<?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-3026811983070462131</id><updated>2012-01-06T09:52:39.812-08:00</updated><title type='text'>flopsyredroses</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>46</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-3104550595064317950</id><published>2012-01-04T08:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2012-01-04T09:09:04.280-08:00</updated><title type='text'>January</title><content type='html'>It's a new year, and everything starts afresh.  Makes me think of Anne, "tomorrow is a new day, with no mistakes in it... yet." So instead of taking the dreary approach that January is a month long Monday, I've decided to make the best of it.  Family going home, icy cold weather and whatever else it may bring... like the mole we just found stuck in our pipes &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;intercepting&lt;/span&gt; all water to our holding tank... it's going to be good.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be" -Abraham Lincoln.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;     I've been asked several times if Santa was good to me this year.  I'm assuming they mean gifts, but in reply I say, "yes, my whole family was here." I'm so thankful I had Christmas with all seven of my siblings, my brother-in-law, nephew, parents, grandpa and two aunts.  It was a full house, but an amazingly blessed one at that.  My siblings are my best friends, which makes it even harder when you have to say goodbye.  There's the hopes in we'll all be living close by each other with our own families someday... somewhere along the south coast.  But for now, whether they be two hours to halfway across the world from me, I just have to deal.  And go visit them... Florida in (most likely) February, and Denmark in June.  This year I am going to travel.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;     In the meantime... I have Josh to take care of me.  I told you I would get to that man, didn't I? We've been together for almost six months now, and he's proven to be nothing short of amazing to me.  The crazy thing is, I know it is only going to get better.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Love gives you wings.  It makes you fly.  I don't even call it love. I call it Geronimo.  When you're in love, you'll jump right from the top of the Empire State and you won't care, screaming "Geronimo" the whole way down." -&lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;Conspiracy&lt;/span&gt; Theory&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-3104550595064317950?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/3104550595064317950/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=3104550595064317950' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3104550595064317950'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3104550595064317950'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2012/01/january.html' title='January'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-4428781739482983115</id><published>2011-10-19T08:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2012-01-04T09:10:18.794-08:00</updated><title type='text'>When the morning comes</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LB81IViuZaA/Tp7orXtDEoI/AAAAAAAAADU/Gs5nDCbqhr0/s1600/first%2Bworship.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 200px; height: 121px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665221213073642114" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LB81IViuZaA/Tp7orXtDEoI/AAAAAAAAADU/Gs5nDCbqhr0/s200/first%2Bworship.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This was the first time we sang together.  Josh said he was looking for a female vocalist, and he found me.  We've come a long way since then.  As of yesterday, our album, "When the Morning Comes" is now on iTunes, Spotify, Amazon, Pandora, Zune, Rhapsody and iHeart Radio.  I know God has an amazing plan for this music, and it will go as far, and reach as many people as He wills.  I am so blessed to be a part of it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();}  catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wrG8NCOddI8/Tp7upgxg7uI/AAAAAAAAADg/vv4hGFcxxHk/s1600/Josh.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 266px; height: 320px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665227778218323682" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wrG8NCOddI8/Tp7upgxg7uI/AAAAAAAAADg/vv4hGFcxxHk/s320/Josh.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I'm crazy about this guy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://joshjosephmusic.com/"&gt;Josh Joseph Music&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-4428781739482983115?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/4428781739482983115/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=4428781739482983115' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/4428781739482983115'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/4428781739482983115'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/10/when-morning-comes.html' title='When the morning comes'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LB81IViuZaA/Tp7orXtDEoI/AAAAAAAAADU/Gs5nDCbqhr0/s72-c/first%2Bworship.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-6294978174470906788</id><published>2011-09-03T16:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-03T17:15:13.690-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A first</title><content type='html'>She pushed open the door and walked in, anticipating that crooked smile she loved.  She found him downstairs behind the ping pong table messing with some stuff.  Turning around he pulled her into a hug as if he had done it a million times before.  He didn't let go.  His hands slid up and down her back and sides making her feel as if it were her first time to be embraced by a man.  He held so tight with so much feeling and curiosity.  She was afraid to look back at him, afraid she would lose composure and kiss him.  Trying to hide her fascination with the urge to touch his lips, she playfully rubbed her nose against his. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-6294978174470906788?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/6294978174470906788/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=6294978174470906788' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/6294978174470906788'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/6294978174470906788'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/09/first.html' title='A first'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-734957518821344187</id><published>2011-08-31T06:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-31T07:27:27.853-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Tuesday</title><content type='html'>Goal of the day: make it to 7:30 pm.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got to work at 10:30 am after drinking a rather large cup of coffee.  So naturally, I have to pee.  Coffee is a pee drug, and also a natural laxative which means if I don't have it that day I, most likely, will not poop.  I told two male employees that a few days ago over a cup of coffee, and I think I may have shocked them.  I love shocking people.  They never see it coming from someone like me.  I have no problem speaking of the body's daily activities, obviously.  I get to work and it just so happens both of the bathrooms are blocked off.  A water pipe busted early that morning.  No water, no flushing, no relieving oneself.  They said they were on top of it, but I think people just say that so others won't panic.  The hair salon, subway and the deli had to close down.  They ended up taking truck loads of employees to Nelson's Tractors down the road half the day until it was fixed. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lunch: 3:00 pm.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I decided to go to lunch at McDonalds.  There's a first.  I have never left work to go to lunch I always eat in the break room.  I don't like to eat out alone, I feel like I'm wasting money.  Chris was there... he's a cashier I work with who was just offered a raise in the meat department.  Goodbye Chris.  So I had lunch with him.  He's a funny guy.  Red hair, plays banjo, goes to Waffle House every night, never stops talking... you know the type.  I like him because he's not afraid to say whatever is on his mind, and it's obvious he cares for everyone he meets.  I had a good lunch... felt like I got more of a break being away from work... I think I may have to do that more often so I don't feel like passing out the minute I get back on the floor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Round 2.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The water pipe was fixed.  No more customers frantically running around demanding to know why they can't go.  As the day went on I began to wonder if there was something on my face or a sign on my back that read: "check me out".  First it was a Smith.  Patrick went through with his sister, and their nephew, as I found out.  He kept waving and saying to call him thinking it was funny... Patrick told me he thought I was gorgeous.  A tall black guy came through my line and asked for my number on his receipt.  He came through a second time about an hour later and asked again.  I told him I had a boyfriend and he refused to let that stop him so he said he'd come back the next day and wait by my car.  Cassidy offered to walk me out last night, but I didn't think it possible he'd know which car was mine.  If he's there tonight I am going to flip.  A man probably nearly thirty made a comment on how I must get hit on a lot with how pretty I am.  That's a pick up line if I ever heard one.  I told him mostly by creepy old men.  He found that hilarious and proceeded to ask me out. &lt;br /&gt;"I have a boyfriend"&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, he probably wouldn't like that, would he?"&lt;br /&gt;"No, he wouldn't."&lt;br /&gt;I love getting to say that. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Round 3.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The day is coming to an end.  As usual, we hardly have any cashiers around seven and the lines are so far back you can't walk down the front isle.  One of the last ladies I get has a buttload of wic... I almost made it through a day without doing a single wic transaction.  She got the wrong milk, of course.  (Warning: rant ahead)  I don't mind doing wic as long as the customer has things in order and can show me their form and sign in a timely manner... that usually doesn't happen.  I do, however, appreciate wic more than food stamps because with wic you can only purchase healthy food, and it only goes 'till the child is six...  Whereas food stamps you can get whatever junk you want for as long as you want.  I had a woman with three carts--THREE CARTS--of junk, absolutely nothing healthy, $500 on EBT.  You can always tell which ones they are too... they're fat, their teeth are falling out, they smoke and they're rude like they don't appreciate the government taking our taxes to feed them junk so they can slowly kill themselves.  Wow.  Alright so I know some people really do need it and I am happy that there are programs like that to help them... I really am.  But there's a difference between needing it, and abusing it. &lt;br /&gt;I clocked out, but then I had to go find my boss.  This week we're doing inventory... which means a million people come through the store and check prices---so all day today I will hear that annoying little "beep" their telezones make when they scan a barcode.  My boss, or any of my bosses for that matter, are always running around the store and they're impossible to find, let alone talk to.  So after chasing Jonathan around the store and the backroom where my creepy admirer old man told me I was looking good, ew, I gave up and wrote him a note... I need some days off for upcoming music events.  What a long day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And yes, Josh and I are dating now.  We've been together for seven weeks.  The night we came back from Ohio he said we should date. &lt;br /&gt;"Well, are you going to ask me?"&lt;br /&gt;"Not like we're in highschool, I won't...  Will you be with me?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Aside from still having no idea what I'm doing, I am happy. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-734957518821344187?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/734957518821344187/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=734957518821344187' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/734957518821344187'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/734957518821344187'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/08/tuesday.html' title='Tuesday'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-1421408076371465886</id><published>2011-04-25T18:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-25T18:30:24.170-07:00</updated><title type='text'>But it's a musical!!!</title><content type='html'>"Whatever happened to chivalry? Does it only exist in 80's movies? I want John Cusack holding a boombox outside my window. I wanna ride off on a lawnmower with Patrick Dempsey. I want Jake from Sixteen Candles waiting outside the church for me. I want Judd Nelson thrusting his fist into the air because he knows he's got me. Just once I want my life to be like an 80's movie, preferably one with a really awesome musical number for no apparent reason. But no, no, John Hughes did not direct my life."&lt;br /&gt;-Easy A.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-1421408076371465886?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/1421408076371465886/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=1421408076371465886' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1421408076371465886'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1421408076371465886'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/04/but-its-musical.html' title='But it&apos;s a musical!!!'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-8699227369596277701</id><published>2011-04-21T14:53:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-21T15:02:06.709-07:00</updated><title type='text'>99.9% chance of rain.</title><content type='html'>Good things about today: An old man told me I was pretty and asked if my husband tells me that everyday.  When I said I wasn't married he asked how I manage... good, or bad--that could be taken both ways, I suppose.  I made it over 500 items scanned in an hour with a 100 scanning percentage.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bad things about today: went to bed at 7:30 last night, got up at 5:30, still exhausted.  Had a customer yell at me and a CSS for a coupon that wouldn't work.  This morning it was super slow and I was bored out of my mind.  This afternoon it was super busy and the lines were so backed up people got rude.  Had an ex go through my line, although good to see him still alive, it was sad.  Found out I can't go to Ohio at the end of this month for worship with the band because they didn't approve the dates I requested off.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I'm going to cry.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-8699227369596277701?