<?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-6521154173844153863</id><updated>2012-02-16T19:40:26.136-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Never-Thoughts</title><subtitle type='html'>A compilation of my stories, contemplations, and happy thoughts.                       

            DISCLAIMER: Though they are nice to read, they will not make you fly.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>51</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-1702377726817007650</id><published>2011-08-05T12:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-05T13:56:10.594-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Rabbit</title><content type='html'>There's an interesting something that I learned while I was out of the world for this last year and a half. It's a really great trade, I really wish that I'd learned it earlier in life. I can promise you that if I had, this whole blog would have been constructed differently. I'll show you what I mean by giving you an example.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For my last interview with President Pizzirani, we sat talking about the mission, but mostly about the future, because for the both of us, it had come. As we sat and wrapped up the excellent, quality conversation, I stopped him and asked, from what he knew of me (which is quite a bit), what he thought it was that I needed to change, in order to be a little more prepared for this future of mine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Writer's Note: This is already a big change, me asking what I can do to change. That never would have happened a year and a half ago.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;President Pizzirani smiled at me in that humorous, loving way and said to me, "Sister, the one thing that you needed to change on the mission, you already have, which was to love change. Through the transfers and companions, you learned how to adjust and take on new challenges with a new perspective until you weren't afraid of it. This is the most important thing you could ever learn, because the only thing you'll see constantly in life is change. And so, if there was one piece of advice I could give you, I would tell you to always love change."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He really took me by surprise with that answer. It's hard to do an evaluation of oneself when you both live in the same room your whole life. Outside perspective is like opening a window, and stale opinion is overtaken by a fresh breeze of thought. President was right, though I'd never bothered to take note before that moment. If it were only for this reason, I would be thankful for the mission, but there are so many more reasons. So many more.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I told you this blog would have been different if I'd learn to love change early on in life. Many of these posts were tinted by a resistance to change, some more-so than others. I do love change. It's never easy, and more than not demands a greater sacrifice than one wants to give....but the rewards heavily outweigh any benefits to staying the same old same old. It's this factor that makes me love life so dearly at the moment. And of course, I wouldn't feel this way if I didn't have perfect trust in the Lord. I imagine now that I've stated it, he'll try it to see if it holds. Better sooner than later.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;"All the rabbit in us is to disappear - the worried, conscientious, ethical rabbit as well as the cowardly and sensual rabbit. We shall bleed and squeal as the handfuls of fur come out; and then surprisingly, we shall find underneath it all a thing we have never yet imagined: a real Man, an ageless god, a son of God, strong, radiant, wise, beautiful, and drenched in joy.&lt;br /&gt;       - C.S. Lewis &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-1702377726817007650?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/1702377726817007650/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=1702377726817007650' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1702377726817007650'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1702377726817007650'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2011/08/rabbit.html' title='The Rabbit'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-4841762315721564870</id><published>2010-01-12T08:58:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-12T09:01:05.848-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Off I Go</title><content type='html'>Hello Everyone,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My apologies for the long silence. To keep a very long story short, I'm going on a mission tomorrow, to Brasilia, Brazil. For those interested enough, here is my address. Thanks to everyone for the support and friendship. I love you all!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sister Abigail Marshall&lt;br /&gt;Brazil Brasilia Mission&lt;br /&gt;SHIN CA 05 salas 304/307&lt;br /&gt;LOTE B1&lt;br /&gt;71503-505 Brasilia - DF&lt;br /&gt;Brazil&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-4841762315721564870?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/4841762315721564870/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=4841762315721564870' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4841762315721564870'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4841762315721564870'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2010/01/off-i-go.html' title='Off I Go'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-4367070014800449901</id><published>2009-09-08T17:28:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-08T17:49:16.040-07:00</updated><title type='text'>My Season</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/Sqb7f2Lxz6I/AAAAAAAAAF0/JR7mBWCWA8Y/s1600-h/Picture+5.png"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/Sqb7f2Lxz6I/AAAAAAAAAF0/JR7mBWCWA8Y/s320/Picture+5.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379263329480069026" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today marked my recognition that fall is soon coming. I'm a little sad. Watching summer fade is a slow process, and sometimes a desolate one, seeing as the world is dying. Ah, but dying is the wrong word to use. It's too permanent. The world is &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;changing.&lt;/span&gt; Fall is the gift we are given to make the transition from summer to winter easier. The colors blind us from the falling leaves, the cool weather distracts us from its inevitable drop, and my excitement to buy new hats and scarves make it easier to put my flip flops away. I'm excited for crunchy leaves!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-4367070014800449901?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/4367070014800449901/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=4367070014800449901' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4367070014800449901'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4367070014800449901'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/09/today-marked-my-recognition-that-fall.html' title='My Season'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/Sqb7f2Lxz6I/AAAAAAAAAF0/JR7mBWCWA8Y/s72-c/Picture+5.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-638373965549158497</id><published>2009-09-07T10:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-07T11:30:10.163-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Quarantined</title><content type='html'>Maybe it shouldn't matter so much to me. I mean, I've never had a short supply of friendships, and every one of them mean a world of happiness to me. You already know I would give anything for the people I love. I like to think they would do the same for me. That's what makes life so great. The people I love, love me back. Does it seem like a silly thing to be grateful for? Unconditional love from one person to another should never be taken for granted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And that's why I'm so unhappy about this. I did, for one fleeting moment, take a friendship for granted, I think you could even say I took advantage of it. How fragile the balance of our lives are, one minute a fluent rhythm of cogs and wheels that make it run like clock work, the next, a balancing act that teeters on the edge of a very deep abyss. Sometimes there's no coming back from that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've written about this before. About a friendship that was jeopardized because of my own actions. Mine is an exemplary life that should be looked to when you wonder what you should not do. I am that example, sitting on my pedestal of mistakes and bad decisions with the "Dunce" cap on my head. If you want to do the right thing, take a leaf out of someone else's book.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to be quarantined. I feel huge remorse for hurting my friend, this brilliantly clever individual who would play my games of humor and laugh even when I was just being dumb. Who couldn't appreciate this? None of you need to hear this, but I needed to let the cosmos know that I do have a conscience, and I am very sorry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For the first time in my life, sunsets make me sad.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-638373965549158497?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/638373965549158497/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=638373965549158497' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/638373965549158497'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/638373965549158497'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/09/quarantined.html' title='Quarantined'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-1968299174279247694</id><published>2009-08-24T14:45:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-24T14:52:46.789-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sick, sick, sick</title><content type='html'>I've been sick for six days. I haven't eaten anything for forty hours. I can't do anything without feeling like I just hiked Mount Everest. Little oxygen and NO energy. I carried a can of peaches up the stairs, and nearly died from over exertion. What's more, I'm out of sick time at work, and using anymore would be dipping into my vacation time. I'm not happy about this. What's more, it's been a very lonely six days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Very lonely.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-1968299174279247694?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/1968299174279247694/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=1968299174279247694' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1968299174279247694'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1968299174279247694'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/08/sick-sick-sick.html' title='Sick, sick, sick'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-4168787313768797401</id><published>2009-08-02T12:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-02T12:07:35.511-07:00</updated><title type='text'>When in Powell.....</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SnXjb1LYTwI/AAAAAAAAAFk/JR5qz-rsmfQ/s1600-h/IMG_3337.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SnXjb1LYTwI/AAAAAAAAAFk/JR5qz-rsmfQ/s400/IMG_3337.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365444598352596738" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This summer has been an amazing one for trying new things (and succeeding at them). One more month of blissful weather and opportunities!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-4168787313768797401?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/4168787313768797401/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=4168787313768797401' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4168787313768797401'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4168787313768797401'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/08/when-in-powell.html' title='When in Powell.....'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SnXjb1LYTwI/AAAAAAAAAFk/JR5qz-rsmfQ/s72-c/IMG_3337.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-9102550383574100607</id><published>2009-07-24T13:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-24T14:52:42.324-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A Change of Scenery and Mindset</title><content type='html'>What a fantastic week it's been. I feel as though I am a goldfish, swimming in the same murky goldfish bowl water that I've been swimming in for some time now. Picture, if you will, the scene from Finding Nemo after the fish sabotaged the filter. That is what my goldfish bowl looks like. I said murky right? I would also say disgusting, dirty, unattended. I think the lack of care would be my fault, but I can only blame myself so much. The other thing is: My bowl is just too small. I suppose that for another fish, a contented fish, it may be a nice, homy place to live. Not this fish.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SmoosHdR1YI/AAAAAAAAAFc/aHp-tljsxQo/s1600-h/1086_Goldfish_300dpi_smcopy.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 156px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SmoosHdR1YI/AAAAAAAAAFc/aHp-tljsxQo/s200/1086_Goldfish_300dpi_smcopy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362143044719203714" /&gt;&lt;/a&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went to Lake Powell this week, and as I sat there, at the tip of the boat, I realized that wide open spaces is what frees a person from not only routine and mediocrity, but from their own restrictions as well. I felt as though the fog from my mind was lifted, a fog I didn't know existed until I saw those red canyon walls and felt the rush of hot wind on my face. Nature's wake up call is the most stirring, I think. If all the force of beauty and element Powell had to offer me didn't wake me up, the night sky did. I would find myself waking up in the middle of the night and gazing into the brilliant infinity of the universe. Forever is a scary thing to face when we ourselves are so temporary. But with something so breathtaking as the Milky Way, it's impossible not to look. More words: Awe, admiration, wonder.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I once asked a friend what his worst fear was, and he immediately replied, "To be satisfied with life." What a bold response. How easy is it for each of us to live contentedly in our confined lifestyle's? There's still a lot of work to routine, I can attest to that. I wonder if this individual knew the work cut out for him in his ambition. You know, they say a goldfish can only grow as large as its fish bowl allows. The smaller the fish bowl, the smaller the fish. Out there, on the lake, I could feel myself grow, feel my mind and my heart expand to something larger. The world seems so much bigger once you step into it after living in a confined space for a long period of time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Billy Joel once said, "I found that just surviving was a noble fight." I think surviving, though noble, is just not good enough for me. I want to make this place I live better, with room for growth. From now on, I will try and make more leaps, be more honest, laugh a little more, be generous in my affection, work a little harder, judge a little less, and live fearlessly. Fear is only the absence of faith, after all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Suggestion: Read Peace Like A River, by Leif Enger. I said that nature was a stirring force, but so is this book. It brings the spirit of testimony, and you'll find yourself stronger for reading it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-9102550383574100607?