tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224793787834718042011-11-27T15:54:52.564-08:00"It sounded like a good idea at the time," is ALWAYS, the right answer.Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-68119222779143297922010-11-28T21:27:00.000-08:002010-11-30T19:04:17.623-08:002010-11-30T19:04:17.623-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com0 Soooo... I moved to Los Angeles! I know what you're thinking - "Uh didn't you just move to Texas?"  Yes, yes I did!  I moved from San Francisco, to Austin, TX in January, and have now moved to southern california. Apparently, I'm in a masochistic relationship with UHaul, and I didn't even realize it. Every time I move, I say, "FUCK THIS! Fuck UHaul, fuck owning things, I AM NEVER <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_LPRJ9UPaM4UpKeauFOAgXQ8ghs/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_LPRJ9UPaM4UpKeauFOAgXQ8ghs/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_LPRJ9UPaM4UpKeauFOAgXQ8ghs/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_LPRJ9UPaM4UpKeauFOAgXQ8ghs/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/8Bq-unnTNOE" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2010/11/oh-haaaaay-la.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-18146182014859067752010-10-25T16:54:00.000-07:002010-10-25T16:54:52.469-07:002010-10-25T16:54:52.469-07:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com0 Ya that’s right, I said it. If you don’t live in Texas, you might not know what I’m talking about. Nine months ago, I wouldn’t have known what I was talking about either. For those of you in the dark, the Longhorns are the University of Texas football team. Personally, I think football is kind of gay. And I don’t mean gay as “lame,” I mean gay as in men having sex with other men GAY. <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/l8wTJNM2yngfwDvWgotX3yO532w/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/l8wTJNM2yngfwDvWgotX3yO532w/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/l8wTJNM2yngfwDvWgotX3yO532w/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/l8wTJNM2yngfwDvWgotX3yO532w/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/dWRxB1tPnbk" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2010/10/fuck-longhorns.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-42594628783110652010-10-07T00:56:00.000-07:002010-10-07T00:56:18.830-07:002010-10-07T00:56:18.830-07:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com0 DISCLAIMER: This was written by the 16-year old girl inside me who still sleeps in her "I heart the Backstreet Boys" t-shirt... I take no responsibility for her writing... Don’t judge me, but I was pretty excited for the VMA’s this year. Mostly because my favorite whore, Chelsea Handler was hosting, and if anyone was going to say inappropriate things on live TV, it was going to be her. <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/1DA2A0TLt2vBU33a-DESAk9Tnhg/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/1DA2A0TLt2vBU33a-DESAk9Tnhg/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/1DA2A0TLt2vBU33a-DESAk9Tnhg/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/1DA2A0TLt2vBU33a-DESAk9Tnhg/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/8QSI7vrdRGw" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2010/10/oh-shiiiiiiit-mr-west-did-it-again.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-81622364778856610902010-10-07T00:01:00.000-07:002010-10-07T00:01:31.456-07:002010-10-07T00:01:31.456-07:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com0ya... you saw that coming... *shame* love you mean it. <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/6t8IwuBe6MtON2YViYrN8pPKn8k/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/6t8IwuBe6MtON2YViYrN8pPKn8k/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/6t8IwuBe6MtON2YViYrN8pPKn8k/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/6t8IwuBe6MtON2YViYrN8pPKn8k/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/3cqh4nrQ5Y0" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2010/10/update-hello-again-facebook.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-91021744787999156182010-08-27T16:45:00.000-07:002010-08-28T15:37:31.362-07:002010-08-28T15:37:31.362-07:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com1 Yes, that's right... I have committed facebook suicide. I "deactivated" my book of faces about 2 weeks ago, and I have never been more productive! That is a blatant lie. The theory in my mind was: "It's becoming increasingly pathetic the amount of time I spend reading inane updates from people I don't care enough about to actually call on the phone... I bet if I no longer had a facebook, <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/6ZhDLMq_XBxEjMhedTvWs7wB54M/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/6ZhDLMq_XBxEjMhedTvWs7wB54M/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/6ZhDLMq_XBxEjMhedTvWs7wB54M/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/6ZhDLMq_XBxEjMhedTvWs7wB54M/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/r9kHNUFZUkM" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2010/08/goodbye-facebook.