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/8699227369596277701/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=8699227369596277701' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8699227369596277701'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8699227369596277701'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/04/999-chance-of-rain.html' title='99.9% chance of rain.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-8413624424280613844</id><published>2011-04-18T19:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-18T19:19:05.572-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sunshine, won't you be my sunshine?</title><content type='html'>Today was very long.  I am completely worn out.  I got to work around seven... the only good thing about getting to work that early is that I can watch the sunrise from the parking lot... in fact, I think that was the only good thing about today. &lt;br /&gt;I broke down twice this week.  Saturday night, needed engine oil, and today after work... something overheated... I'm not even surprised anymore when a tire blows or the steering wheel all of a sudden locks, or the car starts shaking... yeah... I've broken down so many times in my puny life span I expect it now.  What never ceases to amaze me, though, is how people react to seeing you've broken down, are obviously stranded, and in need of assistance.  No one ever stops!  What a cruel world we live in. &lt;br /&gt;I wake up a lot at night... I hear songs in my head... there's a lot of ideas floating around up there just waiting to be written on paper... get ready people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss him.  It hurts to miss him.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-8413624424280613844?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/8413624424280613844/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=8413624424280613844' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8413624424280613844'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8413624424280613844'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/04/sunshine-wont-you-be-my-sunshine.html' title='Sunshine, won&apos;t you be my sunshine?'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-3639369220492520277</id><published>2011-04-14T07:58:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-14T13:11:10.052-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Old Couples.</title><content type='html'>Yesterday I had to leave for work at 6:30.  I didn't know they don't unlock the other doors until 7, so I had to walk across the parking lot and run through the store to make it on time.  I don't understand why anyone goes grocery shopping at 7 in the morning... unless they've decided to cook a big breakfast and absolutely have to go.&lt;br /&gt;This old man started a conversation with me while waiting for his wife.  He practically told me his life story.  He's from Michigan.  I'm turning into my dad.  I find people from Michigan... and I'm not even from Michigan! He asked me if I was married and had kids... 'tis possible, but I don't think I look that old... not that you have to be old... nevermind.  The real inspiring part of his story was that he and his wife had been married 52 years.  He said if he were to do it all over again, he'd choose her... that she was his rock, his buttercup.  I had to smile.  I like old couples that walk around holding hands, clearly still very much in love... it makes me feel warm inside.&lt;br /&gt;My last customer at 4 that evening told me I was looking good... not exactly in the scary, "looking good way" although it was probably meant that way since he was younger.  But I think that's a good way to end a long shift.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;"I'm gonna soak up the sun, gonna tell everyone to lighten up"  &lt;/span&gt;I went to the lake behind the church and ended up falling asleep on the dock.  I'm not burnt, thank God... but I have an interesting tan line.  I had to pee so bad I didn't want to walk all the way up the trail so I peed in the woods.&lt;br /&gt;Today is my day off.  I am going to drink my coffee and enjoy this morning.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-3639369220492520277?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/3639369220492520277/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=3639369220492520277' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3639369220492520277'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3639369220492520277'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/04/old-couples.html' title='Old Couples.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-1062806037807177967</id><published>2011-04-12T15:24:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-12T15:43:28.093-07:00</updated><title type='text'>"You broke the night like the sun"</title><content type='html'>I think I'm enjoying work.  I've been put on the register by myself a few times now... and usually it's the 24 hour tobacco lane.  I hardly know anything about tobacco, snuffs or cigarettes so I have to ask the customer to point it out.  My feet and back were hurting the first nine hours on the floor... but I'm getting into the routine so they won't be sore for long.&lt;br /&gt;I love sleep.&lt;br /&gt;I've only been able to listen to Hillsong United in my car the past week.  I don't think I can get through the day without worship.&lt;br /&gt;I was talking to a friend this morning... I said something about God being enough even when we don't see it--to which he replied, "especially when we don't see it."  It just made me think... I don't see it now...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KGxJmDcn5c"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Take All Of Me&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You broke the night like the sun&lt;br /&gt;And healed my heart with Your great love&lt;br /&gt;Any trouble I couldn't bear&lt;br /&gt;You lifted me upon Your shoulders&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Love that's stronger&lt;br /&gt;Love that covers sin&lt;br /&gt;And takes the weight of the world&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love You&lt;br /&gt;All of my hope is in You&lt;br /&gt;Jesus Christ take my life&lt;br /&gt;Take all of me&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You stand on mountain tops with me&lt;br /&gt;With You I walk through the valleys&lt;br /&gt;Your grace is all I rely on&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love You so, and I give up my heart to say&lt;br /&gt;I need You so, my everything&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-1062806037807177967?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/1062806037807177967/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=1062806037807177967' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1062806037807177967'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1062806037807177967'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/04/you-broke-night-like-sun.html' title='&quot;You broke the night like the sun&quot;'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-2413118255698263172</id><published>2011-04-07T16:34:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-07T17:13:00.072-07:00</updated><title type='text'>i'd feel much better i'm sure if i had a helicopter</title><content type='html'>Well.  I completed and passed the 38 tests at Wal-mart.  Now I begin real training.  Ridiculous.  Wal-mart is such a different work environment than what I've known.  The employees are brainwashed slap-happy.  It confuses me and I keep expecting them to show a true evil side... but, as long as it lasts, I love it.  My last job, I realize now, had a negative, rather morbid setting.  Even the managers are seemingly happy... and everyone is happy when they find out I'm a cashier.  They need me.  One of the ladies I had an interview with said she was glad I made it--she said she hardly saw the people after Tony--the store manager.  She said I was great in the interview but Tony chooses people on first instinct... I met him, he shook my hand, asked me where I'd worked previously, said he liked my bag because it reminded him of hippies, and that was that... guess I make a good first impression? I like Tony.&lt;br /&gt;So far, there is only one employee I think I do not like.  His name is Hugh.  He looks like an old pervert who seems to be in the break room every time I am.  Today he talked to me for 30 minutes about his interest in rocks... I wished I wasn't on break.  It'd be perfectly fine if he were a sweet old man just chatting along, but the way he talks makes me think he wants to flirt... and he winks at me.&lt;br /&gt;Wal-mart has a cheer performed by all non-detained employees every morning in the store.  Who knew? I'm at camp all over again.&lt;br /&gt;I finally have work.  Thank You God.  I am exhausted.&lt;br /&gt;I miss Josh.  Unfortunately, he's all I can think about.  I don't understand how or why something so wonderful can be tasted for just a few small moments, and you know all you've wanted was in that taste... but now it's taken away... maybe it doesn't want you anymore... I've never been so in love with someone... someone I can't have.  Is there something wrong with me? Is there a reason guys give up once I'm all in... he said he's not prepared--all he can offer is a music relationship... you can't start something and then cut it off completely as if it didn't happen... God, I hate having a broken heart.  I just wish I could ignore every feeling, every thought and get through.&lt;br /&gt;There's a few guys who text me, one in particular a lot lately... I get excited every time I get a text in hopes it's Josh... only wishing he'd ask me how my day was going instead of someone else.  I don't want anyone else to like me... I can't like anyone else... at this point, I'm not even capable of that.&lt;br /&gt;Worship has proven still, my true happiness.  The other night during the storm I couldn't sleep... I had a million ideas going through my head for lyrics.  I am going to start writing.  And Sunday morning I am hoping to sing Waiting Here For You by Christy Nockels.  It has been playing nonstop every time I get in my car for a week now and I absolutely love it.  You should come.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-2413118255698263172?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/2413118255698263172/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=2413118255698263172' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/2413118255698263172'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/2413118255698263172'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/04/id-feel-much-better-im-sure-if-i-had.html' title='i&apos;d feel much better i&apos;m sure if i had a helicopter'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-1343729227045973252</id><published>2011-04-05T14:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-05T14:58:33.911-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Ponderage.</title><content type='html'>Today has been a very long day.  Tomorrow will be even longer.  Walmart orientation is rather overdone, if I do say so myself. I am home now.  I just want to relax... but all I find myself thinking is,&lt;br /&gt;                                                       &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;"I just wish you would love me."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-1343729227045973252?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/1343729227045973252/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=1343729227045973252' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1343729227045973252'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1343729227045973252'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/04/ponderage.html' title='Ponderage.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-5094645484866379031</id><published>2011-04-04T10:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-04T11:13:15.701-07:00</updated><title type='text'>"My soul, wait silently for God alone"</title><content type='html'>My heart has been so overwhelmed with longing... I want these dreams to come true.  Is He telling me to wait? Be patient and trust, I know... if I trust, someday I will look back and think it all came about in His timing, He kept His promises and I shouldn't have been so anxious.  Sunday morning was very difficult for me... my mind was elsewhere when practicing for worship. &lt;br /&gt;My car has proven to be a perfect place to seek Him.  I've let out many struggles behind that driving wheel... many desperate fights and tears, even screams... I've seen the sunrise, I've watched the stars, I have worshiped and cried there more than any place in my life.  It was there, that He gave me peace... even through everything and where my mind wanders, still, He is my purpose.  He is what I want... and more than anything my heart longs to be with Him.  My prayer that morning was an old hymn, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;"Lord prepare me to be a sanctuary.  Pure and holy, tried and true. With thanksgiving, I'll be a living sanctuary for You."  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-5094645484866379031?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/5094645484866379031/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=5094645484866379031' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/5094645484866379031'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/5094645484866379031'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/04/my-soul-wait-silently-for-god-alone.html' title='&quot;My soul, wait silently for God alone&quot;'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-5024375838622414538</id><published>2011-03-28T09:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-28T10:07:15.560-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Challenge</title><content type='html'>I watched Jensen Franklin online Sunday morning.  He gave a sermon on prayer, and a challenge to the congregation.  Instead of complaining to someone about the issues in your life this week, take them up in prayer.  I've decided to try it.  So I leave you with this challenge too.  The Word tells us to pray continually as it is... just remember before the words, "this and this blah blah" start forming try to catch yourself... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Psalm 141:1-3 &lt;br /&gt;"O Lord, I call to You; come quickly to me.  Hear my voice when I call to You.  May my prayer be set before You like incense; may the lifting of my hands be like the evening sacrifice.  Set a guard over my mouth, O Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-5024375838622414538?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/5024375838622414538/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=5024375838622414538' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/5024375838622414538'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/5024375838622414538'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/03/challenge.html' title='Challenge'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-7912458440888305421</id><published>2011-03-25T17:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-25T17:31:51.492-07:00</updated><title type='text'>"I'm flabbergasted when you say things like that.  It's weird."</title><content type='html'>Why is it so hard to trust someone who has never let you down? I have so many questions and doubts... I wish my brain had the capacity to understand everything I need to understand.  I need to make a life for myself, but every time I try to get out it's like I get this sick feeling and I'm so scared I'll fail... I've doubted myself my entire life.  &lt;br /&gt;Going a whole week without seeing or talking to someone can make things so much worse... especially in thinking the relationship is completely over.  I guess I was reliving having someone suddenly stop loving me.  I saw Josh last night.  I know he still cares for me.  It doesn't change a whole lot on his part, but on mine and just knowing he wants me puts assurance on waiting.  He still needs to get through past marriage issues and learn to trust me completely, but I am okay with taking this slow... very slow.  I will get to that man.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-7912458440888305421?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/7912458440888305421/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=7912458440888305421' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/7912458440888305421'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/7912458440888305421'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/03/im-flabbergasted-when-you-say-things.html' title='&quot;I&apos;m flabbergasted when you say things like that.  It&apos;s weird.&quot;'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-2643936006111182405</id><published>2011-03-23T12:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-23T13:00:36.474-07:00</updated><title type='text'>...</title><content type='html'>My body knows this pain... these emotional scars reopened.  I want to scream this desperation.  Every single part of my being wants to fight this.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-2643936006111182405?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/2643936006111182405/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=2643936006111182405' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/2643936006111182405'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/2643936006111182405'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/03/blog-post.html' title='...'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-5923934592727354234</id><published>2011-03-22T21:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-22T21:35:20.228-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm pathetic.</title><content type='html'>Why are men such lying assholes? All they do is talk... where are they when it's time to back that up? Cowards.&lt;br /&gt;I hate that I'm like this. I hate that I have to be there for people. I hate that I need people... that I randomly talk to people just because I need to know they'll respond... that I need touch to know I can feel... so I'm not left holding myself...afraid that I'll hurt myself. I don't even want to look at myself.&lt;br /&gt;What if I get lost in depression again? What if I can't get out this time? What if I just stop caring about everything... how many times can a person be taken to their limit without losing their mind?&lt;br /&gt;He told me he loved me... he said he never wanted me to be alone again... he wanted to be with me forever... he promised. I hate myself for believing him. How stupid and naive I am. I honestly do not think I can ever trust anyone again. Trust is something rare and special, something worked for, that can only be broken so many times.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-5923934592727354234?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/5923934592727354234/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=5923934592727354234' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/5923934592727354234'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/5923934592727354234'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/03/im-pathetic.html' title='I&apos;m pathetic.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-444697083985531834</id><published>2011-03-21T10:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-21T10:30:48.322-07:00</updated><title type='text'>How long?</title><content type='html'>How many times can I trust someone only to have it broken? I'm so stupid... but where were the warnings this time? It was right.  I know it was.  I hate how I'm a push over... how I try to be there for people... and when I'd hope they'd be there for me, they're no where to be found.  It'll be different this time... I don't need anyone, right? I can stop fighting it... can't I?  I don't need to feel loved... to feel human touch to make sure I don't go completely numb.  No one needs to know me... since when have they tried? It doesn't matter what I'm thinking.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-444697083985531834?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/444697083985531834/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=444697083985531834' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/444697083985531834'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/444697083985531834'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/03/how-long.html' title='How long?'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-105446532938952884</id><published>2011-03-16T17:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-16T18:03:15.714-07:00</updated><title type='text'>March.</title><content type='html'>I'm so restless.  It's time for something to change... I don't know what yet... a job would be nice... friends.  I had two interviews with Brothers last week.  They seemed to like me, but I haven't gotten a call.&lt;br /&gt; Mom is gone this week with one of her friends at the beach.  I've been doing all the housework and babysitting, seeing as I have no where to go.  I don't really mind I suppose... what else am I going to do? But when the evening comes and I've done all the work there is to do --laundry, dishes, dinner, clean kids--I'm completely bored out of my mind.&lt;br /&gt; Someone at church Sunday practically informed everyone that I look like I'm losing weight.  "Are you losing weight?! You look like you're losing weight!"  I haven't been trying to... but I probably am considering I hardly eat anything anymore.  There's hardly anything to eat in the house except when dinner magically comes from nowhere... either that or you're out of luck and it's tuna and/or eggs.  Need I say more? I'm just not hungry.  Monday I decided to start running again everyday... I'm going to keep that up... it feels good to be sore... means I'm working.&lt;br /&gt; Josh has been so busy lately... it scares me.  We haven't been able to talk a whole lot, or see each other... something is wrong.  I'm trying my hardest not to bug him.  I'm trying to trust again... I just... I can't hear those words again.  I never want to hear he doesn't have time for me.&lt;br /&gt; I'm lonely.  I haven't let someone close in a long time.  I guess I've just been able to ignore that feeling because it's easier than trying... but last night I realized just how lonely I am.  I was up late just reading a book... I couldn't sleep and Josh wasn't texting me.  It's been such a long time since I've had girls to hang out with... to stay up late having "girl talk"... what is girl talk anyways?  It just seems like all the girls around my age are the same... all they care about is how they look, what they wear, who gets who... I've been stuck in a guy crowd for so long I can't even tolerate girliness.  It's never bothered me being the only girl in a group of guys either... people can think what they want, I don't care.  I'm not a slut.&lt;br /&gt; I need to get out of Blairsville.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-105446532938952884?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/105446532938952884/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=105446532938952884' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/105446532938952884'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/105446532938952884'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/03/march.html' title='March.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-2529546146691689331</id><published>2011-03-01T13:57:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-03-01T14:21:15.388-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Spaz: to malfunction, go on the fritz.</title><content type='html'>Have you ever had one of those freak moments where you're eating, and for whatever reason your arms spaz out and your food goes flying in every direction? Then you sit there in utter amazement thinking, "how did that happen?" I did that this morning... fruit loops went all over the couch. Then it was the pencil sharpener which got shavings all over myself and the floor. And then my open mascara, which I sporadically threw across the dresser. Losing control? I think yes.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-2529546146691689331?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/2529546146691689331/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=2529546146691689331' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/2529546146691689331'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/2529546146691689331'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/03/spaz-to-malfunction-go-on-fritz.html' title='Spaz: to malfunction, go on the fritz.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-7305209550939497419</id><published>2011-02-25T13:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-02-25T13:14:45.213-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Dream. that's the thing to do.</title><content type='html'>Dreaming...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I get a job, preferably a nanny job, I want to take piano lessons again so I can write more music. Get some dance lessons under my belt so I know a step or two. Save up for a new car, and maybe in the fall take an English literature course so I can start writing more. And someday, when I'm rich (because I'd have to be to pay for all the art supplies and photos printed), have a whole room collaged in my own photos and art. Record music, get out a CD... lead worship at churches, conferences and camps. Write a novel... get married... have kids... yeah... if only it were as easy as writing it out.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-7305209550939497419?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/7305209550939497419/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=7305209550939497419' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/7305209550939497419'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/7305209550939497419'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/02/dream-thats-thing-to-do.html' title='Dream. that&apos;s the thing to do.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-3058418058841941167</id><published>2011-02-12T09:41:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-02-12T09:46:40.573-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Me? Happy? That's an understatement.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I love you, beautiful.  I hope you slept well.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love you.  I love that you say that every morning... like I did something to be thanked for.  Makes me look forward to waking up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;You are just amazing to me.  I can't help but let you know. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-3058418058841941167?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/3058418058841941167/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=3058418058841941167' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3058418058841941167'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3058418058841941167'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/02/me-appy-thats-understatement.html' title='Me? Happy? That&apos;s an understatement.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-5176437995121040008</id><published>2011-02-09T07:38:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-02-09T08:39:09.144-08:00</updated><title type='text'>"...He wounds, but His hands make whole." -Job 5:18</title><content type='html'>I'm ready for winter to be over.  My mind is in the spring.  I once heard that winter is a season to lose the bad...even if cold and painful, God will shed those scars to get to your heart.  He did exactly that... and here I am.  It was the lowest I have ever been in my life, but I held to His promises.  He is faithful... don't ever forget that.  It is one of the most important lessons a person can learn.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven...a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep; and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones..." Ecclesiastes 3:1,3-5&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember going through the psalms, and suddenly every prayer, every cry David made to God became mine...&lt;br /&gt;"My soul, wait silently for God alone, for my expectation is from Him.  He only is my rock and my salvation; He is my defense; I shall not be moved.  In God is my salvation and my glory; the rock of my strength, and my refuge, is in God." -Psalm 62:5-7&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So many songs became my longing, my worship...I listened to them over and over again, the words speaking so clearly what my heart felt...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XAVHeVDML5k"&gt;Times -Tenth Avenue North&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8I3VO19i2w"&gt;Soon -Hillsong&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yes, I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore with lovingkindness I have drawn you.  Again I will build you, and you shall be rebuilt.*Refrain your voice from weeping, and yours eyes from tears; for your work shall be rewarded, says the Lord.  There is hope in your future, says the Lord.*Call to Me, and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, which you do not know.*I have heard your prayer, I have seen your tears; surely I will heal you."&lt;br /&gt;*Jeremiah 31:3-4*31:16*33:3*2 Kings 20:5&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-5176437995121040008?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/5176437995121040008/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=5176437995121040008' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/5176437995121040008'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/5176437995121040008'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/02/he-wounds-but-his-hands-make-whole-job.html' title='&quot;...He wounds, but His hands make whole.&quot; -Job 5:18'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-4071253219841701115</id><published>2011-02-03T10:54:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2011-02-03T11:10:14.806-08:00</updated><title type='text'>flat tire. typical.</title><content type='html'>There's definitely something about my family and bad luck with cars... this morning on the way for an interview I got a flat tire. It took the Allstate Company a little over an hour to get to me to put the spare on because I didn't have the equipment to do it myself... I'm not even sure I'd figure it out to do it myself in the first place, but I have seen a lot of tires changed in my short lifetime so I think I could handle it... maybe. So I sat in the cold, and waited... Now maybe I'm just stupid, but I find it hard to get panicked in situations like that... I just find it so hilariously pitiful. I'd like to cry, but all I can do is laugh thinking, "this would happen to me." &lt;br /&gt;Peoples reactions to seeing other people stranded on the side of the road are quite interesting. They slow down as if they're thinking about stopping, they give you the most bewildered look, honk, (is that for good luck or something?) and then they keep driving... "nah, I change my mind. Here's a honk!" &lt;br /&gt;So I didn't make it to the meeting. But I went by Antonietta's to see if there's the slightest chance they could be hiring this time, and I think it turned into a an interview because the manager talked to me for a long time. So, keep your fingers crossed, this girl could possibly get employed again. That is if my car doesn't decide to kick the bucket altogether. &lt;br /&gt;What is with spare tires? Who invented that? Why isn't the spare tire--an actual "spare" tire instead of this puny little wheel that only gets you far enough to get a real tire?