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/9102550383574100607/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=9102550383574100607' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/9102550383574100607'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/9102550383574100607'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/07/change-of-scenery-and-mindset.html' title='A Change of Scenery and Mindset'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SmoosHdR1YI/AAAAAAAAAFc/aHp-tljsxQo/s72-c/1086_Goldfish_300dpi_smcopy.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-5302900396931501174</id><published>2009-07-12T21:28:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-12T21:56:31.515-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Wired and a Little Tired</title><content type='html'>My head is a volcano. An active volcano, one of those ones that's sits around for a few years and does nothing until a particularly uneventful day when it decides to erupt and turn everybody's houses to rubble and dust. My head just erupted. Something spurred a whole lot of thought process all within about five minutes and now I'm trying to juggle five different things at once.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;- I'm really stressed. I'm not unhappy, I'm not emotional, I just realized that I have a lot of things to do, and very little time to do them.&lt;br /&gt;- Can someone please tell me what's wrong with my car? She won't run. The car people don't know what's wrong with her. I miss her.&lt;br /&gt;- I'm trying to learn how to drive a stick. I hate it.&lt;br /&gt;- Jess is coming home in less than a month. The unpredictability of this situation is driving me up the wall, and the suspense is killing me. I'm that girl in the audience shouting, "DON'T OPEN THE DOOR!"&lt;br /&gt;- I can't access my mission papers. Naturally, if it's electronic, it's going to sabotage itself so that I can't find a way in. Technology hates me.&lt;br /&gt;- Most of my family is off doing other things with their lives this summer. I'm not. I'm not even going to Canada anymore. I'm desperate to move my legs. I've been stagnant for too long.&lt;br /&gt;- I don't like how I coop my brain up until it explodes like this. There is so much creativity up there, but with the lack of oxygen and room, it turns to mush. This makes it difficult to be clever.&lt;br /&gt;- I'm done waiting around for people. Keep up with me, or don't. I'm making my own plans now.&lt;br /&gt;- Restless. Restless. Restless.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't sit at this computer anymore. I don't even have to be sitting here. Nothing is tying me to this computer. I owe it nothing. I have no obligation.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm going to go stall the Jeep some more.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-5302900396931501174?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/5302900396931501174/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=5302900396931501174' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/5302900396931501174'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/5302900396931501174'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/07/wired-and-little-tired.html' title='Wired and a Little Tired'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-3231681741044392751</id><published>2009-06-14T16:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-06-14T16:35:45.200-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Spring Cleaning</title><content type='html'>Let me tell you my friends, it's been an interesting few weeks. There have been a lot of good moments. There have been a lot of bad. A lot of growth, and that kind of pain that comes with growth. I've really enjoyed it, for the most part. Nothing gets me through the bad times like the good times. And the weather.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I mean, have we ever seen a June like this? Of constant rain showers and thunder storms? Has Salt Lake ever been so blessed? Mormons drive me crazy sometimes. We're always praying for more moisture, and the minute the Lord complies with his obedient saints, all this talk goes up about how tired we are of rain. It amazes me that a desert people such as we could ever take something like it for granted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Rain, to me, is a healing element. Nothing seems to make me feel quite as awestruck as a rain storm. My patio is the perfect place to witness these. I don't often put down what I'm doing for the sake of a moment, but on the off chance I do, it's probably for rain. Because rain fixes things. It cleanses. It washes the streets, makes everything green, takes away the pollution. And it clears the mind. Inhale that whiff of wet earth and try not to feel better.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Rain helps you embrace things. It helps you to let go. It mends. It excites. It often provokes the urge to dance. To say the very least, it's like magic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's a beautiful thing my friends, a very beautiful thing. Don't take it for granted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SjWJQ8TRetI/AAAAAAAAAFU/Ut3beNyKeS4/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SjWJQ8TRetI/AAAAAAAAAFU/Ut3beNyKeS4/s320/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347331056730208978" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-3231681741044392751?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/3231681741044392751/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=3231681741044392751' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3231681741044392751'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3231681741044392751'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/06/let-me-tell-you-my-friends-its-been.html' title='Spring Cleaning'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SjWJQ8TRetI/AAAAAAAAAFU/Ut3beNyKeS4/s72-c/Picture+1.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-8325049758944378834</id><published>2009-06-10T17:17:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-06-10T18:07:34.408-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Misery Loves Company</title><content type='html'>So I have this problem. I like people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As in, I thrive on other people's happiness. Sounds morbid, right? It's not. I've just found that it's hard for me to be happy when someone I love is less than the same. I can't stand it. Worse than this, however, is when I am the direct cause of their unhappiness. When it's my fault. And right now, it's definitely my fault.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At least, I feel like it is. Maybe there's more. There probably is. But whatever the circumstance, I know that I was of no help to it. And I am wrought with guilt. Why was I so careless? Seeing my friend so miserable created a deep set misery inside myself, and I can't seem to pull out of it. I don't want to be in this place, but it's so hard not to be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm also frustrated because we're not really friends anymore. I try daily to mend things, and he ends up insulting me in some enormous way that makes me vow to really try and not be friends with him anymore. But then a half hour passes, my feelings are not as hurt as they were, and I find myself trying to justify the words that were said to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess I'm looking for some advice. I'm willing to be persistent, but I don't know if I should. One the one hand, it hurts a lot. On the other, a friendship is something worth a little hardship, isn't it? You tell me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-8325049758944378834?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/8325049758944378834/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=8325049758944378834' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/8325049758944378834'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/8325049758944378834'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/06/misery-loves-company.html' title='Misery Loves Company'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-1529566060441797602</id><published>2009-04-18T21:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-18T21:44:17.585-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Validation</title><content type='html'>Stop what you're doing. Put down everything. Whatever it is, whatever you need to do can wait.  Because you need to watch this. Don't look at how long it is, don't say you don't have time. You do have time. Watch it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;object width="425" height="344"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Cbk980jV7Ao&amp;hl=en&amp;fs=1"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Cbk980jV7Ao&amp;hl=en&amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-1529566060441797602?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/1529566060441797602/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=1529566060441797602' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1529566060441797602'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1529566060441797602'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/04/blog-post.html' title='Validation'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-835413259135316769</id><published>2009-04-18T12:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-18T13:04:53.491-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Tyson Ritter, why are you so Angsty?</title><content type='html'>If you are looking to extend your weekend, try sitting and doing nothing. It makes the time crawl.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am trying to take my test on Excel for my computer class. My Mac won't let me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I need to stop bailing on my friends. Commit, Abby! Commit!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;                                                                                     &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;It's a beautiful day.&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-835413259135316769?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/835413259135316769/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=835413259135316769' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/835413259135316769'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/835413259135316769'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/04/tyson-ritter-why-are-you-so-angsty.html' title='Tyson Ritter, why are you so Angsty?'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-8190700142199381072</id><published>2009-04-11T10:53:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-11T11:18:34.136-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Post-Haitus Thoughts</title><content type='html'>Where to begin?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been itching to get on my blog for a month, being unable to on account of problems with Gmail, and now that I find the liberty to do so, I find my mind, once swimming with things to put here in this little box, is now utterly blank. No, not blank. Overwhelmed. But I will do the best I can.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's been a time of internal growth. I'm surprised it's taken me this long to find my feet in the matter, but I am finally striving to place myself in a world where who I am is who I appear to be. And I think I am doing a fine job.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Among other things:&lt;br /&gt;- My work caught on fire. There was a coil that overheated in the air ducts, and we had to shut down production for a week. During this time, the vault employees worked downtown. They really didn't need us there, so I ended up doing silly things like putting stickers on boxes. Please. Who gets payed $11.21 to do that?&lt;br /&gt;- After the week downtown, we had to work extra hard to meet our Quarterly demand, and three weeks to do it. I put in 27 hours of overtime to help get there, and by the very last day, we were there. Talk about exhaustion, but it was a gratifying experience.&lt;br /&gt;- There's been a lot of hearbreak in these last two months.&lt;br /&gt;- School is drawing to a close. I now know how to solve an Algebraic Sequence. Don't be impressed, it's not hard.&lt;br /&gt;- Stephanie finally got married. A day of bliss, bitter cold, and the inevitable exhaustion that comes from so much joy and work in one little day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This isn't all. But it's all I have time for. I think one day I'll have more time again. But that day is not today. Developments on life will continue, when they happen.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-8190700142199381072?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/8190700142199381072/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=8190700142199381072' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/8190700142199381072'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/8190700142199381072'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/04/post-haitus-thoughts.html' title='Post-Haitus Thoughts'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-4500674617992175441</id><published>2009-02-20T15:19:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-20T15:38:39.635-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Wandering</title><content type='html'>This week revealed new things about myself. My supervisor, Dan, recreated our process in Digital Operations, much to the dislike of his employees (me included). We muttered, conversed, whispered, but grudgingly reorganized our own personal processes to conform to this strange, new idea. The end result: Our production rate went up, as did most of our numbers. I realized at that point that if I were wandering around in the wilderness with Moses, I would be the one dying from venom while murmuring faithlessly. That bugged me. And then it humbled me. Starting over.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SZ8-2NY3VEI/AAAAAAAAAEk/RfnI4kSq9Dk/s1600-h/Picture+18.png"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 317px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SZ8-2NY3VEI/AAAAAAAAAEk/RfnI4kSq9Dk/s320/Picture+18.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305027987093541954" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been selfish, so please just know that I'm sorry, and that I'm smiling because it happened. No regrets.