<?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-8158949</id><updated>2011-04-21T19:33:28.313-07:00</updated><title type='text'>jack24</title><subtitle type='html'>I am a first year student with a part time job that kinda sucks but,hey, its a paycheck. Right?  well thats what I keep telling myself.  so far college is great. I haven't missed too many classes and have met alot of pretty cool people.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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>12</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8158949.post-112805198652692010</id><published>2005-09-29T20:45:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-09-30T05:05:54.556-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Graff #1</title><content type='html'>When I look at my hands, I don’t see anything special about them, yup they are ordinary looking hands.  Same thing that everyone else has, ten finger nail, all equipped with fingernails that, at the moment, I am trying to grow out.  It never works, they always getting chipped and torn, but I never seem to give up hope that some day I will have nice long ladylike nails.  There is a scar on my left middle finger, proof that I came out on the losing end of a fight with a stapler.  Another particularly nasty little scar on my left pointer finger from when I discovered my dad’s hunting knives and decided that they would make pretty cool toys to play with.  Both of my middle fingers still won’t bend all the way down because of them being repeatedly sprained from my soccer playing years as a goalie.  It take a close inspection of my hands to see any of these things but when I do it brings back memories, good and bad.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-112805198652692010?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/112805198652692010/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=112805198652692010' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/112805198652692010'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/112805198652692010'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2005/09/graff-1.html' title='Graff #1'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8158949.post-112805313488924074</id><published>2005-09-27T23:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-09-29T21:08:50.766-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Graff # 1</title><content type='html'>When I look at my hands, I don’t see anything special about them, yup they are ordinary looking hands.  Same thing that everyone else has, ten finger nail, all equipped with fingernails that, at the moment, I am trying to grow out.  It never works, they always getting chipped and torn, but I never seem to give up hope that some day I will have nice long ladylike nails.  There is a scar on my left middle finger, proof that I came out on the losing end of a fight with a stapler.  Another particularly nasty little scar on my left pointer finger from when I discovered my dad’s hunting knives and decided that they would make pretty cool toys to play with.  Both of my middle fingers still won’t bend all the way down because of them being repeatedly sprained from my soccer playing years as a goalie.  It take a close inspection of my hands to see any of these things but when I do it brings back memories, good and bad.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-112805313488924074?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/112805313488924074/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=112805313488924074' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/112805313488924074'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/112805313488924074'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2005/09/graff-1_27.html' title='Graff # 1'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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-8158949.post-112687796964603162</id><published>2005-09-16T06:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-09-16T06:39:29.670-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Freestyle Week # 2</title><content type='html'>Let me say start off by saying that I am a girl.  Jack was only a nickname given to me when I was a kid.  So if you happen to read this blog and think that some of the ideas and things that I talk about are not exactly what a guy would talk about....BINGO  You are right!!!!  So give yourself a pat on the back for me.  And for those of you who didnt realize that anything was wrong well....you are just like me and wouldn't notice a june bug crawling across the screen that you are staring at.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-112687796964603162?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/112687796964603162/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=112687796964603162' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/112687796964603162'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/112687796964603162'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2005/09/freestyle-week-2.html' title='Freestyle Week # 2'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8158949.post-109724190373982242</id><published>2004-10-08T06:17:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2004-10-08T06:25:03.740-07:00</updated><title type='text'>classification reactions</title><content type='html'>I did like most of the essays but the ones I did  were the ones about the different types of guys, because she hit it right on the nose,  the one about the sports fanatics, because I know alot of them, but I had never quite classified them as a species.  My absolute favorite was the one about living on a dirt road.  I used to live on a dirt road and that is exactly what it is right, alot of fun sometimes and hell others&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-109724190373982242?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/109724190373982242/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=109724190373982242' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109724190373982242'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109724190373982242'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2004/10/classification-reactions.html' title='classification reactions'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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-8158949.post-109629333238960217</id><published>2004-09-27T06:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2004-10-01T06:53:31.993-07:00</updated><title type='text'>why I am not a good student</title><content type='html'>I am not a good student simply because I do not like school, never have, and I doubt that it will ever be among any of my fond memories, well the actual school part of it anyways. Ever since I was a little kid,I hated school, forced to go to school, kicking and screaming, the whole way, with my mom wondering why she just did not just stop having kids after my brother, who was the model student. Eventually I would get to school and the teacher would start talking about the subject and my mind would start wondering, then BAM I am gone, I would be thinking about what I would do once school was out or even intently watch a bug crawl across the window. I am also very bad at doing my homework. My mom would send me to my room to do it, but there would be a book I havent read for atleast a week, or some party dress that I havent tried on in a while, and before you can say cat in the hat, the homework would be for gotten.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't even remember when I started to dislike school. Ever since I can remember I have always dreaded Mondays, because Mondays meant an end to the weekend fun. I can remember as a little kid, all my friends would be so excited to go to school. It was something that all our older brothers and sisters were doing and although I loved my older brother and sister, and would spend all the time with them that they could stand, I did not want to start school. "Suckers" I would think, you go off and sit in a room for eight hours, in the mean time I have dolls to dress, roads to build for my trucks, and a cat to terrorize.