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-18986900483154311932010-08-09T00:40:00.000-07:002010-08-09T00:46:48.788-07:002010-08-09T00:46:48.788-07:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com0 "A prince in practice moans for the attention that he wants,but most of this town won't even dignify his ignorance with a response.Left to a crowded foster home by a 15 year old mom,never been held in anyone's arms, when you've never been moved its really hard to move on.A young saleswoman sets up shop when the sun sets,she'll make your wildest dreams come true at a price you wont forget <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/U_gOSzvPe6riysB5GWVLH4bRr_Q/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/U_gOSzvPe6riysB5GWVLH4bRr_Q/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/U_gOSzvPe6riysB5GWVLH4bRr_Q/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/U_gOSzvPe6riysB5GWVLH4bRr_Q/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/h5PjNMQyEB0" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2010/08/still-obsessed-with-this-song.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-25224450963308351662010-07-02T20:57:00.000-07:002010-07-02T20:57:08.509-07:002010-07-02T20:57:08.509-07:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com0 Sooooo... I've been neglecting this blog. I've been so busy posting on my other ones, I've left this baby all alone to wither and DIE! I'm a terrible mother. Anywayzzz... Being busy with this whole "I'm an adult" thing now, I haven't had a lot of time for personal ventures. Being an adult is full-time job... Correction, TRYING to be an adult is a full-time job. I'm pretty sure I'm on a <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/SRBD4wxY257WhP4mXTFnVTgyO4c/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/SRBD4wxY257WhP4mXTFnVTgyO4c/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/SRBD4wxY257WhP4mXTFnVTgyO4c/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/SRBD4wxY257WhP4mXTFnVTgyO4c/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/SdAg0AnWDdY" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2010/07/oh-haaaaaay-internet.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-56759577131534168762010-03-28T19:49:00.000-07:002010-03-28T19:49:03.990-07:002010-03-28T19:49:03.990-07:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com3 Moving away is just like a "break-up." Actually, I think a "break-up" is easier. When my last boyfriend broke up with me, he did it over the phone... like a pussy bitch. I was so mad that he was too pathetic to say it to my face, I went on an anger rampage. I started a "break-up" journal where I outlined all the horrible things about him, and why it was better that we weren't together. I <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/A8k_dr-2BU2MIhelf9g2TVXjszs/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/A8k_dr-2BU2MIhelf9g2TVXjszs/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/A8k_dr-2BU2MIhelf9g2TVXjszs/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/A8k_dr-2BU2MIhelf9g2TVXjszs/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/NazaaLZfFw8" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2010/03/breaking-up-with-my-hometown.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-17671467847909618112010-01-21T20:40:00.000-08:002010-01-22T11:43:14.702-08:002010-01-22T11:43:14.702-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com2 Yes, I totally suck. I haven't written anything since 2009! I promised I would write more, and look what I've done... I'm actually writing less than before. Since only like 5 people read this, I figure no one "really" cares too much anyway. This time however... I have a legit excuse as to why my blog entries have become so sparse.... *Drum Roll Please* I MOVED TO AUSTIN, TX! <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/gT5i6cQEiL3PoKJMkYC71snb7vA/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/gT5i6cQEiL3PoKJMkYC71snb7vA/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/gT5i6cQEiL3PoKJMkYC71snb7vA/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/gT5i6cQEiL3PoKJMkYC71snb7vA/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/a0knf_lymZk" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2010/01/yes-i-fail-at-life-among-other-things.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-76176550777325535852009-12-28T13:59:00.000-08:002009-12-28T14:46:55.278-08:002009-12-28T14:46:55.278-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com2   "... what does that mean, know me? To know me? ... nobody ever knows anybody else... ever! You will never know me." - Rules of Attraction What does it really mean to know somebody? I feel like I know the people closest to me, but maybe I don't. As I type that, I realize, even the friends I hold deep in my heart, don't know a lot about me. They don't know all the things I've done, <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AHIuJspXPGZ9nrXAnklxYp-1uqU/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AHIuJspXPGZ9nrXAnklxYp-1uqU/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AHIuJspXPGZ9nrXAnklxYp-1uqU/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AHIuJspXPGZ9nrXAnklxYp-1uqU/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/GZYQEOW92-o" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/12/what-are-you-hiding.