<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-893736053778802271</id><updated>2011-04-21T11:34:26.727-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Back to Reality</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backtoreality-sanity.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/893736053778802271/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backtoreality-sanity.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Sanity</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>3</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-893736053778802271.post-6876210350112152406</id><published>2007-04-18T11:56:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-04-18T12:13:10.714-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Bored and Fickle Girl</title><content type='html'>Now, not that I'm misogynistic in any way, but seriously the female race, myself included of course, is crazy. I mean, one second a girl knows exactly what she wants and the next second, she is bored with it and unsure. Sounds a lot like a man doesn't it?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love to hate on men as much as the next girl does, but honestly, when it comes to being fickle, we are just as guilty.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The first day you meet him, he's drop dead gorgeous and perfect.  By then end of the month, he's boring, repetitive and not as "gorgeous" as you once thought he was.  His once perfect face is now seen to have tons of blemishes, bushy eyebrows, and a nose that is just slightly too big. And his oh so wonderful sense of humor is not so funny anymore, and sometimes even offensive.  Is it PMS?  No...it's called boredom.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What is it about that attraction that causes it to fade? Or am I, and all you assholes out there like me, just a complete jerk? I could see that being the answer, but I would hope for my own sake, that it's not the actual reality.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So what then is the reality? Why do we move on so quickly? And for those few members of the opposite sex that actually hold our attention...what is it about them that causes us not to get turned off, bored, disracted, etc.?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Are we horrible people for moving on so quickly? I think not. I'd rather think that our intelligence is so high that we need something highly entertaining and captivating to keep our attention and interest.  That's right, it's just because we are smarter than everyone else that we move on so quickly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes, I'm an asshole.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/893736053778802271-6876210350112152406?l=backtoreality-sanity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backtoreality-sanity.blogspot.com/feeds/6876210350112152406/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=893736053778802271&amp;postID=6876210350112152406' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/893736053778802271/posts/default/6876210350112152406'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/893736053778802271/posts/default/6876210350112152406'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backtoreality-sanity.blogspot.com/2007/04/bored-and-fickle-girl.html' title='The Bored and Fickle Girl'/><author><name>Sanity</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><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-893736053778802271.post-7582206807948714706</id><published>2007-04-10T01:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-04-10T01:57:58.866-07:00</updated><title type='text'>DTR: Define the Relationship</title><content type='html'>The most awkward part of a relationship is when it comes to that point where one of the two, generally the female, wants to know where they are going, what they are, how to define whatever it is going on between the two people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fuck buddies? Friends with benefits? Casually dating? Seeing each other? Exlusive? Or the ever feared by the males - the boyfriend and girlfriend stage.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why is it that men never want to define the relationship unless they are obsessive, gay, or territorial? Or at least in my experience, those were the only instances where it was the case that the guy was faster than I was to define what was going on between us.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why is it so awkward? I feel like once you reach that point of asking what's going on, it almost scares the guy away, and even scares me away. I am afraid to ask. Will he think I'm clingy? Does he not want to be in a relationship?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And yet, I know that if he doesn't want to be with me then I don't want to be with him. Unfortunately I find myself to be one of those prudish girls who won't get physical with a guy unless there is a clear future ahead and we know each other pretty well to begin with.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I find this approach to life both beneficial and hindering at the same time. I like it because I know what guys like me for me and not for....my..."performance" although let me say, it is quite good. On the other hand, some guys get fed up that I'm not ready to jump in the sack, and go running. Given, I do fear the "hit it and quit it" but... how does one determine the difference between a horny boy and an asshole? I certainly can't tell, then again, I think all men are both horny and assholes. It's inevitable.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Don't worry, I certainly am not a feminist. I am a firm believer in the traditional gender roles. Men opening doors, women doing laundry, that's my style. Not to mention men paying for dinner, that's always a plus. But don't worry, it's not about the freebies; the woman can cook up a storm in the kitchen to even it out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why isn't there an easier method to define the relationship and determine where it is going and why? And why is it always the girl to bring it up? I guess if the boy brings it up he loses a sense of his manhood or gains an aspect of dependency. But once that question is on the table, if you really care about that person, your heart skips a beat and then races until you get the answer you want to hear, or it breaks upon hearing the words you don't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wish there were an easier way...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/893736053778802271-7582206807948714706?l=backtoreality-sanity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backtoreality-sanity.blogspot.com/feeds/7582206807948714706/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=893736053778802271&amp;postID=7582206807948714706' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/893736053778802271/posts/default/7582206807948714706'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/893736053778802271/posts/default/7582206807948714706'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backtoreality-sanity.blogspot.com/2007/04/dtr-define-relationship.html' title='DTR: Define the Relationship'/><author><name>Sanity</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><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-893736053778802271.post-7264243536359976572</id><published>2007-04-05T21:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-04-05T21:24:23.991-07:00</updated><title type='text'>No, I don't know you</title><content type='html'>Why is it that whenever we see people walking down the street that we know, we often pretend that we don't? Is it just to avoid that awkward greeting because you haven't seen the other person in a while? Or is it because of some inner insecurity.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Would it really hurt or create any sort of undue burden to take the whole three seconds it takes to say "Hey, how are you?" Given, there is enough controversy over the question "how are you" and how utterly pointless it is seeing that everyone gives the same response and no one is really going to say, "Oh I'm terrible; my life fell apart yesterday!" But even so, why are we unable to say hi? Why do we look the other way, pretend we don't see them, pretend it's been so long that we can't recognize them?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;People are too comfortable in their familiar worlds. The second something becomes unfamiliar, we pretend as if it never was familiar, or as if we don't care for it to be. Is there any danger or threat in greeting that person on the street? No. But why go out of your way to say hi to someone you have already removed from your life and have already begun to pretend as if they do not exist. What type of society are we creating at this rate? What happened to the days of camaraderie where people greeted one another on the street whether they knew each other or not, smiled at each other, and used their "pardon me"s and "thank you"s.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We have created an every man for himself society, and boxed people in with the familiar. Just like men find themselves so restricted from the fears of being labeled as homosexual, so too do we find ourselves confined in a box as far as our actions with the unfamiliar in fear of being judged. Those who are not familiar, though they may be somewhat familiar, by default then, become unfamiliar and we remove them from our lives and from our comfort zones.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just find it so utterly strange the game we all play when walking on the streets. You walk right by the person, sometimes look them straight in the eye, and yet, not a single world passes between the two. I struggle to understand why. Do I really think the person will judge me based on what I'm wearing, not want to talk to me, or humiliate me in any way? No. Do I think they won't remember me? No, but if they didn't, would I even care? No, I wouldn't. So what then, what is it that keeps me from saying hi from that person, and prevents them from acknowledging me, although we made eye contact and passed right on by. Is that the kind of person I want to be?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So ultimately I say, fuck you person who pretends not to know me, I will look you straight in the eye and wait for you to acknowledge me. And if you don't look back, it just proves I am more comfortable with myself than you. I do not fear being judged and I certainly do not fear a three second exchange of "hellos." So think about who you are next time you pretend you don't know that person you are walking past on the street. Why pretend you don't? What are you really accomplishing?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/893736053778802271-7264243536359976572?l=backtoreality-sanity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backtoreality-sanity.blogspot.com/feeds/7264243536359976572/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=893736053778802271&amp;postID=7264243536359976572' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/893736053778802271/posts/default/7264243536359976572'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/893736053778802271/posts/default/7264243536359976572'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backtoreality-sanity.blogspot.com/2007/04/no-i-dont-know-you.html' title='No, I don&apos;t know you'/><author><name>Sanity</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><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>