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-4071253219841701115?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/4071253219841701115/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=4071253219841701115' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/4071253219841701115'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/4071253219841701115'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/02/flat-tire-typical.html' title='flat tire. typical.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-3472546027325897654</id><published>2011-02-01T08:07:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-02-01T08:13:53.705-08:00</updated><title type='text'>What's new:</title><content type='html'>It is now 2011... that's new.  January was in a hurry.&lt;br /&gt;I joined two worship bands.  The first I sang with at a weekend teen conference (and hopefully more to come)--which is currently being called the Josh Joseph band, and the Sunday morning worship band at the Methodist Church.  I've been asked to record with several people, and I did a Paramore cover of Crush.  It's very exciting and I'm looking forward to what's next.&lt;br /&gt;    I'm meeting with a woman on Thursday, which hopefully means I'll be getting a catering job... thank God because no one, and I mean absolutely no one, is hiring right now.&lt;br /&gt;    And last but definitely not least, I've met someone.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-3472546027325897654?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/3472546027325897654/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=3472546027325897654' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3472546027325897654'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3472546027325897654'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/02/whats-new.html' title='What&apos;s new:'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-1408390121231546870</id><published>2011-02-01T07:48:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-02-02T07:38:47.296-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Tagged, I was.</title><content type='html'>The rules are as follows: List seven things about yourself that other people may  not know, and then tag fifteen other bloggers (or, in my case, three).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;01) I can lick my nose.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;02) I have a flying squirrel.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;03) Most people get the idea if I'm making fun of something, then I don't like it... I suppose with any normal person, that would make sense... but that is not the case with me, if I'm making fun of it, I like it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;04) I recorded a Paramore cover of Crushcrushcrush... you can listen to it here &gt; http://www.myspace.com/jonathanwroach&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;05) I am addicted to orange tic tacs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;06) I get the hiccups every time I eat carrots, pancakes and hamburgers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;07) I love ladaisi's blog!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hereby poke the following:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ayla -What? Mermaids?&lt;br /&gt;Sarah-My Shady Grove&lt;br /&gt;Priscilla-Take another step, don't give up on me just yet&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I didn't tag you and you want to play, no worries... go right ahead!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-1408390121231546870?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/1408390121231546870/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=1408390121231546870' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1408390121231546870'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1408390121231546870'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/02/tagged-i-was.html' title='Tagged, I was.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-6292456015271153540</id><published>2011-01-18T11:13:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2011-01-18T11:13:51.264-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>my only desire to worship at your feet so let this fire consume my life let your love take me deeper draw me closer to where you are cause all i want is more of you&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-6292456015271153540?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/6292456015271153540/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=6292456015271153540' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/6292456015271153540'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/6292456015271153540'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2011/01/my-only-desire-to-worship-at-your-feet.html' title=''/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-8406372773598298047</id><published>2010-12-15T23:40:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-12-15T23:45:08.540-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Little memories fall where they will, each an arrow to the heart.</title><content type='html'>No one understands if at one moment I could be fine, and the next something could trigger the pain and it’s all I can do to keep the tears inside.  It gets easier.  But there are still memories… and times when I feel like he took my dreams with him when he said goodbye.  And now what am I? All I ever really wanted was to have someone to love me, to hold me.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;    He talked about how there’d be an empty place for a while, and he’d have to find something to replace me after I was gone.  Replace me? It hurts more than anything to know I’m being replaced.  I knew everything there is to know about him, and now another girl has taken my place… as if I’m just a lost memory that doesn’t matter anymore.  I saw him with her… he flirted with her, like he used to with me…  I couldn’t move my feet.  Like I was nailed to the floor and could only watch the bullet coming.  Why does it hurt me so much? I would never go back to him… never… I see him now for what he really is… and yet, this pain is like nothing I have ever felt.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-8406372773598298047?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/8406372773598298047/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=8406372773598298047' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8406372773598298047'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8406372773598298047'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2010/12/little-memories-fall-where-they-will.html' title='Little memories fall where they will, each an arrow to the heart.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-7803183581471997748</id><published>2010-12-06T08:10:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-12-06T08:10:57.040-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>you should probably follow ladaisi's blog.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-7803183581471997748?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/7803183581471997748/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=7803183581471997748' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/7803183581471997748'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/7803183581471997748'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2010/12/you-should-probably-follow-ladaisis.html' title=''/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-6882643259773391985</id><published>2010-01-25T16:06:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-25T16:06:47.091-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>i'm in love.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-6882643259773391985?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/6882643259773391985/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=6882643259773391985' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/6882643259773391985'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/6882643259773391985'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2010/01/im-in-love.html' title=''/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-2376660619213755447</id><published>2009-04-21T11:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-21T11:09:18.263-07:00</updated><title type='text'>can you explain it?</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;"&gt;     Listening to Bill Maher ridicule our beliefs with a crowd laughing at every word makes you wonder if the reason he’s never understood Christianity properly is because no one was able to explain it to him… or maybe he’s just what he looks like, an irritating, ignorant rationalist trying to put on a comedy.&lt;br /&gt;    The only reason I would, or could ever be ashamed to call myself a Christian is because of other so-called “Christians” parading around like some know-it-all-self-religious-throw-it-in-your-face idiots who when asked to explain their reasoning come up with a load of crap you can’t even back up with the Bible. &lt;br /&gt;    In America, those “claiming” to be Christians have decreased from 86 percent in 1990 to 75 percent today, and I know that is still a rather large portion, but it’s not the “claiming” or “labeling” that should matter but what people believe and do… and if they can explain themselves—the reason for the hope that should be very apparent in their lives.  To call Christianity “just another belief or religion” is degrading by all means and if a so called Christian is not capable of explaining what it really is than they shouldn’t be claiming any religion at all until they’ve got their facts straight.  To have a religion means to have faith in it, something that backs you up that you believe in and work for… you can call Christianity what you want as a religion---but what it really should come down to is a person distributing Christ’s love through a very evident relationship with the Father.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-2376660619213755447?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/2376660619213755447/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=2376660619213755447' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/2376660619213755447'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/2376660619213755447'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2009/04/can-you-explain-it.html' title='can you explain it?'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-7987155240905931452</id><published>2009-01-30T19:23:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-02-09T08:44:24.548-08:00</updated><title type='text'>nothing</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She twirled the match around, like a sorcerer with a wand controlling the flame before it bit at her fingers.  I imagined the smoke, now climbing in the air from the black head of scalded wood, was an old woman with long gray hair ever entwining behind her coal face.  She proceeded to light the five candles, each rich vanilla.  They were all below four inches high and would not last long.  There was a blue candle of which I did not know the scent, with a glass frame to keep the wax from spilling.  When she blew them out I put my finger in the milky wax.  It burned for only a second until it dried into a round crust on my fingertip.  I peeled it off to examine the perfect, smooth print inside the now hardened impression.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-7987155240905931452?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/7987155240905931452/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=7987155240905931452' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/7987155240905931452'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/7987155240905931452'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2009/01/nothing.html' title='nothing'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-1075557798543718375</id><published>2008-11-16T19:21:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-11-16T19:22:37.336-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Christmas</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:lucida grande;"&gt;I have decided I’m looking forward to Christmas this year.  I wasn’t at first because who knows what it’ll be like without my whole family here… but today when we went to Goodys they were playing Christmas music (and it wasn’t as bad as last years, surprisingly… well, except this one song where the lady sung REALLY out of key)… last year it drove me insane because they start playing Christmas music sooo early, but, it didn’t really bother me this time.  In fact, I’ve missed it.  We kinda missed Christmas last year being in the Keys in all, so yeah… I wanna watch all our traditional Christmas movies we watch every year, set up the tree and play the old records… yep.  And even if it’s dorky and we don’t really do Christmas gifts I just don’t care… I wanna have a good Christmas.&lt;/span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;smithy&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-1075557798543718375?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/1075557798543718375/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=1075557798543718375' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1075557798543718375'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1075557798543718375'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/11/christmas.html' title='Christmas'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-8770502470328203948</id><published>2008-10-27T15:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-27T16:11:18.445-07:00</updated><title type='text'>i've been tagged</title><content type='html'>Rules consist of:&lt;br /&gt;Link to the person &lt;a href="http://ladaisi.blogspot.com/"&gt;(Lauren&lt;/a&gt;) who tagged you.&lt;br /&gt;Post the rules on your blog.&lt;br /&gt;Write Six Random Things about yourself.&lt;br /&gt;Tag a few other people at the bottom of the post and leave comments on their blogs to let them know they've been tagged.&lt;br /&gt;And also let the person who tagged you know when you've written the post.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. I get the hiccups whenever I eat pancakes, toast, carrots or hamburgers.&lt;br /&gt;2. The longest I've ever gone without biting my nails is a week--and that was almost painfully hard.&lt;br /&gt;3. The sound or feeling of wood scraping against teeth just kills me like a fingernail against a chalkboard.&lt;br /&gt;4. I don't like pie.&lt;br /&gt;5. I've watched Much Ado About Nothing about 5 times in a row and I'm still not sick of it... and I bet I could quote the Emperor's New Groove and Monty Python the whole way through.