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-45185181244801731572009-12-16T02:27:00.000-08:002009-12-16T15:52:30.261-08:002009-12-16T15:52:30.261-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com19 A few days ago, a friend of mine posted a blog entry about the different levels of a "woman's sexual performance," and suggested that I write one for the fellas. You can read his post HERE. I've always wanted to write a "male performance review," but never had the motivation to do so. After talking with some girlfriends about their most recent exploits, I have come to the tragic <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/xSwKeLwZTvmPztpUaxIdYu7FkAk/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/xSwKeLwZTvmPztpUaxIdYu7FkAk/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/xSwKeLwZTvmPztpUaxIdYu7FkAk/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/xSwKeLwZTvmPztpUaxIdYu7FkAk/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/T0fUgnhqGXM" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/12/lets-talk-about-sex-baby.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-50424154799238408882009-12-09T13:10:00.000-08:002009-12-09T13:10:36.106-08:002009-12-09T13:10:36.106-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com6 When I was 16, I convinced myself that all I wanted was a super hot rich husband, a big house, an unlimited monthly clothing allowance, and a fancy car. At 19, I decided that "love was all that mattered." I was desperately in love with my boyfriend, and would have been happy anywhere with him; including living in a cardboard box on the street... in theory of course. Now, at 25, it feels like <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/XzKNZD_B5pyS31yS6ojKVHMg9K0/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/XzKNZD_B5pyS31yS6ojKVHMg9K0/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/XzKNZD_B5pyS31yS6ojKVHMg9K0/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/XzKNZD_B5pyS31yS6ojKVHMg9K0/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/4ub5-goWjL4" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/12/she-aint-nothin-but-gold-digger.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-83006314271811385032009-11-26T02:17:00.000-08:002009-12-04T13:13:54.330-08:002009-12-04T13:13:54.330-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com5 Last thanksgiving, I got into an EPIC fight with my boyfriend at the time, who I will refer to in this story, as X. I guess it was "technically" the day after thanksgiving, because this "fight" happened at like 4 am. We went to my parents house early that Thursday for midday dinner, and around 6pm, we went to X's mother's boyfriend's family gathering. It was a day full of extreme consumption, <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/wqqhbQgg3JDk6naifcVVqcoCdxc/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/wqqhbQgg3JDk6naifcVVqcoCdxc/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/wqqhbQgg3JDk6naifcVVqcoCdxc/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/wqqhbQgg3JDk6naifcVVqcoCdxc/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/eO0GUzVM6I4" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/11/and-now-it-seems-light-years-away.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-50040218317766595852009-11-21T13:20:00.000-08:002009-11-21T13:28:17.206-08:002009-11-21T13:28:17.206-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com3 1. MEXICAN GUY AT THE GYM TALKING ON YOUR CELL PHONE WHILE DOING BICEP CURLS IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR - Seriously? Do you think you look sexy talking on your circa 2001 flip phone? Are you convinced my vagina is going to fall open with lustful pangs because you own, and can operate electronic devices? FYI, you look like a motherfucking douchebag, and no one gives a shit that you have a <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/X4PXthymvPO6i5gImJw4n4aPmGU/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/X4PXthymvPO6i5gImJw4n4aPmGU/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/X4PXthymvPO6i5gImJw4n4aPmGU/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/X4PXthymvPO6i5gImJw4n4aPmGU/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/Vv520b3s9jQ" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/11/hey-im-talking-to-you.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-54874906481095317502009-11-20T14:17:00.000-08:002009-11-20T14:32:28.416-08:002009-11-20T14:32:28.416-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com0 Lauren (my best friend/roomie) and I are living in this house in Berkeley, and she decides to have a crazy party without telling me. I wake up from a nap, and go into the living room, where I find a bunch of people I don't know. I'm kind of excited because I don't know what's happening. I see some people I think I know, and start mingling. The party gets bigger and bigger, and before I know <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AaHJiul-CNO7x9DtNqOdgzdB-0Y/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AaHJiul-CNO7x9DtNqOdgzdB-0Y/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AaHJiul-CNO7x9DtNqOdgzdB-0Y/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AaHJiul-CNO7x9DtNqOdgzdB-0Y/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/4pZJZ8KFHg0" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/11/so-i-had-this-insane-dream-last-night.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-43705889393319773692009-11-12T12:35:00.000-08:002009-11-13T01:08:49.617-08:002009-11-13T01:08:49.617-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com2 Ready or not; there are moments in all our lives when we come face to face with everything that scares us; like a mirror reflecting all the imperfections of every decision we’ve ever made.