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-4500674617992175441?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/4500674617992175441/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=4500674617992175441' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4500674617992175441'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4500674617992175441'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/02/wandering.html' title='Wandering'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SZ8-2NY3VEI/AAAAAAAAAEk/RfnI4kSq9Dk/s72-c/Picture+18.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-1494880414650330510</id><published>2009-02-19T15:20:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-19T15:29:41.421-08:00</updated><title type='text'>A Liminal Message</title><content type='html'>I'm really bad at subliminal messages. Actually, I'm really good at them, but sometimes there is no sub involved. It's merely a liminal message you wish you could say conspicuously. There's no such thing, in this case. Really, all I can say is, Life is unfair, I hate this, and I don't know how to cope with the ache. I'm really bad at coping. This concerns none of any who might read this but one, and you already know who you are. I miss you too.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-1494880414650330510?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/1494880414650330510/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=1494880414650330510' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1494880414650330510'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1494880414650330510'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/02/liminal-message.html' title='A Liminal Message'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-7354886535940985319</id><published>2009-01-08T16:35:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-08T16:44:38.287-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Clouds.....Clouds are Nice</title><content type='html'>So I started a blog, then got writer's block. Some things are better left unsaid, I guess.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today was a crazy day. It started out with my co-workers harassing me incessantly, and ended in merry laughter and witty banter. Good day. Good talk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Among other things:&lt;br /&gt;- I bought Bones, Seasons 1-3. Nothing better, I tell you. Absolutely nothing.&lt;br /&gt;- I'm finally taking care of classes. Ah SLCC, what can you offer me other than bowling?&lt;br /&gt;- The sunset was amazing tonight. Sometimes clouds have silver linings. Sometimes they're pink and purple and gold.&lt;br /&gt;- My mom needs the computer.&lt;br /&gt;- I miss my friends. I was listening to Danny's tape this morning, and the loneliness almost killed me.&lt;br /&gt;- Amanda needs the computer.&lt;br /&gt;- All my girl friends are either at college, married, engaged, or pregnant. 'Nuff said.&lt;br /&gt;- It's been a good day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Your lives are good. My life is good. Our lives are good, despite what we all think. Stop a moment. The roses smell nice.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-7354886535940985319?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/7354886535940985319/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=7354886535940985319' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7354886535940985319'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7354886535940985319'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/01/cloudsclouds-are-nice.html' title='Clouds.....Clouds are Nice'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-759876961548194641</id><published>2009-01-06T16:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-06T17:20:21.475-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Obama, The Fat Captain, and Myself</title><content type='html'>Okay, so I'm writing this blog for all those people who have been asking for an update from me. Here's the problem, you people: I have nothing to say. And that's actually kind of a lie, but where do I start filling you in on life as I know it? There are too many beginnings.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;School is starting up again next week. I'm going to plug through as best I can through my generals (while still working full time at The Vault), and see how far I get. This semester entails: Math 1050 (To war!), some computer class (I've gotten by so far with my limited knowledge, I see no reason to take this class), and bowling! Yeah. Bowling. And it counts. But school? School is not a big part of my life right now. If I knew what I wanted to do with my life, and were taking affirmative action, I would be so excited! If I were attending a University, or I were back up at Utah State with my very missed roommates, and taking classes I was actually interested in taking, I would dawn the fully gung-ho attitude everyone should have about school. To all those students who have recently moved and aren't sure how they feel about the change yet, I have this to say to you: You have no idea how lucky you are.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Life as of late hasn't changed much for me, I don't think it's found much reason too. But all that's going to change with the year. 2008 was a year for pace. 2009 is a year for change. And I'm not just saying that because Obama is getting inaugurated. This year I'm going to be making some big decisions, life changing decisions, and while this is somewhat unnerving, I'm ready. I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready to make some leaps. Yes. I'm ready. It's time to leave hibernation mode, and to stretch myself a little bit. And I'm excited! I've let myself sink into a somewhat repetitive, sluggish state where I sit in my routine and daydream about how one day, things will be different, and I'll enjoy my life again. I realize now that that kind of change only comes with a change of heart and mind. I think I knew that all along, I just wanted to mope. I'm kicking myself for that now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Change is coming. The good, the bad, the necessary. And, as a wise, fat captain once said:&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SWQC7Aia5NI/AAAAAAAAAD8/_L-P1pnaLc8/s1600-h/Walle.png"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SWQC7Aia5NI/AAAAAAAAAD8/_L-P1pnaLc8/s320/Walle.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288355075219711186" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I don't want to survive. I want to &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;live!&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-759876961548194641?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/759876961548194641/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=759876961548194641' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/759876961548194641'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/759876961548194641'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/01/obama-fat-captain-and-myself.html' title='Obama, The Fat Captain, and Myself'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SWQC7Aia5NI/AAAAAAAAAD8/_L-P1pnaLc8/s72-c/Walle.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-914997940156263250</id><published>2008-12-04T17:45:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-04T17:48:49.650-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Blinded Thoughts</title><content type='html'>Have you ever made a rash decision, then taken it back? And then, in the light of both those decisions, changed your mind again? And then, in the midst of those consequences, have you ever come to realize that you're a pretty bad person? I have. I don't really want to explain it at all, really. I really hope no one reads this at all. Because I can't say what I want to. So don't ask.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My theme song as of late: I'm a Terrible Person, by Rooney.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-914997940156263250?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/914997940156263250/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=914997940156263250' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/914997940156263250'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/914997940156263250'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/12/blinded-thoughts.html' title='Blinded Thoughts'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-1076363711595709493</id><published>2008-12-04T17:16:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-04T17:28:52.650-08:00</updated><title type='text'>A Brief Update</title><content type='html'>To those of you who have been seeking new blog insights from myself, here they are:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love Thanksgiving. I'm grateful for everything.&lt;br /&gt;School is practically over.&lt;br /&gt;I love my work.&lt;br /&gt;It's impossible to go even an hour without saying the word "what."&lt;br /&gt;Still making mistakes.&lt;br /&gt;Not really learning from them.&lt;br /&gt;Wish I was.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There you go.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-1076363711595709493?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/1076363711595709493/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=1076363711595709493' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1076363711595709493'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1076363711595709493'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/12/to-those-of-you-who-have-been-seeking.html' title='A Brief Update'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-7361251442949672027</id><published>2008-11-05T18:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-11-05T19:05:03.091-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Simplicity, for Once</title><content type='html'>One day, when I am retired, old, graying, and crippled, I will update this blog frequently with the exciting things I do with my life, but as it happens, I am none of those, and much, much too busy to ever write about anything, let alone exciting things. And for this I am sad, because truly, who is too busy to write blogs? Me, I guess. I've been splitting my life six ways lately: Work, school, church, family, friends, and sleep. It's actually been working out pretty nicely except for one thing: There is no seventh way split for myself. Selfish? No, I just wish there was some way I could fit a little me time into this dangerously balanced, on-the-verge-of-pandemonium lifestyle.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today I drove up the canyon. And I almost died in the process. I realized two things during this near death experience. One: That I hate snow. Snow and me, we're over. There are no second chances with something that tries to kill you. And Two: I love my car. Stella is sturdy and efficient. She kind of saved my life. She's kind of cool like that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And really, apart from almost dying, moving to a new area at work, and a new month, nothing has changed for me. I've gotten a little better at routine, as long as my nights are varied, and the sunrises beautiful. And this is a life I can live with.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-7361251442949672027?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/7361251442949672027/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=7361251442949672027' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7361251442949672027'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7361251442949672027'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/11/simplicity-for-once.html' title='Simplicity, for Once'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-8146036377154473882</id><published>2008-10-09T21:53:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-09T21:55:11.583-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Denial?</title><content type='html'>Mom says what I want the most is what I can't have. She also says if I'm not with the boy I love, I love the boy I'm with. Yeah right. That's not true. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But.....what if it is?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-8146036377154473882?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/8146036377154473882/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=8146036377154473882' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/8146036377154473882'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/8146036377154473882'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/10/denial.html' title='Denial?'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-5292821615932858380</id><published>2008-09-13T10:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-13T11:21:08.875-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Them</title><content type='html'>I'm a very rash person. I'm very rash, open, and not at all censored. So when I am all three of these things, bad things can happen sometimes. I wish sometimes I could outweigh the outcome of my actions before actually carrying them out. I didn't do that though, and I almost immediately regretted it. So much is at stake for me right now, and I just most of what I know on the line. I hate change, you know this. Change in general is an unnerving factor of life, because it usually comes when you least expect it. It was my fear of change that held me back, and now it's the fear of change that chains me to the reality I am so desperately clinging to. Why do I do dumb things? Oh, that's right. Because it's who I am.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But you have to understand, I don't mind being any of these things. Though the ramifications of my actions are sometimes destructive and just a little overwhelming, I love being who I am. And I love that other people don't seem to mind either. It makes life so much more comfortable for me. And that's what I am trying to remember as I struggle with these new consequences. I wouldn't want to be anybody else, right? Even though the friendships, opportunities, and hopes might be gone, I can't change who I am, and I wouldn't want to. Right? This I know for sure, and it's a comfort, even if it doesn't totally make the hurt go away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I wish I could just give my heart away as easily as I used to. But then again, that brought a lot more trouble than I could have ever asked for. Ah, living life through experience. I'm a very hands on kind of person. I learn through my mistakes, not others. Detrimental and somewhat obnoxious? Very much so. Worth it? Undoubtedly. That's why history is always repeating itself, isn't it? Were we actually there to learn from our ancestor's mistakes, I doubt the situation would ever reoccur again. But such is life. Shower, rinse, repeat.