&lt;br /&gt;6. I have a deadly fear of spiders.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;     I've always wondered what it would be like to get tagged... huh.  It was actually kind of hard thinking up six things... lol... well, I hereby tag &lt;a href="http://www.kclynnloucks.blogspot.com/"&gt;Kacie&lt;/a&gt; and &lt;a href="http://simpaticosity.blogspot.com/"&gt;Christa&lt;/a&gt;... yep, looks like everyone else I know on blogger has already been tagged. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;smithy&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-8770502470328203948?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/8770502470328203948/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=8770502470328203948' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8770502470328203948'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8770502470328203948'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/10/ive-been-tagged.html' title='i&apos;ve been tagged'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-1534101630612826763</id><published>2008-10-21T19:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-21T19:43:47.343-07:00</updated><title type='text'>boomin' out the computer screen</title><content type='html'>Last night I stayed up late doodling in my artbook.  I haven’t been working on artwork much lately and I’d just been looking at sketches on google and I guess it inspired me because I can’t put my pencil down now… it’s fun, but I’m having a hard time keeping my characters modest.  I know, that must sound awful but I can’t help it.  A true artist learns the curves of the body and draws them out as a beautiful masterpiece, if I have to keep clothes on how are you supposed to see the body? Alright, so that wasn’t rightly put because most people probably say that to today’s skimpy fashion, but seriously, this is just my artwork and nobody really looks at it anyways.  The female figure has always inspired me more than anything else when it comes to drawing, and that’s what I like to draw, so why not expand my talent? All the great artists back then didn’t bother to add clothes, why should I? I guess I just have to be careful how far I go with it—not to mention, who I let see my work.&lt;br /&gt;     I got this cute forward I love that goes like this: &lt;em&gt;A girl asked a guy if he thought she was pretty.  He said no.  She asked him if he would want to be with her forever.  And he said no.  She then asked him if she were to leave would he cry, and once again he replied with a no.  She had heard enough.  As she walked away, tears streaming down her face the boy grabbed her arm and said... You’re not pretty, you're beautiful.  I don't want to be with you forever, I NEED to be with you forever.  And I wouldn't cry if you walked away...I'd die... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;     That is just about one of the sweetest things I’ve ever heard… man, I wish someone’d say that to me!&lt;br /&gt;     Luke came charging into the living room this evening with a shirt and some tight sweats on.  He was growling at Lydia and began hissing through his teeth, “Don’t make me mad… you don’t want to see me when I’m mad.”  He then proceeded to take off his shirt while making his own sound effects.  *Rip rip rip*.  Then off went his pants—don’t worry he had shorts under them—running around the room like a crazy monkey shrieking and growling.  He then ran down the stairs leaving his clothes on the floor and those of us who witnessed the “transformation” in hysterics.  Hmm.  Well, I think his impression of the Hulk was pretty good if I do say so myself. &lt;br /&gt;      The weather lately has been getting colder and colder… it makes me sad.  It reminds me of grandma when she’d come up from Florida for Christmas.  We’re going through another drought and our well is getting rather low.  It didn’t bother me as much before because it’s supposed to rain during the spring and summer—but it hardly rains in the winter… this could be bad.&lt;br /&gt;     What’s been up with my fam: Lydia and Luke are reading the Bible now and whenever we have devotions they pray just about the longest prayers ever---I remember going through that stage.  Peter just got over his “two month” cold—which we found out was allergies.  Me, well, I’m the usual—except for a little something something going on with me and someone.  Matt is going to Tri-County, he was working at the Comfort Café again but he quit because it was taking too much time that he needs to study.  Steph is still in Florida working at Peir One, and Tim informed me she misses us! It’s amazing… lol… jk… Lauren and Tim are doing good—raising Isaac, writing another book, working on college… the usual I guess, but then, when is anything exactly like usual? Just read Lauren's blog.  We still get emails from Noah every now and then telling us what he’s been up to over there in Laos.  They’re very interesting emails because the grammar is usually all wrong, and he’s started referring to God as Papa… it’s rather hysterical.  But yeah, he sounds like he’s doing good.  I miss him, and Steph.  Mom always seems to be filling out these surveys for Home Depot, Landsend, Country Living or whoever to win their store sweep stakes—and she’s handed the emailing homeschool work over to someone else so—amazingly—I won’t be called down here to help her figure out email stuff, as often, that is.  Honestly I don’t know why she was chosen—or picked, I don’t know which—for that job because she knows nothing whatsoever about computers.  Dad has allergies in the fall so his eyes are always pink and puffy and it kind of scares me.  He’s still always pausing movies in the middle to give a history lesson… and he’s gotten very cautious about electricity savings and when I’m in my room he comes in and turns the light off on me.  He bought a machine that changes videos into dvds---which is a good thing because our vcr just quit working I miss watching Disney cartoons. &lt;br /&gt;     Annnnd I'm afraid that's all I have to update on now... so, until next time my fellow bloggers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;smithy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;funniest scene in Blades of Glory---it's Beau's fault&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;     John Heder (Jimmy): “I see you got fat.”&lt;br /&gt;     Will Ferrell (Chazz): “I see you still look like a fifteen year old girl but not pretty.”&lt;br /&gt;     Jimmy: “You crushed my dreams.”&lt;br /&gt;     Chazz: “Dreams? I haven’t had one of those in years.”&lt;br /&gt;     Jimmy: “Zip it, Chazz.  Zip it or I will punch you in your crap lousy face.”&lt;br /&gt;     Chazz: “Hey, this ends tonight.”&lt;br /&gt;     Jimmy: “It’s daytime, you douche.”&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-1534101630612826763?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/1534101630612826763/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=1534101630612826763' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1534101630612826763'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1534101630612826763'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/10/boomin-out-computer-screen.html' title='boomin&apos; out the computer screen'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-6251565068418680402</id><published>2008-09-24T09:52:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-24T10:25:41.945-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Great pap Richie</title><content type='html'>It was very chilly out this morning… it reminded me of one of those days when we’d get up early and go to Suches with dad for the Indian Summer Festival.  That’s next week… Anywho, so I took a walk before I ate breakfast and just went out to talk with God.  The moon was sitting in the sky straight across from the sun just behind the trees.  We have our first orange fall tree out… I can’t believe it’s already getting cold.  I want to be able to wear jackets and hoodies and all my winter clothing (because I have more of it than Summer clothes) but sometimes the in between weather change can be so annoying when it can’t make up its mind.  I was so cold this morning in my room I had to put on my flannel pjs because I don’t have any sweats, and some socks, but then I just decided it was pointless and I went to sit in the sun on the porch.  It was warmer outside than in. &lt;br /&gt;     Monday I got out a bunch of books and picked three to start reading.  I began with Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte---I love the way she writes), Much Ado about Nothing (Shakespeare), and Run, Baby Run (Nicky Cruz)… I think Run, Baby Run is the most addicting and I haven’t been able to put it down.  Much Ado about Nothing is just like the movie and I can picture all the characters in my head while I read it… and well, I didn’t make it too far in Jane Eyre, but I’ll get there.  Anywho, these books should keep me occupied during my boredom stages in the evenings and if not… God help me.&lt;br /&gt;     We had steak for dinner the other night.  Dad likes his meet red; I like mine over cooked until it’s crisp and a little burnt around the edges.  I literally squeezed a strip of meet in my hand until blood came dripping through my fist into a puddle on my plate… sick. &lt;br /&gt;     I’ve been staying up ‘till twelve every night reading.  When I get tired of one book I switch to another and so the process goes on and on until I realize what time it is.  All three books have been highly entertaining, and sometimes they keep me from my studies. &lt;br /&gt;     Last night I had a strange dream with Darryl in it… probably because Leah and I mentioned something of him about shining and not whining yesterday (something he always said at camp)… it was a creepy dream and I was always trying to run away.  But then I was pulled from sleep when I heard a voice, a girl’s voice call my name.  At first I thought it was in my dream… but I couldn’t find my dream anymore.  So then I thought it was Stephanie, but then I remembered she isn’t here.  It was a beautiful, gentle voice, so then I thought maybe it was an angel… oh well, I guess I’ll never know.&lt;br /&gt;     Well, I’ve started (writing) yet another book… sort of… I have some ideas for this one but I’m not sure how far it’ll actually get.  Here’s what I have so far:&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;em&gt;I thought I had escaped this life, but here I was clear as day driving through town seeing too many familiar faces.  Great pap Richie had died and I was called back only two months after my escape.  Of course I would never talk like this to any of the town folk… they didn’t know my dreams about living in a city and making big money as a writer... about having my own apartment and living on my own independently without a whole town of relatives and so-called relatives watching my every move.  Sometimes they suffocated me like a canary in a cage.  And when the cat comes to claw through the bars at me sometimes I think I’d prefer the inside of its stomach than looking through those bars at a world I’ll never experience. &lt;br /&gt;     I made myself cry at the funeral.  And it wasn’t because of Richie either, or the old crows dabbing at their eyes with pink handkerchiefs.  I cried for the soul purpose of crying over the inexplicably, painfully long service.  When a person is dead, you should honor the person by giving them the shortest funeral service ever—the sooner it’s over the sooner that person can be put into the earth to deteriorate while everyone else goes home and moves on.  But by keeping it as long as possible—and I mean as long as possible---you make things more dramatic than they really are.  He’s dead for goodness’ sake and he’s not coming back.  I hardly new Richie myself, but I was sure I’d know more about him than even his late wife did at the memorial service that afternoon when all the stories and rumors would go around and people would laugh and cry and eat pie… it was like a thanksgiving holiday, only we were getting together over a death… but I honestly couldn’t tell the difference.  I was dreading those long hugs where you’re embraced for eternity in the arms of someone you don’t even know.  Someone who says they knew you as a baby and all they talk about is how you’ve grown.  It has always puzzled me as to how one should reply to that.  “Gee, thanks I guess?”  And then of course what I really want to say, “Please stop hugging me I’m about to gag from all that perfume… and don’t get so close to my face with those lipsticky fish-lips.”  Either it’s a plump old woman with a big smile, a crying bony old woman with sagging boobs, or the worst: an old man hugging me so tight I feel like all my bones will crunch and I’ll slither through his arms and over his fat bear belly to the ground where I’ll lay a skin sack of bones.  Sometimes I wish I only could disappear that fast.&lt;/em&gt;  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;smithy&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-6251565068418680402?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/6251565068418680402/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=6251565068418680402' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/6251565068418680402'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/6251565068418680402'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/09/great-pap-richie.html' title='Great pap Richie'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-1412232871073616934</id><published>2008-09-21T20:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-21T20:40:14.143-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I kissed a toad</title><content type='html'>I’m sitting here eating animal crackers and listening to Death Cab for Cutie’s “I’ll follow you into the dark”. I assume these are real animal crackers… this one might be a cow… I’m not really sure. I think the donkey is the only animal you can tell is an actual animal and not some deformed piece of cracker clumped together… donkeys are probably the least appetizing, though… I mean honestly, who would want to eat a donkey?&lt;br /&gt;Well, Friday I drove to Murphy with mom. I’m getting better at driving… well, except when a cop tails me. I pulled onto 19129 and then noticed the car behind me. “Oh crap, is that a cop?” I immediately thought of Stephanie and all the times I’ve yelled cop in the car and she’d scream and go off the road. I went five under the speed limit half the way there until he finally passed me and I could breathe again. I know that cops are supposed to be the good guys, but can I help it if I hate them sometimes for tailing me? I will never understand how those directors managed to make the popo fat lazy bad guys who sit around all day eating doughnuts—now that’s just a dirty twisted insult… they drive around all day looking for someone to pull over just for the fun of it, and they don’t eat doughnuts they eat Blimpies.