 In my limited experience on this planet, I have learned that, "I'm not ready," is more often than not, code for, "I don't want to do that." My number one break-up line is "I'm not ready for a serious <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/CwkbFrpuidxhGFyVbm3OlNS8N6s/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/CwkbFrpuidxhGFyVbm3OlNS8N6s/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/CwkbFrpuidxhGFyVbm3OlNS8N6s/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/CwkbFrpuidxhGFyVbm3OlNS8N6s/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/HseWKzuUbqI" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/11/im-not-ready.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-34462989504883513112009-11-06T13:46:00.000-08:002009-11-06T17:46:12.948-08:002009-11-06T17:46:12.948-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com1 Moving sucks. Really really sucks. I had forgotten how much it sucked, because I haven't had to move in about 3 years. Now that I remember how badly it sucks, I have decided to stay where I am forever, or set all my stuff on fire when I have to leave. The whole "lighting things on fire" solution, might seem bit "drastic," but it would also be an ultimate resolution. Then again, I'm a mild <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/CISjsXuv2UPvx1JFecQazvpg0pc/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/CISjsXuv2UPvx1JFecQazvpg0pc/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/CISjsXuv2UPvx1JFecQazvpg0pc/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/CISjsXuv2UPvx1JFecQazvpg0pc/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/JWoQca_s7vo" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/11/moving-suuuuuucks.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-7686668160738372212009-10-28T05:20:00.000-07:002009-11-06T13:59:24.271-08:002009-11-06T13:59:24.271-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com1 "Almost all the time you tell yourself you're loving somebody, you're really just using them. This only looks like love." -  Chuck P Recently, I've been thinking a lot about love. What it means. Where it comes from. Why feels so good, and hurts so bad, all at the same time. My roommate came home with her ex-boyfriend tonight. They broke up about a year ago, and were in a 6-year <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_PoyviKbRncl3vNKu8LBOGbkgO4/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_PoyviKbRncl3vNKu8LBOGbkgO4/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_PoyviKbRncl3vNKu8LBOGbkgO4/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_PoyviKbRncl3vNKu8LBOGbkgO4/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/ozn9ZLm1RNE" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/10/love-or-something-lke-it.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-34980373075942935672009-10-28T02:44:00.000-07:002009-10-28T02:44:33.563-07:002009-10-28T02:44:33.563-07:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com1Okay. I think it's safe to say that I FAIL at updating my blog with any sort of frequency. BUT... I'm going to start updating more. Considering the fact that there are only like 3 people who even read this, I don't think anyone really cares about the frequency of my "blogging," but either way, I'm going to write more. Promise. love you mean it. <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/S7f1NSuktWEJuUoDsbVzkmTAP1g/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/S7f1NSuktWEJuUoDsbVzkmTAP1g/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/S7f1NSuktWEJuUoDsbVzkmTAP1g/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/S7f1NSuktWEJuUoDsbVzkmTAP1g/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/j10SeAKjNpc" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/10/sorry-i-know-i-suck.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-90780786054522377132009-10-11T03:03:00.000-07:002009-12-02T17:59:12.214-08:002009-12-02T17:59:12.214-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com1   So... my downstairs neighbors have the loudest fucking sex in the world. They have the loudest fucking sex at 3 in the fucking morning, almost every fucking night. Now, I've had lots of really loud sex (sorry dad), not so much recently, but in general, if I'm going to be FUCKING really loud, I'll attempt to be considerate about the volume and time of day/night said fucking is taking place, <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/UrcRGS28QEUUbZgfp9CmJV3BmO8/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/UrcRGS28QEUUbZgfp9CmJV3BmO8/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/UrcRGS28QEUUbZgfp9CmJV3BmO8/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/UrcRGS28QEUUbZgfp9CmJV3BmO8/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/pmlDfrQLTlY" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/10/dear-downstairs-neighbors.