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wish I could just say I'm sorry and make it enough. But I know that's just not how life works. Sorry isn't really what fixes problems. You have to earn back the life you changed. It's so much harder his way, but I don't think life ever really cared for the easy way out. But that's what builds character, right? That's what they say. "Who are they?" You know, the inimitable, collective them. One day, I'll be one of Them. Then I'll make the rules, say those things that when they are said, people will ask "Who are they?" And the respondent will raise his or her eyebrows and say, "You know. Them." I will be Them. And then, my life will be exactly what I make it, not just what it should be. Just wait. You'll see.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-5292821615932858380?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/5292821615932858380/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=5292821615932858380' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/5292821615932858380'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/5292821615932858380'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/09/them.html' title='Them'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-8657089908860944419</id><published>2008-08-30T11:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-30T11:50:13.602-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Discretion</title><content type='html'>So apparently I disclose way to much in my blogs. Time to be discreet!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Life is good. And sad. And busy. And happy. And at times overwhelming.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's my life. Discreet and in a nut shell.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-8657089908860944419?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/8657089908860944419/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=8657089908860944419' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/8657089908860944419'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/8657089908860944419'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/08/discretion.html' title='Discretion'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-4995967559501383480</id><published>2008-08-16T14:27:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-18T15:09:22.990-07:00</updated><title type='text'>At Peace, With Every Piece</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SKdJ_S-H0UI/AAAAAAAAADE/hayg7Kuu2MI/s1600-h/Picture+9.png"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SKdJ_S-H0UI/AAAAAAAAADE/hayg7Kuu2MI/s320/Picture+9.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235234443614474562" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was wrong to doubt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Out of all the books of the Twilight Saga, this book, Breaking Dawn, by far exceeded anything I could have hoped for in my expectations of the ending. The perfect ending. Some might argue that it was too perfect. But not me. Stephenie Meyer created her masterpiece. She tied all the knots, she fixed the things she broke, and in the end, it was the happily ever after we'd all been wanting since Book One. Of course, that doesn't mean it came in the forms we thought it would.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I loved this book.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But then, my take on this book might be a little different than the average Twilight reader. Because secretly, and quite surprisingly, I found at the end of Eclipse that I had fallen in love with everyone's favorite Werewolf. Edward and Bella were a technicality; I knew they would be together in the end, because it's what everyone wanted, and Stephenie Meyer would have been a fool to starve them of that desire. But Jacob was my main priority; Seeing him satisfied was my only goal. And I got that, I got even more. It was like a puzzle I was hoping would be pieced together, and when it finally was, I found that not only were the pieces a perfect match, but that I loved the image they displayed. That was more than I could have hoped for. So bless Stephenie Meyer for granting me the wishes I didn't even consciously wish for.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;did&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt; love Bella and Edward. I've always admired the way their love was portrayed. It's what started this story in the first place. The only difference is that it expanded, grew as it developed, until it wasn't just one story, it was several intertwined together to make what is Breaking Dawn. And I loved them all.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-4995967559501383480?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/4995967559501383480/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=4995967559501383480' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4995967559501383480'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4995967559501383480'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/08/at-peace-with-every-piece.html' title='At Peace, With Every Piece'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SKdJ_S-H0UI/AAAAAAAAADE/hayg7Kuu2MI/s72-c/Picture+9.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-5059870524754322199</id><published>2008-07-31T20:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-31T21:00:08.200-07:00</updated><title type='text'>In the Long Run</title><content type='html'>The only reason I am online at all right now is because Andrew is at Batman again, and my other friends are conveniently not around. I wouldn't call it convenience. I think that of all the days I could have chosen to be alone, this would not have been my first choice. I tried doing productive things, I really did. First, I tried reading the book I just started (which is supposedly good for my health), and nearly fell asleep. So then I tried going somewhere, but as soon as I got in the car, I realized there was really no where to go. So I came back inside and sat for a while. Just sat, and contemplated, pondered, wondered about nothing in particular. And then I started to fall asleep again. So I got on here, looked at things that won't matter in ten years. I hate to think this is what I'm doing with my life. I hate doing something, and thinking to myself, "Will this matter in the long run?" Usually it doesn't, but then, that's the way with most of what is called the present.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SJKJ_7ggBqI/AAAAAAAAAC8/1SKC5aCeA6E/s1600-h/Picture+8.png"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SJKJ_7ggBqI/AAAAAAAAAC8/1SKC5aCeA6E/s200/Picture+8.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229393848729339554" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I want what I'm doing now to be meaningful in one way or another. If it doesn't affect my future directly, then I want it to affect me. The sad thing about this is that I'm always doing pointless things. I came to this realization recently, and it made me cranky. So I've started reading again. I've started taking care of myself a little bit better. Because in ten years, I don't want to look back and wish I'd done something with my youth other than waste it. And that's where the change of heart comes in.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-5059870524754322199?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/5059870524754322199/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=5059870524754322199' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/5059870524754322199'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/5059870524754322199'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/07/in-long-run.html' title='In the Long Run'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SJKJ_7ggBqI/AAAAAAAAAC8/1SKC5aCeA6E/s72-c/Picture+8.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-7786887898589275600</id><published>2008-07-28T16:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-28T17:12:11.540-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Life (And Its Cost)</title><content type='html'>I feel sick today. And I felt sick yesterday. And I've felt sick on and off for the last two weeks. I think my body is trying to tell me something. It's probably mutiny. But other than that, I feel fine. I'm finally done with going to work at 6:00 instead of 7:00. I'm getting better at the process I was already good at. I'm learning new things. I love this part of life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been so busy with work lately, and when it's not work, it's either friends or family, or sleep. This is by no means a bad or tiresome pattern, but sometimes I just wish there were more hours in the day. I miss having energy and time to do all the things I loved to do. I miss reading books, and writing. I miss lying down on the lawn without falling asleep. I miss staying up late. I know I'm incredibly blessed to have the job I do, but it came with a very heavy price. I don't blame it though. I think the day when my life changed would have come with or without my current occupation, so I can only be grateful that it came in the form that it did.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;These days I try harder to love my life, rather than be the critic. When I look back on these days, I'll probably miss them, just like I miss every moment in my life. I think I'm glad of that. It makes change harder, but that's a small price to pay. I hope everyone realizes sooner than later that its easier to love their life than loathe it. When making a list of pros and cons, unless you're a homeless man living in Alaska living off refried beans and fish heads, I'm sure you'll find that the good outweigh the bad. Or if you live in Nottingham. Apparently that's not so great either.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-7786887898589275600?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/7786887898589275600/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=7786887898589275600' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7786887898589275600'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7786887898589275600'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/07/overpriced.html' title='Life (And Its Cost)'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-2811922509431842306</id><published>2008-07-12T10:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-12T10:30:29.876-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Re-Vamped</title><content type='html'>Let me paint you a picture.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SHjmti0MfdI/AAAAAAAAACs/iiHEQ1BpSZs/s1600-h/Picture+2.png"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SHjmti0MfdI/AAAAAAAAACs/iiHEQ1BpSZs/s400/Picture+2.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222177438050319826" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, I'm all for being flexible with my imagination when it comes to new ideas. I'm always willing to make room for a little perspective. But this is grotesque. What true fan, what &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;sane person&lt;/span&gt;, would accept this as Twilight? Ask anyone who knows and loves these books. We know these characters, we aren't just acquaintances with this romance. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This wasn't just Stephenie Meyer's story. She made it all of ours when she had it published, and she should not have been the deciding factor about this movie. I think we should have had a vote, or a riot, or something. This book is now just as much ours as hers. I'm not necessarily mad at her. I'm just disappointed in the turn things have taken.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ah, Hollywood, have you no shame?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-2811922509431842306?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/2811922509431842306/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=2811922509431842306' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/2811922509431842306'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/2811922509431842306'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/07/let-me-paint-you-picture.html' title='Re-Vamped'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp0.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SHjmti0MfdI/AAAAAAAAACs/iiHEQ1BpSZs/s72-c/Picture+2.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-1030102381329645089</id><published>2008-07-09T17:13:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-12T00:31:02.469-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Trains, Planes, and Third Degree Burns</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SHVUbyYygNI/AAAAAAAAACU/mWg8SeiNdoc/s1600-h/Abby+Driving.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SHVUbyYygNI/AAAAAAAAACU/mWg8SeiNdoc/s200/Abby+Driving.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221172179364905170" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm a going places person. Be it car, plane, boat, or yes, even a motorcycle, I can't resist the thrill of the ride. Cars are somewhat trivial. I don't know how I feel about extensive drives to far away places, but I do enjoy long drives up canyons, or out to no where in particular. Otherwise, I have no preference. Each freedom of choice brings different sites, and all the same enjoyment.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last Monday, my friend Russell took me on a motorcycle ride. Having only ridden two other motorcycles in my life, both with grandparents, I was excited! And I was right to be, it was amazing! Driving in a car is nice, but on a motorcycle, the world is open to you! It's like the difference between flying in a plane, and hang-gliding. There's just a difference. I loved it. Granted, I did burn my leg on the exhaust pipe, which turned into a third degree burn, which is now ailing me terribly, but there are worse things. There are always worse things.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-1030102381329645089?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/1030102381329645089/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=1030102381329645089' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1030102381329645089'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1030102381329645089'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/07/im-going-places-person.html' title='Trains, Planes, and Third Degree Burns'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp0.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SHVUbyYygNI/AAAAAAAAACU/mWg8SeiNdoc/s72-c/Abby+Driving.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-3810020328099451462</id><published>2008-07-04T21:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-04T21:46:56.345-07:00</updated><title type='text'>An Incurable Sadness</title><content type='html'>I don't know how I feel about myself right now. I've never been truly discontented with who I am, especially these days where I've grown so much. But I still make mistakes, and just recently, even in all my grown upedness, I made a big one. It's because I was afraid to tell the truth, when I knew the longer I waited, the harder it would be. Then, without warning, the truth presented itself before I was ready to tell itself, and I found myself in a tight spot. Now I'm at odds with my Best Friend, and at odds with myself. I've never thought of myself, but sometimes, I'm just dumb.