&lt;br /&gt;I got my hair trimmed and layered more. And I also got a red-ish purple highlight in the back… I like it. Cheri (the woman who did my hair) also straightened it which was awesome because I’ve never been able to straighten my hair before… so it was a new experience for me and it looked pretty cool. I got my ear pierced again so now I have three in one ear. And I found some jeans… that never happens. My mom actually bought two whole outfits (it’s a miracle—that never ever happens). It was so boring sitting in that salon waiting for the dye to kick in… I sat there for thirty minutes looking at stupid magazines reading about Brittany Spears and the people in and out of her life now… lol… and there were these dumb flies going around the room that kept buzzing near my head. That killed me. When my hair was finally done and it looked all cool and everything I was browsing around Wal-Mart and this oldish guy probably in his forties was walking by and he was smiling at me so of course I smiled back… wouldn’t you? Only then I realized from the way he asked, “how are you?” that I probably shouldn’t have smiled… oh boy. That was rather disturbing. What’s with the creepy old farts always winking?&lt;br /&gt;On the way home I was pulling out of this gas station on a hill and so I’m just waiting there with my blinker on, waiting for the traffic to go by so I could pull out… so this dude at the end of the line is coming and he’s got his blinker on so of course I’m thinking—well, he’s turning, I can just go… right? Wrong. Never trust those blinkers. He could have hit me if it weren’t for mom yelling (probably the first time she’s ever said anything than just sitting there holding on with wide eyes when I drive… just kidding)… so I pulled off the road and let that stupid idiot pass me… whew.&lt;br /&gt;And now for the whole purpose of this entry--if the title wasn't driving you nuts already... yes, it's true. I kissed a toad! I found a big toad the other night but it got away… otherwise I probably would have kissed it then. Don’t ask why, I just felt like it… just for the purpose of being able to say: “I have kissed a toad.” So, I found the toad again today and I picked it up and kissed it. It wasn’t so bad… lol… don’t say it, I know I’m insane. But I did brush my teeth—and lips—after I kissed him so I won’t get warts… most likely… haha. I’m rather disappointed… where’s prince charming? Maybe it was a girl toad… How can you tell the difference with toads?&lt;br /&gt;Well, I shall take my leave after that most disgusting news you've probably heard all day so you can ponder why you are friends with me... avua!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;smithy&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-1412232871073616934?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/1412232871073616934/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=1412232871073616934' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1412232871073616934'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/1412232871073616934'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/09/i-kissed-toad.html' title='I kissed a toad'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-728586300574616384</id><published>2008-09-19T19:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-19T19:28:18.721-07:00</updated><title type='text'>i'm not dead... i'm getting better... i'm feeling happy!</title><content type='html'>well... i just decided to post because i haven't posted in forever and yeah... no reason, really, just that it's late and i'm the only person up in my house and i have nothing else to do... so there you have it.  This is my post... and now i'm thinkin i'd like to find some ice cream.  I'll post more (hopefully) someday soon for all you homies out there... toodles&lt;br /&gt;smithy&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-728586300574616384?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/728586300574616384/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=728586300574616384' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/728586300574616384'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/728586300574616384'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/09/im-not-dead-im-getting-better-im.html' title='i&apos;m not dead... i&apos;m getting better... i&apos;m feeling happy!'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-3759480434732465178</id><published>2008-06-08T15:10:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-08T15:27:30.852-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Miss Parton emitted a delighted giggle, and mr. Ingelby who hated giggles, fled.</title><content type='html'>We’ve been eating lots of fruit… peaches, pluots (that’s like a mix between a plum and… something)… it doesn’t taste very good, though.  More like someone’s experiment gone bad—I wonder how it got in the market.  Well, besides those, we’ve also got cherries—the good real ones, and honeydew… I wish we had watermelon; the weather is perfect for spitting seeds at each other.  That is if the watermelon is extra cold because you can go outside for just a few minutes and get sweaty just standing there.  It’s been getting up to the nineties almost every day now, and I’m not kidding—it’s hot! I’m so glad we have air conditioning.  This morning it was real cool out and Tim and I sat on the deck just chillaxing and talking about stuff.  It feels like a day to go toobing or white-water rafting, it really does.  It doesn’t seem like Summer… it’s like it came so soon I missed the starting point.&lt;br /&gt;     We took Matt Houston out for dinner at the Big Cheese in town---a very, very postponed birthday gift from last year.  I haven’t seen him in months and to tell you the truth it really wasn’t the least bit awkward.  But then I wasn’t in the happiest of moods and didn’t notice much.  He looks absolutely the same, but he has gotten funnier—that’s for sure… I don’t remember him so funny.  We ordered spaghetti with meat balls, which was also part of the gift because it’s Matt’s favorite.  The spaghetti sauce had a strange sweet taste to it and I didn’t really like it, but I was starving so it didn’t matter, and at least the giant meat ball invading my plate was delicious.  We all had to get to-go boxes because they gave us so much food. &lt;br /&gt;     Saturday night we went to the drive-in theater in Blue Ridge to see Confu Panda.  It was incredibly packed so we had to park way in the back and sit in the gravel parking lot.  Matty came with us, Jesse, the Abbotts, Ayla and Beth too and we sat on the cars and lawn chairs and April and I sat on a blanket on the ground.  After a while your butt was so sore it went numb so you couldn’t feel anything anyways, but it got harder and harder to see the screen because this stupid man parked right in front of us and he kept walking around his truck and blocking the screen even more—no kidding, during the WHOLE entire movie---until I was just about at the point of either going over there and personally telling him to hit the road, or throw rocks at him.  And just before the end of the movie these stupid girls came driving by with their brights on—in our faces---and they parked next to the stupid guy walking around his car... and then I really wanted to tell them to move.  It wasn’t the greatest first experience of a drive-in theater, but it was still fun despite how hot it was, and then how sticky I felt afterwards. &lt;br /&gt;     I’ve started reading Song of Solomon… I don’t really know why, just the book I came across and decided to read.  Some of the words like most of the “breasts” I crossed out when I was little because I thought it was disgusting.  Well, this one verse Solomon wrote I just really, really love goes like this: “For love is as strong as death.” Isn’t that beautiful? I’m sure all of the book is beautiful poetry, for that time, but right now to have a man tell me my breasts are like fawns and my teeth are as white as the sheep coming up from washing—wow I think I would have to laugh at him… or puke, either one seems good. &lt;br /&gt;      I love those tiny sand boxes with the rakes you know, the small ones you usually find in therapist’s offices on the desks (and I would know because I've been to so many ;) ...the kind that is supposed to sooth you while you draw pictures in the sand.  I absolutely love those things!!! I know I would never get any school done if I kept one on my desk. &lt;br /&gt;     I’ve been reading Murder Must Advertise and I’m only on the fourth chapter but I know I’m going to like it because Mr. Ingleby is hilarious, and you know how I love hilarious characters.  Here are some of my favorite quotes of his (so far):  “Three years in this soul-searing profession have not yet robbed me of all human feeling.  But that will come in time.” “Let me take you to your dog-kennel.”  “He has been on the point of leaving us for the last five years.” “Damn and blast Nutrax,” said Ingleby, “May all its directors get elephantiasis, locomotor ataxy, and ingrowing toe-nails!”&lt;br /&gt;     I love this part in The Catcher in the Rye:&lt;br /&gt;“It was dark as heck in the foyer, naturally, and naturally I couldn’t turn on any lights.  I had to be careful not to bump into anything and make a racket.  I certainly knew I was home, though.  Our foyer has a funny smell that doesn’t smell like anyplace else.  I don’t know what the heck it is.  It isn’t cauliflower and it isn’t perfume—I don’t know what the heck it is—but you always know you’re home.  I started to take off my coat and hang it up in the fower closet, but that closet’s full of hangers that rattle like madmen when you open the door, so I left it on.  Then I started walking very, very slowly back toward old Phoebe’s room.  I knew this maid wouldn’t hear me because she had only one eardrum.  She had this brother that stuck a straw down her ear when she was a kid, she once told me.  She was pretty deaf and all.  But my parents, especially my mother, she has ears like a dang bloodhound.  So I took it very, very easy when I went past their door.  I even held me breath, for goodness sake.  You can hit my father over the head with a chair and he won’t wake up, but my mother, all you have to do to my mother is cough somewhere in Siberia and she’ll hear you.  She’s nervous as heck……..Finally, after about an hour, I got to old Pheobe’s room.”  (Really most of that has cuss words, but I decided to make it decent for you.)&lt;br /&gt;     You know why that book is called “the Catcher in the Rye”? He only mentions it once or twice and somewhere near the end of the book this kid is singing this poem by Robert Burns that says something like, “if a body meets a body in the rye.” Well, he decides he wants to be in a field of rye and catch kids who go running off the cliff… isn’t that crazy? I think it’s hilarious they named the book after that.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-3759480434732465178?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/3759480434732465178/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=3759480434732465178' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3759480434732465178'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3759480434732465178'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/06/miss-parton-emitted-delighted-giggle.html' title='Miss Parton emitted a delighted giggle, and mr. Ingelby who hated giggles, fled.'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-3418571254184384566</id><published>2008-06-06T07:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-06T07:24:10.661-07:00</updated><title type='text'>i luv this test</title><content type='html'>STUPID TEST&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[x] You've run into a glass/screen door.&lt;br /&gt;[ ] You have jumped out of a moving vehicle[x] You have thought of something funny and laughed, then people gave you weird looks.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You have run into a tree/bush.&lt;br /&gt;[ ] You know that it IS possible to lick your elbow.&lt;br /&gt;[x]You have tried to lick your elbow&lt;br /&gt;[x] You never knew that the Alphabet and Twinkle , Twinkle Little Star  have the same tune.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You just tried to sing them.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You have tripped on your shoelace and fallen.[  ] You have seen the Matrix and still don't get it.&lt;br /&gt;[  ] You've never seen the Matrix.&lt;br /&gt;[  ] You type only with two fingers.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You have accidentally caught something on fire (usually on purpose though)&lt;br /&gt;[ ] You tried to drink out of a straw, but it went into your nose/eyes.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You have caught yourself drooling.&lt;br /&gt;[  ] You have fallen asleep in class and started to talk/drool, or snore.&lt;br /&gt;[x] Sometimes you just stop thinking.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You are telling a story and forget what you were talking about.&lt;br /&gt;[ ] People often shake their heads and walk away from you.&lt;br /&gt;[ ] You are often told to use your 'inside voice'.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You use your fingers to do simple math.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You have eaten a bug&lt;br /&gt;[x] You are taking this test when you should be doing something more important.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You have put your clothes on backwards or inside out, and didn't  realize it.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You've looked all over for something and realized it was in your hand.&lt;br /&gt;[  ] You forward forwards because you are scared that what they say will happen to you if you don't.&lt;br /&gt;[  ] You break a lot of things.&lt;br /&gt;[  ] Your friends know not to use big words around you.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You tilt your head when you're confused.&lt;br /&gt;[x] You have fallen out of your chair before.&lt;br /&gt;[x] When you're lying in bed, you try to find pictures in the texture of the ceiling.&lt;br /&gt;[x] The word 'um' is used many times a day.&lt;br /&gt;   Now count them up and put 'I've done 21 stupid things out of 36' in the stupid test...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-3418571254184384566?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/3418571254184384566/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=3418571254184384566' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3418571254184384566'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3418571254184384566'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/06/i-luv-this-test.html' title='i luv this test'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-3866355227871447889</id><published>2008-04-26T08:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-26T08:06:26.094-07:00</updated><title type='text'>dang</title><content type='html'>today is my birthday.  i'm old.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-3866355227871447889?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/3866355227871447889/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=3866355227871447889' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3866355227871447889'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3866355227871447889'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/04/dang.html' title='dang'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-8678358561081022189</id><published>2008-03-19T13:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-03-19T13:51:11.495-07:00</updated><title type='text'>storms</title><content type='html'>It was in the beginning of March when the storms came.  We needed the rain from the long winter drought, but the terrific show that came along sent shivers through me.  It had been a long day and as soon as the sun melted like layers of a peeled orange beyond the horizon, blackness crept through filling the shadows and leaving a silent hush over the forest.  A wispy spell of rain traveled throughout the trees like a soft melody tucking them in for the lonesome night.  