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-14133271972447322212009-10-01T14:03:00.000-07:002009-10-01T18:46:12.157-07:002009-10-01T18:46:12.157-07:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com0Three years ago today, my step-sister Stephanie passed away. Despite the time that's passed, I can't stop myself from wanting to believe that she's just off at college, and I'll see her over the holidays. We'll go to the gym together, and make fun of my dad for wearing fleece zip-up vests and Birkenstocks. It's fucking unfair. Sometimes I feel like there's a perpetual dark cloud hanging <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/yQvd52qYU-EFPIhTEqYnYAGOMbg/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/yQvd52qYU-EFPIhTEqYnYAGOMbg/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/yQvd52qYU-EFPIhTEqYnYAGOMbg/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/yQvd52qYU-EFPIhTEqYnYAGOMbg/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/Y9gerQZE6C8" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/10/stephanie-michelle-proctor.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-897247139207484682009-09-28T16:17:00.000-07:002009-12-04T12:44:40.876-08:002009-12-04T12:44:40.876-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com4 I'm pretty sure, somewhere out there, in the vast expanse of space and time, there is a video-feed of my life, that several alien children are watching, and no doubt, hysterically laughing at. Sometimes, when I'm experiencing a particularly spastic moment of FAIL, I actually look around to see if I can spot the camera recording the immediate disaster at hand. Yes, I'm aware of how <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/fwxUR7rS-HcHEId5ULiJAPOiG2o/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/fwxUR7rS-HcHEId5ULiJAPOiG2o/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/fwxUR7rS-HcHEId5ULiJAPOiG2o/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/fwxUR7rS-HcHEId5ULiJAPOiG2o/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/02mFji_kogs" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-think-universe-and-i-are-in-abusive.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-87896926777447288052009-09-15T03:56:00.000-07:002009-11-06T17:45:39.038-08:002009-11-06T17:45:39.038-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com5 In a half-cocked effort to better understand the unexplainable nature of inter-personal chemistry, I've attempted to research the subject a bit. This past week, I read a few clinical studies, dabbled with some statistical generalizations, and hastily absorbed myself in the angsty-lovesick-blogs of complete strangers. After pontificating on these abstract pieces of an unfathomably large <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/fla7Wy1491SeY8wo6WG5P4h4CQU/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/fla7Wy1491SeY8wo6WG5P4h4CQU/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/fla7Wy1491SeY8wo6WG5P4h4CQU/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/fla7Wy1491SeY8wo6WG5P4h4CQU/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/CuEa_5V0rD4" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/09/limerence.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-85195753391335361432009-09-08T01:17:00.000-07:002009-09-08T01:54:13.908-07:002009-09-08T01:54:13.908-07:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com1Clarence Greenwood has pretty much encapsulated everything about how I feel right now, in the song below...&lt;!-- END OF RINGTONE 1 --&gt; "Sideways" - Citizen Cope"You know it ain't easy For these thoughts here to leave me There's no words to describe it In French or in English Well, diamonds they fade And flowers they bloom And I'm telling you These feelings won't go away They've been knockin' me <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/GScge_mZ6B0PM1VdrwgCx9zuKsg/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/GScge_mZ6B0PM1VdrwgCx9zuKsg/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/GScge_mZ6B0PM1VdrwgCx9zuKsg/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/GScge_mZ6B0PM1VdrwgCx9zuKsg/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/bxBvdKjPYEY" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-cant-seem-to-get-this-song-out-of-my.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-622479378783471804.post-64945153327021147832009-09-07T01:18:00.000-07:002009-12-02T17:52:00.350-08:002009-12-02T17:52:00.350-08:00Bridgettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16637057599460644444noreply@blogger.com1 Girls girls girls... there are so many different kinds. So many interesting variations, but lately, I feel like there is a common theme running through almost all the females I have encountered recently. About 99% of them desperately want a boyfriend/husband/babies/suburban-cookie-cutter-lifestyle, straight out of a JCREW catalog. Why didn't anybody inform me the 1950's were back? I realize <p><a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ivDKWJ16uwCtPcohuUECypobtO8/0/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ivDKWJ16uwCtPcohuUECypobtO8/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a><br/> <a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ivDKWJ16uwCtPcohuUECypobtO8/1/da"><img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ivDKWJ16uwCtPcohuUECypobtO8/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"></img></a></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/pIlvS/~4/ZG52WJqohxo" height="1" width="1"/>http://bridgettemcgraw.blogspot.com/2009/09/girls-girls-girls.html