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, you should know, now that it's out, that I'm not going back to Utah State. You can't understand, not even if I could explain, how devastated I am by this. I love Logan, I love everything about it. The people, the school, the freedom. But I had to make a decision, something that would be good for my future, not just for me. That wasn't Utah State.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Growing up is hard. It's more than just getting taller and learning how to make a life in the big, strange world. It's letting go of comforts, and fears disguised as comforts, and things you wanted to stay the same forever. I wanted to stay in my ignorantly blissful state forever, and for once in my life, I made a decision that ripped me from that state and pushed me into something vastly different than what I was used to. I think I'll get used to it, but right now, I'm sad. Sad all the time, because I know I may never be going back.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-3810020328099451462?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/3810020328099451462/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=3810020328099451462' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3810020328099451462'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3810020328099451462'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/07/incurable-sadness.html' title='An Incurable Sadness'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-3579147634911681481</id><published>2008-06-28T17:12:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-04T21:04:55.391-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Hope, and other tragic Human Emotions</title><content type='html'>Someone dear to me recently mentioned the curse of hoping against hope. It's that faint twinge of fantasy that strikes when the situation is seemingly impossible. At times, it seems that I can hope so much that the thing I've wished for so hard comes true, and all is well. However, that is not always the case.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I hope against all hope, and it's in vain. These are the most painful situations, to hope for the impossible, and coming to find that it really is impossible. I've been experiencing this bitter rejection recently, in a friendship of mine. Or, the lack thereof. I'm really not sure what it is actually, but it's not what I hoped it would be. I'm usually so in control of my relationships with other people, and what I'm like, but in this case, I feel......powerless.&lt;br /&gt;I've never felt so inferior as I do around this person, and I hate it. Why should I be afraid? I don't have any answers for myself. When it comes to people and behaviors, I'm usually very good and speaking my mind. This is not the case. Funny how people change us sometimes, even when we think are so stable in who we are. Flimsy, flexible Abby.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-3579147634911681481?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/3579147634911681481/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=3579147634911681481' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3579147634911681481'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3579147634911681481'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/06/hope-and-other-tragic-human-emotions.html' title='Hope, and other tragic Human Emotions'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-4366875442629713958</id><published>2008-06-23T18:02:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-23T18:12:18.027-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Mindless Babble</title><content type='html'>Whew! It's been quite the week and then some. Today at the Vault we had five employee's try and pull one thousand rolls, with the help and support of the staff. I was on the extra machine with Emily and Pia, and we did 239. Not bad, I'd say. In the end, they made their goal, but I don't think I've ever seen a less chatty bunch than I did today. We were all exhausted! Remind me never to exert myself like that again.&lt;br /&gt;It's funny how much you can come to understand a person over time. Feelings change, as does perspective, and as you grow to understand the person more and more, you come to find a profound respect for them. Okay, maybe not all the time, but that's how I feel. Sometimes I wish I could see how other people see me, if not just to understand myself better.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Saturday was a great day. I went shopping with Julia and Ben (bought new Aviators which I now can't find....grr....and new flip flops!), then Ben, Curtis, Mykin and I went swimming. It was delightful! I miss swimming. Scratch that, I miss being outside altogether. What with working in a mountain and all, we don't see sunlight all that often. But that's okay. After swimming, Mykin and I, along with a few other friends, went to Jessica Wood's house and watched Return to Me and got pedicures. It was my first time, and at first I was a little reluctant, but I think I'll make a habit out of it. My feet have never felt so good before! Needless to say, it was one perfect day. One out of the many to come.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My brain is tired and my body is tired, and so I am tired. And my dumb computer won't let my load pictures onto Blogger, and so you're all deprived of visual agents. I apologize. I just wanted to leave a quick note saying life is good, I am happy, and I think I am on my way to something good.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-4366875442629713958?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/4366875442629713958/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=4366875442629713958' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4366875442629713958'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4366875442629713958'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/06/mindless-babble.html' title='Mindless Babble'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-5349076254406440406</id><published>2008-06-11T19:53:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-11T20:02:35.513-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Incredulity and the Like</title><content type='html'>Okay, why is it so hard to believe I'm not dating anyone right now?! I went to a wedding reception for my friend Alisa today, and the most often question asked was "How's the love life?" Asked many different times, in many different ways. I gave them all the same response. I wasn't seeing anybody. And every single one of those darned inquirers gave me looks of incredulity and then replied, "I don't believe you."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, this is an increasingly recurring theme in my life right now. I didn't go to Idaho with my family a few weeks ago, and three of my siblings asked, "For who?!" Honestly people, is it really that hard to believe?!?! I guess I deserve it, in one sick way or another. I've dated a lot, and so people have some right to assume I'm always seeing someone. Well I gotta news flash for ya folks. I'm not. I'm not seeing anyone, and I'm not sorry. I like where I am right now, I like having me and myself for company, and I guess that in  a way, I'm a little glad people are so surprised. That's right, you didn't think it could happen, but it did, so now what? That's what I thought. Okay, I'm sorry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The truth is, I needed this. People will talk to me sometimes about how they wish they could get a girl/boyfriend, or how they wished this specific person would take interest, and I never could understand why it was they needed someone so badly. I always tell those people that I don't need anyone to lean on like that, that I wouldn't be bothered if I had no one. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't lying when I said that, and it turns out (to my relief), I'm not. My life is good. How is yours?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-5349076254406440406?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/5349076254406440406/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=5349076254406440406' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/5349076254406440406'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/5349076254406440406'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/06/incredulity-and-like.html' title='Incredulity and the Like'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-4150982537942686658</id><published>2008-06-07T11:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-09T17:46:50.497-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Selfish</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SHVbz3wZMpI/AAAAAAAAACk/jBBZdL1TuSg/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SHVbz3wZMpI/AAAAAAAAACk/jBBZdL1TuSg/s200/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221180289704342162" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm feeling irrational today. That's not a good thing, because when I'm irrational, there's no way of getting through to me. I don't like this about myself, but I'm feeling quite bitter about a few things, and it's fogging my senses. Meanwhile, I'm trying to cool off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last night, I went and saw Kung Fu Panda. And it is, as of now, one of the greatest animated shows I have ever seen. Pixar is cute, and Madagascar was funny, but this movie, it has it. It has it all. The humor, the characters...the animation. Half of the reason why it's so cool is watching the animals bounce around the screen with each other. Needless to say, it is something everyone should see.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wish I weren't in such a bad mood. I'm just tired of a lot of things. Like my family thinking it's okay to use my things as they please. I know it comes with the territory of having a family, but I liked living somewhere where the only thing I had to worry about was roommates eating my food. On top of that, I'm struggling with a few friendships right now that I'm not sure how to go about. Today I need some air. Who knew it would be so cold in June?! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate watching people get hurt, my friends in particular. I have a friend right now who likes this girl, and for a long time, she gave him a vibe that she was interested. Now she refuses to talk to him. My friend is devastated, but he's still holding on to this small thread of hope that he can fix things. No matter what I say, he believes he can fix it. I wish he could see what he was doing to himself, but it's very hard to see our flaws when we are living so close to ourselves. On top of his pain, I'm furious that anyone could lead him on so fully without any regard (or awareness) of what they were doing. We're all human, we all have feelings, we're all vulnerable. Those people that disregard all these things are the people I would like to push in front of a train. I'm more than willing to help pick up pieces of hurt friends, but I hate it when it shouldn't have happened. Shame on us all, for our selfish desires.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-4150982537942686658?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/4150982537942686658/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=4150982537942686658' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4150982537942686658'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4150982537942686658'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/06/selfish.html' title='Selfish'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/SHVbz3wZMpI/AAAAAAAAACk/jBBZdL1TuSg/s72-c/Picture+1.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-2311205333471620304</id><published>2008-06-05T16:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-01-07T16:05:59.970-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Bitter Satisfaction</title><content type='html'>Am I apathetic? Or am I just looking for something to be passionate about? I don't know. I feel like I've become passive about life, and that I'm getting used to it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went on a date once, and my date asked me what my greatest fear was. I said it was being completely alone (which I know I never will be, thankfully, but it's an awful thought all the same). When I asked him the same question, he said, "To be satisfied with life." I admire that answer. I admire his awareness of how easily we can slip into mediocrity if we're not careful. So many people settle for a simple personality, even if complexity is desired. This is how I feel, and it scares me. I don't want to be satisfied with who I am at the present, because there really isn't much to me right now. Sometimes I worry so much about my future, I forget that I'm living in the present. Odd how that works.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today was a busy day. Pia (our Team Leader) said we weren't working hard enough, and that we could do better. I was exempt of course, because I was new, and had completed forty-two rolls the day before (I don't think anybody expected me to catch on so quick. Should I be offended?). Anyway, we all put on our game faces and worked hard all morning. By break at 9:30, I had twenty-six rolls, and by lunch, I had doubled that. It was at the very end of the day that I lost my rhythm, and only managed to complete four more before quit time. That gave me a count of sixty for the day, which is, to say the least, very impressive for someone who hasn't even worked there a week. Everyone says they're really proud of me. I like this new family I've found, they're support seems limitless. Sixty rolls today. Tomorrow, I'll go for eighty.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;More good news: We had our first longer-than-one-minute conversation! It was momentous. I'm pretty sure this isn't unrequited love I'm feeling, but I won't get cocky. For all I know, he's just a really nice guy (or a huge flirt), who treats everyone the same. But there are little things that don't escape my attention, like when he says I should sit by him, or when he waits for me at the end of the day. But this is all merely theoretical. I have no proof. None at all. Meanwhile, he is still pretty.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm trying to find a rhythm for my life, and I think I'm finally on my way.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-2311205333471620304?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/2311205333471620304/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=2311205333471620304' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/2311205333471620304'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/2311205333471620304'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/06/bitter-satisfaction.html' title='Bitter Satisfaction'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-6817390999520430908</id><published>2008-06-04T17:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-01-07T16:03:42.313-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Gather round, kids!