A slick white tail of lightning shrieked through the starless sky followed by a rumble that washed excitement over me as I gazed out the glass window.  The wind howled like a lonely dog, and the crack of thunder repeated relentlessly.  The naked forest was awakened and waving in the careless wind as if saying goodbye to an old friend.  I could see the ditches begin to fill with thick muddy water as it slid down the mossy bank like a snake.  There was a constant dripping in the gutters above me as the rain began to fall more vigorously.  It pounded the surface so densely and fast I felt it was strong enough to send a little wave.  I could almost taste the ocean salt already.  But the air was fresh, humid but clean like the oak trees now soaked in tears.  I began to wonder at the black wearisome clouds.  Why did they cry so?&lt;br /&gt;     I could imagine a weeping willow in this storm, its vines lashing against the wind like lightning, and as it always faces down never looking to the sun as if its arms no longer moved but wilted and blew like feathers in the forceful breeze.  It wept, and in the dripping rain it resembled wild tresses of hair masking an obscure hollow trunk, coarse and shedding bark like an aged weather-beaten house.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-8678358561081022189?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/8678358561081022189/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=8678358561081022189' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8678358561081022189'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8678358561081022189'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/03/storms.html' title='storms'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-6291915566128806345</id><published>2008-03-15T18:37:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-03-15T18:37:32.904-07:00</updated><title type='text'>an old dream</title><content type='html'>I had a very strange dream last night.  I don’t remember how it started… but I do know that I wasn’t in the dream, I was watching the dream as if it were a movie.  I remember there was this little cottage in the middle of the woods on a mountain and this very large, fat woman owned the cottage.  She was married to a frail, skinny, skinny old man with a chin that popped out like Pop-eye, and also a pipe that looked like Pop-eye’s, and he also squinted with one eye.  Maybe he was Pop-eye.  He wore jean overalls and a white undershirt with a cap and wobbled around with a crutch.  The fat lady with short dark brown hair wore an xxxxxxL yellow polka dot dress with lace and little slippers.  Now in this cottage my dream took place.  One night the old man, I think his name was Jim, sat in the dining room at the table thinking hard about something.  He knew there was something tricky about the house after he went to bed so he decided he would wait it out to see what would happen.  But as long as his presence stayed in the dining room nothing happened.  Just then a rock was thrown against the window.  Jim heaved himself up with creaking bones and wobbled over to the window with the meanest expression an old man can give.  There outside the window were about five children, looked like street children dressed like newsies.  One little boy waved at Jim motioning him to come down.  Jim just about opened the door when he was pulled back inside by something… something had grabbed him.  He yelped and was flung back at the table losing his crutch.  The little boys, seeing the surprised old man disappear ran up the deck stairs and tried to pull the sliding glass door open to get in the cottage.  Jim looked around but didn’t see anything.  He saw the little boys trying to get in but he couldn’t move.  The boy who had wanted him to come outside smashed the glass window and led the troop in.  There was a lot of commotion as they tried to get to Jim who seemed tied to the floor.  Just as they passed over the checkered ground a large face appeared from a cabinet and then an arm with a chair for a hand caught one of them and pinned them against the wall.  The little boy screamed and all of them got out their sling shots to fight the creature.  As the boys were occupied getting free from the now alive kitchen Jim felt himself in a current of wind and floated down the stairs and into the laundry room just before his wife’s room.  He didn’t want to wake her because he knew she would be furious so he tried his best to get back upstairs to help the little boys.   Try as he might the furniture wouldn’t let him and he was pulled back down time and time again.  Jim had finally figured out what was so haunted about this house… it was alive! Minutes later the boys came running down the stairs, they grabbed Jim and pulled him up and managed to get him out the broken sliding glass door just as he grabbed his crutch.  Jim heard something he would never forget at that moment running or more like being carried down the stairs as the boys rescued him.  It was a roar from his wife and the whole house seemed to quake under the power of it.  Jim ran as fast as an old man can with a crutch.  He ran down the winding road that led up the mountain to the house and just as day break came he disappeared into the woods on the side.  His wife wasn’t far behind him huffing and puffing as she heaved her large body down a step on the road.  She looked as if she might have a stroke any minute and her breathing was so loud Jim could hear it all the way down in the woods behind a tree.  She stopped and looked around her as the sun just began to pop over the hills. &lt;br /&gt;     “JIM!!! COME BACK!!!” She yelled in such a deep voice it was almost worse than her roaring.  She was madder than mad… and even though it could be heard all the way down the mountain from her anger, anyone who saw her running down the mountain new there was something terribly wrong because she was never, ever seen from that cottage.  Many people believed she would never make it from the door.  So as she stood there looking out into the woods Jim held his breath and frantically tried to plan an escape route.  The boys who had run all the way down the mountain screaming brought the whole town back up the mountain in a commotion.  The mayor decided to hold a town meeting on the roadside where Jim’s wife stood breathing like an elephant and peering out over the side like a stone.  Jim would have to wait them out. &lt;br /&gt;     “Here here! Everyone take a seat!” The mayor yelled glancing at the large lady in the yellow polka dot dress before him.  He couldn’t believe she was out of the house and no matter how polite he tried to be he couldn’t help staring; none of the town could.  No one had ever seen her from the house before.  She was even larger than the stories.  The kids were too scared to laugh and they cuddled beside their mothers who quickly put a protecting hand over their eyes. &lt;br /&gt;     “Mayor the house is alive!!! And this lady here has something to do with it I tell ya!” yelled the little boy who had broken the glass door to save Jim. &lt;br /&gt;     “I see, and what is your name young man?” the mayor asked as he slammed his piece of wood to keep the towns people from the chattering gossip.&lt;br /&gt;     “Travis, sir.  I know what I saw and that house was alive!” Travis yelled as he raised his arms and got his gang of boys to shout with him. &lt;br /&gt;     “Quiet down everyone! Please!” The mayor yelped over the boys small voices. &lt;br /&gt;     As the meeting was going on Jim slowly climbed back up to the road-side, cut across and went up into the woods just as soon as the meeting adjourned.  Just then he heard the threatening loudness of his wife’s words. &lt;br /&gt;     “Anyone who finds my husband I’ll pay a thousand dollars to!”&lt;br /&gt;     Everyone stared at her in silence amazed that she could speak over her heavy breathing.  She eyed all of them with such annoyance that everyone scrambled about in the woods and roadside to find Jim.&lt;br /&gt;     Travis’s gang split up to find and escape with Jim so Travis began looking as he paced down the road with his hands in his pockets and his brown cap tilted to the side.  He stopped a moment, dusted off his brown jacket and just as he was doing so he saw a girl standing there.  She looked at him curiously, her blue eyes never leaving his.  She wore a white dress with a blue ribbon, black boots and her blond hair was done up so it looked unrealistic. &lt;br /&gt;      “I’m Polly.”&lt;br /&gt;     “I know who you are.  Now what’re you doing in my way?”&lt;br /&gt;     “Well, I was wondering since everyone else is scattered around the mountain and I’d rather not look alone with that over-grown woman on the loose, maybe I could search with you.”&lt;br /&gt;     “I don’t want any company, especially from a girl.”&lt;br /&gt;     “Oh but I won’t bother you.  I won’t say anything.  I promise.  Please?”&lt;br /&gt;     Travis put his head down and walked by her just as any eight or nine year old does when they’re moping.  Polly turned around and followed with him a smile.  At first she skipped, and then she walked alongside him all the while her eyes searching him. &lt;br /&gt;     “What’s your name?”&lt;br /&gt;     “Travis.”&lt;br /&gt;     “Oh that’s a nice name.  So where are we going Travis?”&lt;br /&gt;     “Away from here,” Travis mumbled.&lt;br /&gt;     “We are going to look for Jim, aren’t we?” she questioned eagerly.&lt;br /&gt;     “That’s what I’m planning.”&lt;br /&gt;     “Oh okay… so if we find him, can we split the thousand dollars?”&lt;br /&gt;     “No.  How can you think of that? Giving poor old Jim up to a fat beast like her, I’ll never have it! Jim and I are going to escape.  Besides, he’s got plenty of money, gobs and gobs of it and I could care less of that big woman’s money.  Her house is haunted I tell you!  I think all these years she didn’t want Jim to leave so she made the house come alive to make sure he never left.  Well, I’ve done it now and Jim is free.  Free, ya hear? He deserves it!  So when I find him we’ll ride away in a carriage and never come back here again.”&lt;br /&gt;     “Oh how wonderful!  Does Jim have lots of money? Does he have diamonds?”&lt;br /&gt;     “Oh yes, diamonds and rubies and all sorts of things.  Jim and I have known each other for a long time and we’ve been on many adventures together,” Travis lied just to keep Polly’s nosy attention. &lt;br /&gt;     They walked on down the mountain at a slow pace and for a while nothing was said until Polly broke out, “Travis I’m hungry, I am!”&lt;br /&gt;     Travis stopped and pointed to a bush as if he didn’t hear her.  He walked over to it and began pulling off black berries and plopping them in his mouth one by one.  Polly watched how peculiar he looked and walked over to the bush.  She pulled a berry off the thorny branch and starred at it. &lt;br /&gt;     “Oh Travis these berries are covered in cobwebs!  I can’t eat these!” Polly exclaimed.&lt;br /&gt;     Travis licked his purple fingers, munched down the last of his bite and began walking again.  Just then a black carriage rolled down alongside the children.&lt;br /&gt;     “You kids wanna ride?” the driver asked peering out the window at them.&lt;br /&gt;     “Sure!” Travis said excitedly as he opened the door and jumped in.  Polly pulled herself up and took a seat beside him. &lt;br /&gt;     For a while it was silent except for the horse’s trotting on the dirt road until someone in the front seat began speaking in a low voice to the driver.  Travis made most of it out.&lt;br /&gt;     “We’ll keep him for ransom is what we’ll do.  That lady will pay more than a thousand to have him back.  Let me tell you, we’re in luck this time.  We’ll be rich!”&lt;br /&gt;     Travis feared they were speaking of Jim and he bit his lip. &lt;br /&gt;     “You kids looking for Jim?” the man asked in the front seat.&lt;br /&gt;     “Yes’m.” Polly answered.&lt;br /&gt;     “There’s no need.  He’s already been found,” he laughed in a low grumble and looked behind the children. &lt;br /&gt;     Travis swung his head around and jolted when he saw Jim with a bleeding lip and sitting with tied hands on the very back seat behind him. &lt;br /&gt;     “NO!” Travis yelled.  He quickly turned around and jumped forward to attack the man. &lt;br /&gt;     I am afraid I cannot tell you the ending of the story because it was here that I woke up.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-6291915566128806345?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/6291915566128806345/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=6291915566128806345' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/6291915566128806345'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/6291915566128806345'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/03/old-dream.html' title='an old dream'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-3827504444177938010</id><published>2008-02-26T12:58:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-26T13:17:00.061-08:00</updated><title type='text'>dream... that's the thing to do...</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;I don’t have much time to draw anymore… it’s tragic. I think about it… but really the only artwork I do nowadays is the doodling in my math book, my notebook and my arm. I should start that &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;habit&lt;/span&gt; again… I miss it.&lt;br /&gt;You know what… I realized I’&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;ve&lt;/span&gt; never described myself. Not just in here… but never. I’&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;ve&lt;/span&gt; never tried to describe myself in words---my looks… that is. I suppose I should try. *ahem*&lt;br /&gt;I have a clear &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;complexion&lt;/span&gt; with a pale olive tint. I’m very pale, not white enough to be albino… but pale all the same. I can’t wear much green because it makes me look sickly. I have long---about longer than my waist----wavy, brunette hair; layered, rich with thickness (not to mention, split ends), curly like a cradle around my face, and highlighted caramel on top. My eyes are ordinary brown eyes, wide… dark. Although when the sun is shining on them they’re a light golden brown. I have few freckles on the bridge of my nose and small pink lips. Scars trace the outline of my lips from all the cold sores I’&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;ve&lt;/span&gt; had in my life. They’re only really noticeable when I go swimming and get cold because then they turn up purple. I have an hourglass figure, but I’m not exactly petite. I am short, but describing myself I can be as critical as I want so I’ll say I’m rather chunky—although others might not agree. And I’m afraid that’s all there is to me. I’m pretty ordinary… not stunningly beautiful, not slim… yep.&lt;br /&gt;I finished White Oleander yesterday. It was depressing… but I like the ending she gave everyone.  I'm so glad she gave Yvonne a happy ending.  The book is very, very well written---Janet is one of the best authors out there---but the book is so real and worldly it shows you just how sinful people are.  