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Eventually reality set in and since you can't remain a child for ever, I found my self off to school, despite my best efforts. For the first week or so it wasn't so bad, to be honest I actually liked it. But then I started to miss playing outside in the mud and running inside for a quick snack whenever I could. I started to realize that five days out of every week would be the same boredom for twelve more years, well more at the rate I was going. That was when I began to dread school, I mean for a child who loves to be outside, loves to run around and never sit still, sitting for eight hours a day was the ultimate in cruel. That was when I would start to daydream about the things that I should be doing,such as, helping my dad with the cows, making forts out of hay bales, feeding the horses sugar cubes. The list goes on and on and I dreamed about them all. I would usually come back down from riding a horse to realize that my teacher had asked me a question and I would spout off some answer that would make everyone, but my teacher, laugh. Needless to say she never understood my sense of humor and I would get extra homework. Don't get me wrong there were some classes that I did like but they were few and far between. All these things I learned to control and I started to pay attention in school, mush to the relief of my teachers. I found that there were interesting thing about the world that I didn't know (imagine that) and I started to enjoy school alot more.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Even though school became more interesting, homework on the other hand was two hours of hell. Here I was, out of school and I still wasn't able to go out and play. It was like being set free from prison and still being under house arrest. I mean what was the point, I knew that I understood the subjects, in fact I rarely got under a 95 on any test, but the teachers would nitpick on the one thing that I didn't do, homework. From my point of view, after spending so many hours in school what would possess me to want to spend more time inside when the daylight was wasting away and my bedtime comming up way to fast for my liking. So I would do a little here and there just to prove to my mother that I actually did the work and I would skip out the door with a promise to not go too far, and I was free to do what I had been thinking about all day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today I am happy to say that I actually enjoy school and the teachers seem to want to actually be hear. I no longer daydream, well not nearly as much, and although I still have problems with my homework I have a each class every other day so I have more time to work on it. It is different now, the homework that I do is for my own benefit and I am old enough, and mature enough to sit down and just do it. Well kinda.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-109629333238960217?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/109629333238960217/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=109629333238960217' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109629333238960217'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109629333238960217'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2004/09/why-i-am-not-good-student.html' title='why I am not a good student'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8158949.post-109586087515027422</id><published>2004-09-22T06:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2004-09-22T06:47:55.150-07:00</updated><title type='text'>isearch</title><content type='html'>Career choices for me-- Right now I don't have one, career choice that is, I did have one in mind, radiograpgy, but then I took a test to get into the program along with a personality test.    I did pretty good on the actual test part but the personality test told me that I was not "suitable".   So there goes that idea.  At the moment nothing else apeals to me enough to want to do it the rest of my life.   I have wanted to do something in the medical field for a long time now, not a doctor because they have to go to school for way to long and I have talked to enough nurses to have some doubts whether I would want to do that either.   That is why radiography appealed to me because it is very good money for only three years of school, and that is right up my ally.   I think that I would be able to concentrate better on school if there was an end in sight.   That is why i decided to do my paper on finding myself a career.   Maybe there is something else that I have not thought of.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-109586087515027422?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/109586087515027422/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=109586087515027422' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109586087515027422'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109586087515027422'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2004/09/isearch.html' title='isearch'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8158949.post-109542853679881137</id><published>2004-09-17T06:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2004-09-20T06:45:11.633-07:00</updated><title type='text'>cigarrettes</title><content type='html'>There are times when I literally cant stand them, cigarettes that is. I have been smoking since I was 15, back then it was the cool thing to do, everybody my age would think woooow they must be really grown up to be able to smoke. So I started, knowing about all the things that they could do to you and yet in my arrogance not carring. I was young, in good shape and ready to take on the world. I was the one who gave them to my best friend in the whole world, Heather, she was kinda resitent at first but I wore her down and now she is as hooked as I am.    Today, almost three years later we have decided to quit, so far we have tried the patch and just about every kind of nicorrette there is and nothing.   Every time I see those dumb comercials I want to laugh.   So hear we are with nothing left to try, at the end of the proverbial "rope",  we have decided to go cold turkey.  This is the first day cigarrette free and I freel like crap, but I'm holding on, plus I know that I am not alone in my struggle, as with everything, my best friend is with me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-109542853679881137?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/109542853679881137/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=109542853679881137' title='6 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109542853679881137'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109542853679881137'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2004/09/cigarrettes.html' title='cigarrettes'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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>6</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8158949.post-109539233066576041</id><published>2004-09-16T20:33:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2004-09-16T20:38:50.666-07:00</updated><title type='text'>reactions</title><content type='html'>I liked alot of them because they differed from funny to sweet to a more somber story, and then there were a few boring ones that i didn't even want to finish.    Just about every one of them started out with a line or paragraph that would just grab your attention and make you want to read the rest of it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-109539233066576041?