08T00:52:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2010-11-08T00:57:18.780-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-11-08T00:57:18.780-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><title>"Time is of the essence."</title><summary type="html">So. I had to look up what this phrase actually means. I had a general idea, but for clarification's sake (the best kind of sake), here we are:

time is of the essence n. a phrase often used in  contracts, which, in effect says: the specified time and dates in this  agreement are vital and thus, mandatory, and "we mean it."  Therefore,  any delay, reasonable or not, slight or not, will be grounds &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/5H61tfEMtAI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/3096049281863822573?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/3096049281863822573?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/5H61tfEMtAI/time-is-of-essence.html" title="&quot;Time is of the essence.&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TNeeG1Zij7I/AAAAAAAAAxY/NBCUaaKc6gQ/s72-c/Picture+1.png" height="72" width="72" /><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/11/time-is-of-essence.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0EFQnszcSp7ImA9Wx5aEkg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-939335770486124454</id><published>2010-10-23T14:11:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2010-11-08T17:40:13.589-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-11-08T17:40:13.589-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>"If you expect to soar with the eagles during the day, you can't hoot with the owls at night."</title><summary type="html">If vacations attest for anything it's this: You can 100 percent both soar and hoot. I'm all about it.

For the last four days I've made it a point to suck it up, neglect my body's desire for sleep, and soak in the wonder that is hanging with my siblings and friends in Los Angeles. And sure, vacations are great for resting and relaxing, but conversation over libations in new places is a win if &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/Q1gUWahVIcg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/939335770486124454?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/939335770486124454?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/Q1gUWahVIcg/if-you-expect-to-soar-with-eagles.html" title="&quot;If you expect to soar with the eagles during the day, you can't hoot with the owls at night.&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/10/if-you-expect-to-soar-with-eagles.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0cGQH4zeyp7ImA9Wx5UF0w.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-5414033772358069362</id><published>2010-10-21T20:30:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2010-10-21T20:30:21.083-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-10-21T20:30:21.083-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>All Airlines are the Same</title><summary type="html">

I'm a Southwest girl. There. I've said it. My allegiance lies solely with that blue, gold, and red emblem. There are serious failings on the part of every other airline in the world when compared to the perfection that is SW.

This thought was so deep and profound to me as I boarded flight 123 United yesterday that I stopped in my tracks, pulled out my copy of Atlas Shrugged and wrote:
"MNBT: &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/VEovDvmUPXg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/5414033772358069362?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/5414033772358069362?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/VEovDvmUPXg/all-airlines-are-same.html" title="All Airlines are the Same" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/10/all-airlines-are-same.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0MHSH86eyp7ImA9Wx5UFU4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-227060672851569952</id><published>2010-10-19T19:43:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2010-10-19T19:43:59.113-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-10-19T19:43:59.113-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>"I'm Blank-ing my head off"</title><summary type="html">Last I checked there have been very few people who have been decapitated due to any of the following:
laughing
dancing
screwing
etc.
The closest epithet to reality might possibly be: "Dancing my ass off," depending on how fast and long one is dancing for.
&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/CTUQcq8hPxk" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/227060672851569952?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/227060672851569952?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/CTUQcq8hPxk/im-blank-ing-my-head-off.html" title="&quot;I'm Blank-ing my head off&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/10/im-blank-ing-my-head-off.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0AHQH44eSp7ImA9Wx5UE0o.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-8350086025513850286</id><published>2010-10-18T00:28:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2010-10-18T00:28:51.031-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-10-18T00:28:51.031-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fiction" /><title>"You wear your heart on your sleeve"</title><summary type="html">Picture this: Blood rolling down the sides of a hand; it drips down splashing delicately onto the top of a foot; a heart pumps to the beat of a metronome. The cuff of your shirt sleeve is dyed a deep pinot noir. The room is silent, save for the pulsating beat of that metronome and the slow drip-drip-drip crashing to the floor. It's the sort of silence that causes you to hear everything. With each&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/SPqxorX9XPw" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8350086025513850286?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/8350086025513850286?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/SPqxorX9XPw/you-wear-your-heart-on-your-sleeve.html" title="&quot;You wear your heart on your sleeve&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_KmsOGLWqofE/SZ7azj6_GnI/AAAAAAAAADk/-2Okt-Wi0b8/s72-c/wearingyourheart.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/10/you-wear-your-heart-on-your-sleeve.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0YERHwyfCp7ImA9Wx5UEkw.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5287548688859168573.post-3347545237277651730</id><published>2010-10-16T02:45:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2010-10-16T02:45:05.294-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-10-16T02:45:05.294-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fact" /><title>"A Leopard Cannot Change Its Spots."</title><summary type="html">True.

But, wouldn't it be cool to see it try?

I feel that way about most things. Honestly. I can say with certainty that most people don't change their ways regardless of intention; so what could make something as specific and innate as leopard spots possibly give way to stripes? The answer: Nothing.

The best part, however, of a saying such as this, is that desire to see a leopard try to &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~4/1jdoQGfv7xg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/3347545237277651730?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5287548688859168573/posts/default/3347545237277651730?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ThingsThatMightNotBeTrue/~3/1jdoQGfv7xg/leopard-cannot-change-its-spots.html" title="&quot;A Leopard Cannot Change Its Spots.&quot;" /><author><name>Brigid Marshall</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04785311467719071409</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="30" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3wxYXxz3MRU/TEItcnz0KgI/AAAAAAAAAtU/mK8xrzXJzIU/S220/35196_866301757319_14800373_47876807_2508127_n.jpg" /></author><feedburner:origLink>http://www.mightnotbetrue.com/2010/10/leopard-cannot-change-its-spots.html</feedburner:origLink></entry></feed>