Yes, so, done with that book… &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;lol&lt;/span&gt;… Today is Matt’s birthday. Wow, he’s eighteen. I sent him a Hoops and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;Yoyo&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;ecard&lt;/span&gt;. I can’t believe how old everyone is getting… wow… &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;Steph&lt;/span&gt; will be twenty! I’&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;ve&lt;/span&gt; always dreamed about being sixteen just so I could say, “sweet sixteen.” But what does that mean? I’m old enough to get married? …&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;haha&lt;/span&gt;. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Yesterday, Monday, I &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;laid&lt;/span&gt; in bed half the morning just thinking… I hate Monday mornings… no really, Mondays are like those days where I lay in bed and think of what I’&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"&gt;ve&lt;/span&gt; done with my life and about the future. Thinking about the future scares me. I hate thinking about it… how my family will separate and grow up. I don’t like how fast time goes. Marty told me just the other day that I look different… I don’t know what he meant exactly, but it made me scared and happy at the same time. Like I want to grow up, see the future… but at the same time, I don’t want anything to change. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Last night there was this tremendous storm… it was so loud I woke up during the first thunder. Storms that big scare me… especially because any minute an old tree could come tumbling down on our house… or worse, in the corner through the roof to flatten me! Nah, only joking, the house is more important than me… &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"&gt;haha&lt;/span&gt;… It’s weird that it’s supposed to snow tonight because yesterday it was so warm and sunny you &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"&gt;didn&lt;/span&gt;’t even have to wear a jacket. It made me so happy… Lydia and I took a walk and played some basketball. The birds were singing and the sun was amazingly bright… it made me miss spring. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;I had a dream the other night that the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"&gt;Tobeys&lt;/span&gt; came over. Jonathan had gained a lot of weight and put on a beer belly, and when I went to hug Jesse he swept me up in his arms with a huge grin. I was so surprised, not only by that but why a new born baby popped up in my arms. You've... or I've really gotta question my dreams sometimes.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-3827504444177938010?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/3827504444177938010/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=3827504444177938010' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3827504444177938010'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3827504444177938010'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/02/dream-thats-thing-to-do.html' title='dream... that&apos;s the thing to do...'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-3804721254823839147</id><published>2008-02-19T13:46:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-19T13:47:46.686-08:00</updated><title type='text'>featured question</title><content type='html'>What are five things you do everyday?     &lt;br /&gt;     There's DEFINITELY more than five things I do everyday.  But for the sake of the question--and the readers--I will only give you a specific five.  Now we all know about brushing teeth, eating, thinking, sleeping, taking showers and all that... so I'll give you some other answers and not just life essentials.&lt;br /&gt;     1. I read my Bible.  I'm a Christian, (why else would I read the Bible?), and so I'm devoted to spending ten minutes to an hour reading my Bible every day.  It's amazing how old that book is, and yet, it still applies to our lives today... and there's always something you miss---so you read it your whole life and it's like God shows you something different through His word all the time.   &lt;br /&gt;     2. I feed my pets.  I have four cats, two fish and two dogs.  It's not just an obligation to feed them; it's something they depend on me to do, like a mom feeding her kids everyday... we all need food.&lt;br /&gt;     3. I write.  I journal almost every day.  What could I possibly have to write about in just one day of school? Well... if you haven't noticed by now, my xanga is full of nonsensical stories and every day things that I put into words because I love to write.&lt;br /&gt;     4. I read---another read---that's basically my life... all my subjects in school include reading... even algebra.  And plus, there are so many books out there I want to read---I just can't keep my hands off books! It's a love-hate relationship.&lt;br /&gt;     And 5. I listen to music... I can't study unless I have some kind of music.  From Michael Buble to Switchfoot whatever it is... I'll be listening to it.       Yep so those are my answers... yeah they're not so out of the ordinary---I'm sure you could get a lot more interesting, and unique answers from someone else... like skateboarding or shoe shining or killing bugs---something! lol... Breathing.  Wait...what?...you breath?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yep... so, that's my post.  I expect everyone who comments this post to answer the question. Good day!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-3804721254823839147?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/3804721254823839147/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=3804721254823839147' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3804721254823839147'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3804721254823839147'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/02/featured-question_19.html' title='featured question'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-3647752981987557625</id><published>2008-02-10T19:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-10T20:08:52.799-08:00</updated><title type='text'>stupid modem</title><content type='html'>I'm back! So... this is my new site.  I'm still working out the quirks and everything but it's getting along.  I haven't had a whole lot of time to update and plus our internet was down for a couple weeks so yeah... But here I am again! I don't think there's a soul in the world that can keep me from writing---even when no one is there to read it. &lt;br /&gt;     I've decided to try my luck on another love story.  I told myself I should wait until I actually experience some kind of love for myself before I write my own... but there's just no staying away from it... I have to have some kind of romance when I write... if it's not the beauty in the sky, or mountains or something... it's the beauty in a love story.  I've got all these ideas running around in my head and I think I might just have a good book coming along.  Here's some scenes I wrote out (I know I'm a cheater---I skip ahead so I can write my favorite parts I want to write before putting the story together) I'll warn you these few paragraphs have nothing to do with each other so don't blame me when a question mark pops up.  Alright so you can't really tell this is gonna be a love story from these few paragraphs---but it will be... this book is gonna be a lot of fun to write because the main character resembles me quite a lot.  And all the other characters are people I know---well except the guy she falls in love with---nope haven't met him yet. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;     “You have a beautiful voice,” he whispered in my ear as I strummed.  His lips stayed close to my ear and he brushed my curls back as if he were going to kiss me.  I kept playing but I was aware of my cheeks gleaming a bright pink as he watched my hands, glared at my neck, and then he found my lips.  He was so close I could feel his warm breath on my skin.  I stopped playing and slowly turned to face him.  I could see every detail on his face as it was so close to mine… just inches away.  He didn’t say anything, didn’t breath, didn’t move.  The moments seemed to pass like years just sitting there gazing into his dark blue eyes.  They looked like a galaxy of stars and when they stared straight back into mine I felt like the sun, just a small reflection in his miles and miles of ocean blue.  A door slammed in the apartment across from mine and we both jumped like children having their parents walk in on them when doing something they shouldn’t.  I looked down at the guitar and smiled, Jason laughed and relaxed against the couch. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;     I didn’t know how to tell her to lay off.  She slid her hand through mine and tried to get me to skip with her.  When I didn’t she rested her head on my shoulder and hugged my arm with both hands.  She was like a child… desperate for love and attention, always chattering trying to get my interest and approval as if I were a parent to her.  I looked at her silently taking in every detail.  She had some freckles on her tan face, she wore small glasses, had dry lips, thick eyebrows and messy dark hair.  Her nails were as long as stick-ons, and they had dirt under them.  I didn’t like the way she talked as spit gathered at the edge of her lips like she needed to swallow.  It was like a game to her when she talked to me.  She wouldn’t look at me while she talked, but if I weren’t starring at her she’d immediately notice and turn and glance to make sure my eyes stayed on her.  I attentively listened, nodding my head, wondering if I’d ever get a chance to speak and if she’d listen. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;    The tips of his fingers were lined and mutilated with calluses from playing guitar.  The skin was ripped and torn with crooked scars.  He strummed a slow G then lowered the capo to fret five so I could sing.  He put the red Star pick in his mouth and began finger picking a melody I knew so well.  I was mesmerized by his soft playing.  Those small six strings where like a voice to him… a vent for his emotions to escape through. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;     There was a constant knocking on the door like a hammer hitting my head.  I couldn’t remember if the door was locked or unlocked, but I didn’t care.  I didn’t want to see anyone and I preferred no one see me.  It was silent and then I heard the doorknob jingling.  I hid under the covers and smashed my face in my pillow.  It was silent.&lt;br /&gt;     “Sam?”&lt;br /&gt;     My eyes instantly popped open.  I knew that voice.  The springs creaked and I felt a weight on the bed beside me. &lt;br /&gt;    “Are you decent?”&lt;br /&gt;    I didn’t answer.  I didn’t want him to see me like this.  As much as I wanted him to leave I knew deep down I wanted him to stay, to hold me and tell me everything would be alright.  The covers slowly pulled back from over my head.  My face was still in my pillow, my hair probably looked like a rats nest, and I remembered I was a in a tank top with a low back line.  I could feel his eyes on me, my almost bare back.  I wished I could run to the bathroom for safety. &lt;br /&gt;    “Sam.”&lt;br /&gt;    I slowly turned to look at him.  His face was full of sympathy as he gazed at my dry face, my red eyes and the stains of tears trailing down my cheeks.  His eyes searched mine and I didn’t like the sadness that came across his.  I pushed my hair back and cuddled my knees against my breast, my gray sweat pants feeling hot on my skin.  I hadn’t realized how weak I was and my arms trembled.  Jason watched me, eyeing every movement without saying a word.  Before I knew what he was doing he slid his arm beneath me and his hand on my back and lifted me from the bed.  I felt like a feather, frail and weightless as he carried me to the couch in the living room.  He didn’t speak, no words were needed.  He understood.  He pulled open the blinds and sunlight streamed in and filled the room.  I watched the dust rise and Jason placed a blanket around me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-3647752981987557625?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/3647752981987557625/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=3647752981987557625' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3647752981987557625'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/3647752981987557625'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/02/stupid-modem.html' title='stupid modem'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026811983070462131.post-8238528502320210098</id><published>2008-01-29T16:06:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-29T16:11:25.624-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Masterpiece</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;     She scratches the surface of a white leaf with the tip of her pencil.  Her strokes are even, but they fall in a manner of rage and leave scars tearing through the clearest white.  Her saddened eyes examine the masterpiece.  It’s a black scribbled mess in a rainbow frame.  Quivering fingers scrawl a signature in the corner.  Her emotion has flooded through her hands… and now her heart is drawn on paper.  Any spectator would never understand the marvelous piece, yet admire it… it is a lost secret, only understood by the master herself.  Through the eyes of another, the blackened paper with the harsh lashes of a lead pencil is only untamed blotches.  But through the heart of the author, it is her emotions in a portrait… it’s an image of her ambiance.  Through the black now squiggly lines…tears fall; they have stained the surface, leaving smears within its beauty.  The smudged figures and shapes have an appearance of her character… they are now a part of her.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;     Her fingers gracefully crossed the black and white keys with a familiar touch.  As each finger found its place she closed her eyes and pressed with a soft interest.  It began as a melody, but as she climbed the piano it grew to a chorus of rage.  The impact overwhelmed her with a wave of miscellaneous emotion.  She embraced it, and became one with the surge of anger as her whole body swayed in the music.  She did not have to try, nor think, her fingers played by memory the dark passion which forced itself through her arms.  The beautiful but violent composition gave a saddening effect that only she understood.  It was an uncontrollable sensation as she calmly, but forcefully pushed each note.  Her feelings of despair were washed from her heart through the shrill intensity of the screaming piano.  And then it ended.  An echo swept through the abrupt silence to leave a dreary stillness.  The masterpiece was finished.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3026811983070462131-8238528502320210098?l=flopsyredroses.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/feeds/8238528502320210098/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3026811983070462131&amp;postID=8238528502320210098' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8238528502320210098'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3026811983070462131/posts/default/8238528502320210098'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://flopsyredroses.blogspot.com/2008/01/masterpiece.html' title='The Masterpiece'/><author><name>Smithy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07333860130208248250</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='23' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_diLE1xopsaE/R6Co-99ahRI/AAAAAAAAAAM/KxmLKrmCaY4/S220/red+shoes.bmp'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry></feed>