</title><content type='html'>You know, it takes a lot to make me feel awkward. I'm a naturally easy going person, and so when confronted with situations or people, I handle them well, and I pride myself in it. Dave even said today that he was very impressed with how I handled situations where I might otherwise act selfishly. Then why in the world does he make me feel so awkward? "He" is my co-worker, and I do dumb things around him, like not say anything, or try and communicate with hand signals (I was trying to back out, and I didn't know if I had enough space!). I like him, and he's really nice, but I can't help but feel self conscious around him.&lt;br /&gt;Today we were walking back from lunch (the first time we've ever walked together, mind you), and he asked me what I like to do, and I said, "I don't know." And in my head, I was thinking, "You don't know?! Abby, you are such a yutz." Later he came back and I told him I liked music, which is a small recovery, but that's not the point. The point it this kid makes me feel inferior, and I don't know why! Bah. Life is complex when you're brainless.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I work in a mountain, and it pretty much rocks. Literally. Today I walked out, and everything was covered in mist. Little Cottonwood is by far my favorite canyon, and here I get to work in it! Nothing beats this job I tell you, nothing. I'm finally taking time to adjust to the silly Mac my parents bought, and am currently loading all Switchfoot material onto iTunes, to which I am also adjusting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nothing truly important is on my mind today. Everyone is busy doing things, so here I am, by my lonesome, listening to music and reflecting on my future. I'm not really sure what to do with it just yet, and my options are varied, so I'm letting them meander around my mind while I consider them. Making a decision right now isn't important. I love life.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-6817390999520430908?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/6817390999520430908/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=6817390999520430908' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/6817390999520430908'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/6817390999520430908'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/06/you-know-it-takes-lot-to-make-me-feel.html' title='Gather round, kids!'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-7002059011228488546</id><published>2008-05-22T23:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-05-27T18:58:11.887-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Paradoxes, Oxymorons, and Catch 22's</title><content type='html'>"It's enough to make a body ashamed of the human race."&lt;br /&gt;                                                                                                              -Huckleberry Finn&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am sometimes amazed at people's lack of respect. Amazed and bewildered. It makes me so sad to see someone pass judgment on another whom he may hardly know. Well, sometimes it makes me sad. Mostly it makes me angry. I know I've had my share of opinions when it comes to other people, but I only hope that at the end of the day, my friends know that I am there to live up to our friendship, and not betray their trust with spiteful words. That's all I really want.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have friends. People I trust, and who love me. They're the kind of people I wish I'd met earlier in life so that I could have better followed their examples. They're all on missions, or at college now, but they were those friends that made me want to be better. I hope that everyone in the world has at least one person like that. I was blessed enough to get a whole bunch of them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tonight I witnessed one of my dear friends mocked in his absence, by people he hardly knows. How does that make a person feel? I have encountered many worst versions of myself in many different scenarios, but I hope I never find that worst version where I feel justified in saying something unkind about anyone else, be it a friend or acquaintance. Every one of us deserves so much better. Huck was right. Human beings can be so cruel to each other.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-7002059011228488546?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/7002059011228488546/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=7002059011228488546' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7002059011228488546'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7002059011228488546'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/05/paradoxes-oxymorons-and-catch-22s.html' title='Paradoxes, Oxymorons, and Catch 22&apos;s'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-6933170241170367542</id><published>2008-05-20T12:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-05-22T10:27:09.192-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Magic Deer, Bambi, and the Kind That Hit You</title><content type='html'>Once, when I was in Canada, I wrote a poem. It was about a deer. It goes like this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dead deer, Dead deer,&lt;br /&gt;You're dead I fear.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I portrayed my feelings so poignantly, I didn't feel much need to expand. Today, I think I better understand the meaning of that eloquently written poem. Today, I got hit by a deer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I mean, it's not the greatest thing to happen right before an interview, but what's getting hit by a deer if not inconvenient? You won't find anyone waking up in the morning thinking, "Today will be the day! That deer will finally hit me." Maybe if it were a magic deer. But I've digressed. Here's what happened:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'd been driving up Little Cottonwood Canyon on the way to my second interview at the Church History Vault. I was feeling pretty good, just prepping myself by singing along to Jack's Mannequin and looking at the road, which is why I probably didn't see it coming. The deer came at me from the side, and before I knew what was really happening, it was swerving right into the side of my car. It all happened so fast, I didn't even have time to react. I pulled off the road (while the car behind me drove on, perfectly aware of what had just happened), and looked at the deer, who was lying motionless on the side of the road. I then moved around the other side of my car to see the damage. The right side was streaked with fur and blood, and the whole back door was dented in, along with the side mirror, and just above the tire.&lt;br /&gt;Well, I called my Mom and started to cry as I turned my car around until I was just across the street from the deer. A nice man pulled over too, to see if I was okay, and we watched the deer for a little bit until it sat up and stumbled back into the brush. This would be the end of my story, except for Stella (my car) decided to take a crack at me by acting like she was in neutral when she was really in drive. I turned the car on and off a couple times before she finally came to, and I finished the last stretch up to the Vault. The interview went well, and I ended up getting the job, but the moment was outshone by the already eventful morning.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stella's in the shop now, and, apart from her bashed in side, is apparently running fine. Poor car, she's seen some days. But she'll live to see better days. I'm not sure if I can say the same for the deer. Maybe she'll look both ways the next time she tries to cross the street. Needless to say, I won't be there next time she does.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-6933170241170367542?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/6933170241170367542/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=6933170241170367542' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/6933170241170367542'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/6933170241170367542'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/05/magic-deer-bambi-and-kind-that-hit-you.html' title='Magic Deer, Bambi, and the Kind That Hit You'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-19591378160016044</id><published>2008-05-18T22:22:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-05-18T22:22:50.720-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A Countdown</title><content type='html'>TEN things you wish you could say to TEN different people right now:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. We'll make it through this together, like we always do. Things will be okay. You're my best friend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. I can't believe how things turned around so quickly. I have you to thank for it of course, you finally took a stand, and I can't tell you how glad I am that you did.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. I'm glad you miss me as much as I miss you. I'd feel pretty dumb if it were a one sided thing. Thanks for being that roommate!&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;4. I wish I knew where you were and what you were thinking. It's driving me crazy wondering if I'm just imagining what we had, or if it was real.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5. You're my hero. People don't really think of you as a hero, but that's what you are to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. I know it seems like all the answers are right there, but I've been there before, and life gets more complicated as you get older. Pace yourself, don't do anything rash.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. Thanks for being there through thick and thin. I hope you're having fun where you are, and even though we're going different directions, that you never forget me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. I know you're bitter about everything that's happened, but I think it's time to let go. Don't let your anger control your life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9. I hope that wherever you are, whatever you're doing, that you're truly happy, and not just trying to fool yourself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10. It's because of your friendship that I wish I never had to grow up. I'm glad that when I look back, I'll have memories of good times. You made growing up not so hard.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;NINE things about yourself:&lt;br /&gt;1. I hate change.&lt;br /&gt;2. Nature is what calms me the most.&lt;br /&gt;3. I think way too much of myself.&lt;br /&gt;4. I love helping people.&lt;br /&gt;5. I'm ambitious, but sometimes I lose sight of my goals.&lt;br /&gt;6. I hate protocol, and I hate conformity.&lt;br /&gt;7. Despite what people may think, I love my family more than anything else in this world.&lt;br /&gt;8. Try and push me around, and I'll bite your head off.&lt;br /&gt;9. I like staring at myself in the mirror and cleaning when I talk on the phone to people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;EIGHT ways to win your heart:&lt;br /&gt;1. Be honest with me.&lt;br /&gt;2. Have an opinion of your own, but don't be headstrong about it.&lt;br /&gt;3. Smile.&lt;br /&gt;4. Freckles.&lt;br /&gt;5. Show me how much you love me.&lt;br /&gt;6. Be confident in yourself, know where you stand.&lt;br /&gt;7. Be ambitious. Love life.&lt;br /&gt;8. Respect those around you. Respect me. Respect yourself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;SEVEN things that cross your mind a lot:&lt;br /&gt;1. What am I going to do with my life?&lt;br /&gt;2. How do other people see me?&lt;br /&gt;3. I could never be friends with myself.&lt;br /&gt;4. I'm hungry.&lt;br /&gt;5. Am I where I'm supposed to be?&lt;br /&gt;6. Why isn't Jess writing?&lt;br /&gt;7. I need to take care of myself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;SIX things you wish you never did:&lt;br /&gt;1. Quit dance.&lt;br /&gt;2. Quit soccer.&lt;br /&gt;3. Sluff school so much.&lt;br /&gt;4. Concert choir.&lt;br /&gt;5. Lost my Aviators in California.&lt;br /&gt;6. Cared about what other people thought.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;FIVE turn offs:&lt;br /&gt;1. Ego.&lt;br /&gt;2. Rudeness.&lt;br /&gt;3. Lazy.&lt;br /&gt;4. Too nice.&lt;br /&gt;5. Too opinionated.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;FOUR turn ons:&lt;br /&gt;1. Humor.&lt;br /&gt;2. Freckles.&lt;br /&gt;3. Confidence.&lt;br /&gt;4. Kindness.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;THREE smileys that describe your life:&lt;br /&gt;1. :D&lt;br /&gt;2. 8)&lt;br /&gt;3. :O&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;TWO things you want to do before you die:&lt;br /&gt;1. See the Northern Lights.&lt;br /&gt;2. Do something, anything, to make this world a better place.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;ONE confession:&lt;br /&gt;1. I used to sleep with a box.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-19591378160016044?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/19591378160016044/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=19591378160016044' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/19591378160016044'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/19591378160016044'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/05/countdown.html' title='A Countdown'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-3513787948793007170</id><published>2008-05-08T18:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-05-08T19:01:13.441-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A Change in Seasons</title><content type='html'>You know, I never remember how much I've missed Spring until it's here again. It brings so much nostalgia with it though that sometimes it's hard to breathe for want of space. This time of the year always seems to be the most eventful for me. People leave, new ones come (or in this year's case, old ones come back), and here am I, always the same, at least to myself. Everything is green again! I made a trip to our park today, where nobody ever goes, and sat by myself a while and reflected on life. Apparently I was in less than a reflective mood, because I fell asleep. That's okay too though, life is well paced, and I don't feel much need to think too hard about anything right now, because life is in place, and that's all that really matters right now. The future comes later, I won't worry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I always feel like life is changing and moving around me while I'm standing still. I never seem to be doing much, but maybe to the world, I'm just a whirlwind of change. It's hard to tell, seeing as I'm not the world. Whoever thought I would get so old? I know I never did. I'm sure growing up wouldn't be nearly as climactic if it didn't sneak up on us the way it does. I mean, we use up our youth until one day we look and voila! we are older, and that's that. This is what I've been fighting with. I know those of you reading this are thinking, "Please, Abby. You are no where near grown up yet." I know I'm not, but I'm not far away either, and that's the scary thought. An even scarier thought is that I won't be ready for it. It's a very human fear, but then, that's what I am.