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/109539233066576041/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=109539233066576041' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109539233066576041'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109539233066576041'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2004/09/reactions.html' title='reactions'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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-8158949.post-109465114168034443</id><published>2004-09-08T10:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2004-09-13T06:37:18.820-07:00</updated><title type='text'>My hands</title><content type='html'>When I first look at my hands, I don't see anything special, everything is there, all my fingers, and at the end of each finger is a nail, yep same boring old thing that everyone else has. At the moment I have a bulky, white bandage wrapped around my thumb that serves as a reminder as to how clumsy I am and why I should not be allowed anywhere near a knife sharper than a butter knife. The middle fingers on both my hands still won't bend all the way to my hand from my years playing soccer as a goalie. There is a little scar on my index finger on my right hand from when I got a little to close to my brother while he was sharpening his knife ; two little scars on on my left middle finger where my friend stapled me. I remember that I had alot of fun with that injury because I got to give people the finger while pretending that I was showing them my injury. I usually bite my nails when I get nervous and since this is the first week of college, they are pretty much gone. These are things that I see when I look at my hands, memories that I will forever have with me&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-109465114168034443?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/109465114168034443/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=109465114168034443' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109465114168034443'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109465114168034443'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2004/09/my-hands.html' title='My hands'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8158949.post-109449112700233116</id><published>2004-09-06T09:54:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2004-09-06T17:36:30.716-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Clubbing</title><content type='html'>Saturday I finally had a night off so I called up a few friends then met them at Mobile. When I showed up Heather's car was already filled up and there were more people who wanted to go and I had to drive them grrrrrrrrr that meant that I would not be able to drink before we left. SIGH So finally we were all together and we headed out to Ushuias.   When we arrived around 11 and there was already a line of cold, and mostly drunk, party goers. Fifteen minutes and eight bucks later we were in and ready to have fun, and get warm. The place was packed and there was no chance af anyone else getting on the dance floor, so we foumd a seat and just chatted for a while. Actually it was more like screaming at each other because the music was so loud. A while later some of the people had left so we headed out to the dance floor, and thats when the fun really starts. With the strobe lights flashing and the lights down it is kind of hard to see who you are dancing with, not that it really matters in the long run. Around 1:30 we left armed with phone numbers that, truth be known, we will probably never call. PROBABLY&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-109449112700233116?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/109449112700233116/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=109449112700233116' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109449112700233116'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109449112700233116'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2004/09/clubbing.html' title='Clubbing'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8158949.post-109448960344626651</id><published>2004-09-06T09:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2004-09-06T09:53:23.446-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The list</title><content type='html'>These are the things that I see at my computer desk:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two speakers ( one of them with wires sticking out the back&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Some kind of weird plant that might be dead&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A bottle of gorilla glue?????? ( yeah I dont know what its used for either)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Several old CDs that are to scratched to listen to&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A sock&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A bunch of pens sticking out of a little basket&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;More pens and pencils just laying around&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Crayons&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A dictionary that has never been used&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A book&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Paperclips&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A picture of my best friend&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Notebooks&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Half a cup of coffee   Couldn't even begin to tell you how long its been there&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dust&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Research papers from highschool&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This list has  made me realize that cleaning is definitely not one of my strong points&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-109448960344626651?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/109448960344626651/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=109448960344626651' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109448960344626651'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109448960344626651'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2004/09/list.html' title='The list'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8158949.post-109404670331393535</id><published>2004-09-01T06:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2004-09-02T15:48:33.010-07:00</updated><title type='text'>my worst teacher</title><content type='html'>I will never forget her till the day I die, my worst teacher, I had her through fourth and fifth grade. Her name was Mrs. Holsklaw and she terrified me!   She had the high heeled shoes that you could hear comming even though the floor had a layer of carpet on it.   She had short, curly, black hair with a long nose, that she would look down at when she would lecture me about one thing or another.  She also carried a metal edged ruler that she would slam down on the desk of any unsuspecting student that was caught daydreaming, which was  what I did alot of at school.  Not because I was a bad student, I would just hurry with my work and be done before anyone else.    I don't know why, but I didn't like her on sight and I guess the feeling was mutual.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8158949-109404670331393535?l=jack25.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/feeds/109404670331393535/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8158949&amp;postID=109404670331393535' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109404670331393535'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8158949/posts/default/109404670331393535'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jack25.blogspot.com/2004/09/my-worst-teacher.html' title='my worst teacher'/><author><name>jack</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03946797079524414047</uri><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>