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-3513787948793007170?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/3513787948793007170/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=3513787948793007170' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3513787948793007170'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3513787948793007170'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/05/change-in-seasons.html' title='A Change in Seasons'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-7966963715525100954</id><published>2008-05-06T16:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-05-06T16:43:09.212-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Truth</title><content type='html'>I'm angry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm angry because I feel blamed for something that shouldn't be my fault.&lt;br /&gt;I'm mad because I shouldn't have to take this kind of burden without any way of defending myself.&lt;br /&gt;I'm hurt because it doesn't seem like she once even thought about what I've been going through.&lt;br /&gt;I'm miserable because I miss her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We were never terribly good at expressing our feelings to each other, but we were honest, and we were loyal to each other. This never changed for me, I don't know why things fell apart the way they did. I used to just assume that that's what friendships did overtime: Friends would change, grow up, find that they're different after all and go their separate ways. I thought that before I realized what a great friendship I had, and how I never wanted it to change ever. It was inevitable that every other friendship might hit the void eventually, but this one seemed more than that. You know what the saddest part about this whole thing is? I still believe that. Maybe that's why it still hurts this much. Well. That and being the scapegoat. Like that's fair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When did we change? Was there something I missed? I have so many questions that will probably never be answered. And it's like she doesn't even care, so I'm embarrassed that I'm the one who's dwelling. I'm not really sorry though. I've been angry, hurt, confused, and more than anything frustrated, but I'll always care about her, no matter what. Yep. That's where the bitterness is coming from. So at least now you know, even if she never will.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-7966963715525100954?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/7966963715525100954/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=7966963715525100954' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7966963715525100954'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7966963715525100954'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/05/truth.html' title='The Truth'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-7255692710625682586</id><published>2008-04-18T14:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-18T14:55:43.978-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A Pea in a Pod</title><content type='html'>You know, I'm really at a loss for words right now. I have plenty to say, but I think there's so much thought cramped into my tiny brain, that it's having problems formulating the words into comprehendable thoughts. I feel like someone took a potato masher and just mashed them all into one. That's just what happens when you don't have a filing cabinet for your head.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'll miss where I am. I love Merrill, and I love my ward. I hate goodbyes.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-7255692710625682586?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/7255692710625682586/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=7255692710625682586' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7255692710625682586'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/7255692710625682586'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/04/pea-in-pod.html' title='A Pea in a Pod'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-4771179685859748664</id><published>2008-04-01T13:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-01T13:11:29.751-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Flashbacks and Feelings</title><content type='html'>A flashback, if you will:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R_KVSdLNS6I/AAAAAAAAABw/FeZzMvU9R_E/s1600-h/Jam.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R_KVSdLNS6I/AAAAAAAAABw/FeZzMvU9R_E/s200/Jam.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184370265358683042" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Remember in the Third Season of The Office when Jim started dating Karen, and everyone knew he still loved Pam? I remember. I felt awful during those episodes where Jim and Pam ignored each other and Jim pretended to enjoy dating Karen. It was frustrating, and heart breaking! Anyway, after that season, I thought I would never feel as rotten again. I spoke too soon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lorelai married Chris. She’s not just dating him, she married him! She just dropped Luke like it didn’t even matter. Now I don’t know who to be mad at. Season seven is the pits. I’m sad. Yes, pathetic, but sad. Why is everyone so okay with this? What happens to Luke? What about those of us who like the Luke Danes’ of the world, those not necessarily perfect, but pull-through kind of guys? I don’t know. Megan said I have a Luke Danes. He’s not a grouchy, but sure, he’s a Luke Danes. I like that.&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R_KU39LNS5I/AAAAAAAAABo/vA-i8LQGlnI/s1600-h/L+AND+L.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R_KU39LNS5I/AAAAAAAAABo/vA-i8LQGlnI/s200/L+AND+L.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184369810092149650" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This was all I had to say. This show has become so apart of my life, I’ve started dreaming Gilmore Girls, and when I’m not having dreams about it, I’m thinking about it. Just one more day. One more day, the show will be over, and I’ll have my life back. I wonder what the sun looks like. Just kidding. Back to the show.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-4771179685859748664?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/4771179685859748664/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=4771179685859748664' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4771179685859748664'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4771179685859748664'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/04/flashbacks-and-feelings.html' title='Flashbacks and Feelings'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R_KVSdLNS6I/AAAAAAAAABw/FeZzMvU9R_E/s72-c/Jam.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-2635624025844405252</id><published>2008-03-25T14:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-03-25T15:00:01.653-07:00</updated><title type='text'>When it Rains.......</title><content type='html'>For the record, I should not be writing right now. I should be concentrating on writing a talk about setting goals and why it's important to follow through with them. I can't. I'm not good at speaking to the masses, I wasn't made for that sort of thing. The Bishopric took the liberty of ripping me from my comfort bubble! I have yet to find my happy place this week, as you can see.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On top of this, I have two exams on Thursday which I am unprepared for, and a Math exam the next week. And homework, don't forget homework. To top off this load of monstrosity, our RA scheduled Apartment Inspections for tomorrow. Needless to say, I haven't felt this stressed in almost a year.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Were I not so busy, I might almost miss this overwhelming feeling of having too little time and too much to do. Too often, my afternoons are spent dawdling, or watching TV. I've become a real junkie. Megan and I have moved on from Psych, to Angel, to Gilmore Girls. And in this time, I probably could have studied for Marriage and Family, or completed that extra homework assignment for math.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is probably the most uninformative (Or at least most uninteresting) blog I have ever written. I like writing about things I like writing about, not stress induced weeks that make me feel as though any moment my head will take the liberty of spontaneously combusting. This blog is just a blog to vent out all the pent up, misunderstood frustrations that can't be compromised, and can't be subdued. C'est la vie? Really?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-2635624025844405252?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/2635624025844405252/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=2635624025844405252' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/2635624025844405252'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/2635624025844405252'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/03/when-it-rains.html' title='When it Rains.......'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-6301802691262530960</id><published>2007-12-07T08:02:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-07T08:25:34.679-08:00</updated><title type='text'>A Change in the Weather</title><content type='html'>I hate 7:30 class. Not necessarily the class, although Math never was my forte, but the timing of it all is just so....inconvenient. Once next week is over, I'll be free from the chains of early rising and yawning for the rest of the day (which begins to hurt one's jaw). There is, however, one thing I've always enjoyed from getting up before most other students, and that is walking to class. You wouldn't believe some of the things I've seen in the dawn of morning that took my breath away. It's like a small present saying, "I know it's hard, but thanks for doing it anyway." The weather never disappoints me, despite the cold temperatures. I've encountered sunrises that give me purple mountains and golden clouds, I've seen a full moon setting over a beautiful horizon, walked through a soft snow in the growing light with no one around but myself. Today I left my apartment and found that I could see nothing twenty feet ahead of me, because of a fog that had settled over the valley. Sometimes I can't help but laugh in awe at some of the things I see. &lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R1lz2LM5S8I/AAAAAAAAABU/4EfRc5bUthY/s1600-h/imagesf.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R1lz2LM5S8I/AAAAAAAAABU/4EfRc5bUthY/s200/imagesf.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141267824177138626" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I took my time as I walked through the mist, admiring it at every angle, and taking it all in, even as my ears started to hurt from the cold. Logan is a beautiful place, I've never been anywhere like it that has such a variety of conditions. So, despite the earliness, the math, and the relentless cold, I'm almost sad to see it go. It always was such a wonderful way of starting a day. Even if I do get an extra hour of sleep, I'll miss the calm of it all. No one ever seems to appreciate the small moments of beauty they see, but the nice thing about it is that they're there all the same, for those who don't care, and for those of us who do.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-6301802691262530960?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/6301802691262530960/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=6301802691262530960' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/6301802691262530960'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/6301802691262530960'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/12/change-in-weather.html' title='A Change in the Weather'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp0.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R1lz2LM5S8I/AAAAAAAAABU/4EfRc5bUthY/s72-c/imagesf.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-3777219049974794748</id><published>2007-12-01T23:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-02T00:01:44.630-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Regarding Kissing</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R1JmYbM5S7I/AAAAAAAAABM/8NFLaY5bCKE/s1600-R/A+KISS.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R1JmYbM5S7I/AAAAAAAAABM/amnlwJOxq7A/s200/A+KISS.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139282694587894706" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You know, I used to hate myself because of my past. I felt like I had kissed a lot of people, and that this was unusual. Lately, however, I have found that the world is addicted to kissing. No, not the world, people I know. It's different. Kissing boyfriends, girlfriends, random people, on dares, on stage, the list goes on and on in a whirl of repetition. Everyone loves to kiss. I loved to kiss. You'll never hear me deny it, I thought kissing was fun. And then I kissed this one person, and only him for an extended period of time (Don't be gross. I only mean we dated for a long time), and now that he is gone, I find myself repulsed by the thought of kissing anyone else. It's a shame that I can't give my heart away to anyone else, seeing as it is thousands of miles away. It hurts a little, but that's something I've adjusted to.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why is it that kissing someone once is alright now? I thought kisses were supposed to be special, something you gave to only someone you cared about.  It seems that even the slightest crush these days permits one to kiss. But.....shouldn't kissing be something....special? I'm sad that there are so many who take it so lightly. Did it happen overnight, or have I just become less oblivious. Hmmm. Sometimes the world changes. Sometimes I do.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-3777219049974794748?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/3777219049974794748/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=3777219049974794748' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3777219049974794748'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3777219049974794748'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/12/regarding-kissing.html' title='Regarding Kissing'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R1JmYbM5S7I/AAAAAAAAABM/amnlwJOxq7A/s72-c/A+KISS.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-1942713885857581338</id><published>2007-11-25T13:08:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-25T13:58:13.314-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Life, Death, and an Opportunity</title><content type='html'>I feel not so well today, but only physically. For some reason, my mood is much better when I'm sick. I have no complaints, my mood can be whatever it wants to, I’m flexible. I was going to post a blog sooner than now, but opportunity didn’t provide, so I have a lot to make up for and very little patience to do it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Margot has moved out of our apartment. It’s a little sad, knowing how good friends we used to be, and how easily things could have been fixed, had compliancy been more apart of our human nature. Still, I think things will be much better now that she’s gone. River, my beautiful black rabbit, died this week. I miss her, and regret more than anything that I didn’t go out and visit her on Tuesday like I was planning. Still, death and life sometimes go hand in hand. Ariel is pregnant, and I’m going to be an Aunt, finally! I’m so excited, and a little jealous too. Oh, I’m not even implying that I’m anywhere near ready to have a baby, but she looks so happy all the time. Now I know what they mean when they talk about the glow that pregnant mothers have, it’s an ageless beauty. Ariel is already beautiful, so it only adds to an already spectacular display of kindness and radiance.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I met with TRU Talent Agency upon their request, and they expressed interest in working with me. It was flattering, and I won’t deny that I’m more than just a little tempted to take up the offer, but it would mean making a lot of changes that I don’t know I’m brave enough to make. Shallow as it sounds, it was a dream come true to hear that someone thought I was pretty enough for magazines and movies. But that’s where it ends, because I know it’s a shallow thought, and it would be a hollow life, were it to come true. I thought about it long and hard, about what I wanted, and what I was doing with my life. Well, I’m not doing anything, and now would be the perfect opportunity to make this leap, but what happens after that? See, I’ve got this brain, and I want to use it for something. Pretty sure it takes no brain to be a model, just skill and technique. I feel like it would be defeating the purpose of my being here. Ah, the triviality of trivial things.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-1942713885857581338?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/1942713885857581338/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=1942713885857581338' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1942713885857581338'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/1942713885857581338'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/11/life-death-and-opportunity.html' title='Life, Death, and an Opportunity'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-6486341824145150444</id><published>2007-11-19T08:14:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-25T13:07:57.366-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Mold.</title><content type='html'>So. I think I may major in Psychology, just to better understand my living conditions. That's right, folks. There's been another episode of "War of the Roommates." I take that back, it's not really a War if only one side is fighting, right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Generally, I'm a nice person, unless you target me directly with a nasty comment, and then I'm likely to get very nasty back. A defense mechanism, if you will. I'm somewhat fond of myself, and don't like it when people are unkind. This doesn't concern only me though, this is about everyone. I'm looking at these personalities that just can't seem to help but criticize, condemn, and blame others. It's nerve wracking, frustrating, that people are so inconsiderate that they wouldn't think about what they're saying. Who likes being talked about?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was the most beautiful day today! I regret not spending more of it outside. Days seem to fly by now, I hardly have any time to do all that needs doing. This doesn't bother me terribly. This semester is old and moldy now, and I think I'm ready for a new one.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-6486341824145150444?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/6486341824145150444/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=6486341824145150444' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/6486341824145150444'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/6486341824145150444'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/11/so.html' title='Mold.'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-4160150019727117141</id><published>2007-11-15T16:07:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-16T08:09:40.004-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Stale</title><content type='html'>Well, it's been an interesting week. Good, bad, hard, tiring, funny, relentless. Definitely relentless. It was like taking a very wary stroll down Memory Lane. Because Memory Lane isn't always filled with those childhood games and first kisses and sunsets. Sometimes it's filled with indecision, hurt friends, and regrets. Lots of regrets. I don't think Memory Lane necessarily entails strolling. I think sometimes it entails running.....or hiding. The past is unpleasant sometimes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;                                                     But many times it's not.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am wearing a hat today. Not because my hair is particularly unattractive, but more just because maybe that will keep all these thoughts from bursting through the layer of self called my head. Last night the air felt so stale in my apartment that I had to run for my life to the balcony so I could breathe again. I just felt burdened, that's all. Not enough of my life has anything to do with me right now, and that's not a bad thing, I suppose. It's just that so many people needed my attention last night, it was wearing. I'm better now, still tired emotionally and physically for exerting myself in the way I have been in the last week, but I think it will get better from here on out. And, in the words of a wise, blue fish, "Keep swimming, just keep swimming!"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-4160150019727117141?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/4160150019727117141/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=4160150019727117141' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4160150019727117141'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/4160150019727117141'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/11/stale.html' title='Stale'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-2263587530603767323</id><published>2007-10-30T22:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-30T22:36:59.949-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Observations of the Third Time</title><content type='html'>You know, after the third time watching Signs, Jess and I got into a conversation about the meaning of the Title, and all the signs found within the movie. I was fascinated. Who knew that the Mom was really receiving revelation when she told Mel Gibson, "Tell Merrill to swing away?" And that the Title, "Signs" is actually referring to the small proofs that God exists. Well, I came home all in a flurry, only to find that my Dad had known all these things since he saw it the first time. Right, so we don't all think deep. So it took me three times. Obviously, intelligence is not genetic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today I gave blood for our ward. X was in charge of the whole thing, so I took the list of people up for her at 2:00, came back at 4:00 and donated (me in a bag!), then again at 7:00 for X, Steph, and Bryan's moral support system. I made friends with the whole staff, stood around telling jokes to those who were pinned to chairs by the little needles in their arms, and made many new friends. Also, the cute doctor behind the table flirted lots with me, and even called me by name a few times, even though a formal introduction had never been made. Talk about a day! Unfortunately, the last thing he asked was how late KFC was open, and not for my number. Needless to say, I was disappointed. It was a very happy environment, and I enjoyed making people laugh and holding their hands as they were stuck with those unnecessarily big needles. &lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/RygTx1Aa5DI/AAAAAAAAAA4/NBkQrSyU-4M/s1600-h/ABBY.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/RygTx1Aa5DI/AAAAAAAAAA4/NBkQrSyU-4M/s200/ABBY.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127369922524668978" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Once, as I was holding X's hand (who's grip was unbelievably firm), I shouted, "Oh my gosh!" as she was looking away. She almost fainted. Personally, it was my favorite part of the day. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope I get more chances to do service. I'm so excited about my calling in the ward (Compassionate Service Committee). I want to help, in any way I can, in whatever way I can. I'm not so into the whole cleaning up a person's yard, but anything I can do to help them more personally, and I'm all over it. Funny how that works.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-2263587530603767323?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/2263587530603767323/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=2263587530603767323' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/2263587530603767323'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/2263587530603767323'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/10/observations-of-third-time.html' title='Observations of the Third Time'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/RygTx1Aa5DI/AAAAAAAAAA4/NBkQrSyU-4M/s72-c/ABBY.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-677255454405564981</id><published>2007-10-29T17:06:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-29T17:25:58.278-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A Slight Detour From My Day</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/RyZ6AVAa5CI/AAAAAAAAAAs/zDYLi1L0ETQ/s1600-h/images.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/RyZ6AVAa5CI/AAAAAAAAAAs/zDYLi1L0ETQ/s200/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126919371865383970" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I should take a nap, it's one of those weary days where I'm tired, even though I had enough sleep. Despite the constant drowsy feeling, however, I have been able to work with my day and keep (for the most part) from schlumping about. Of course, I gave in a little. I mean, who wouldn't be willing to watch Angel and his hot bod self kick some major Vampire haul? It was delicious. I've read for most of the day, for my Literature class, which I mostly despise, except for the friends I've made in that class. I enjoy the teacher a lot, I just get the feeling I've gone back to Eighth Grade English. More thoughts on this later.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm wondering what I should do with my life. I love writing, I love photography, I love the piano, I love talking with people (and, incidentally, am talented in all areas above mentioned). There are more, of course, but I've had to narrow my options of interest, for fear of my head spontaneously combusting. If only someone would tell me what I was supposed to do, so I wouldn't have to make this decision. But of course, how easy would this life be if I was told what I would do? Kind of defeats the general purpose, if you know what I mean. Meh, I'll get there someday. In the meantime, it's time I ate a little, and then read some more. What I wouldn't give to be able to pick up a Pullman or Meyer to relax. Carson McCullers reminds me of John Steinbeck in the most wannabe sense. We already have The Grapes of Wrath, Lady, there's no need to make an attempt of it again. Honestly.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-677255454405564981?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/677255454405564981/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=677255454405564981' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/677255454405564981'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/677255454405564981'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/10/slight-detour-from-my-day.html' title='A Slight Detour From My Day'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/RyZ6AVAa5CI/AAAAAAAAAAs/zDYLi1L0ETQ/s72-c/images.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6521154173844153863.post-3537338600240617343</id><published>2007-10-26T08:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-28T13:30:20.838-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Butterfly</title><content type='html'>This week wasn't the easiest for me. Sunday rolled around, and I was glad to come back to my small apartment with the five girls I share it with, but it was a bad beginning. Who knew the dishes were such an important factor of cleanliness?! Who knew it was worth writing hate messages on the mirror? I feel like we were wrongly accused, seeing as at the time, I was feeling irritated myself because of Margot's Midnight Vacuum Sprees, and Rachel's constant high pitched voice resounding through the apartment. Needless to say, it got old. So when they began to boss the other roommates and myself, I was already a little weather worn, and in no mood to be moreso. It was nice to be home for the weekend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wheels' Farewell made my Top Ten. It brought back the familiar feeling that the Farewell's often had, back in the day, when there were more than just ten of us. But instead of making me reminisce, it cheered me greatly. Seeing the Evans last night had a similar effect. &lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/RyTwX1Aa5AI/AAAAAAAAAAg/hCeTjCF3XnI/s1600-h/Butterfly.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/RyTwX1Aa5AI/AAAAAAAAAAg/hCeTjCF3XnI/s200/Butterfly.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126486568010966018" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm caught between two places. I can only stand to be at home for a short while, and yet it's the same with Utah State. Both provide "considerable trouble, and considerably joy." My mom always called me a butterfly. Never in one place for too  long.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6521154173844153863-3537338600240617343?l=abigailmarshall.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/feeds/3537338600240617343/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6521154173844153863&amp;postID=3537338600240617343' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3537338600240617343'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6521154173844153863/posts/default/3537338600240617343'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://abigailmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/10/butterfly.html' title='Butterfly'/><author><name>Abigail</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01630145878012994562</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/R-K-ytLNS4I/AAAAAAAAABg/kbJpq4-FAmo/S220/Actually+Pretty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp3.blogger.com/_tUTisaJ8jbA/RyTwX1Aa5AI/AAAAAAAAAAg/hCeTjCF3XnI/s72-c/Butterfly.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>
