<?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-11169611</id><updated>2011-07-19T12:46:19.995-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Fun is Over</title><subtitle type='html'>And so it begins</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default?start-index=101&amp;max-results=100'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>139</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-114615401367122763</id><published>2006-04-27T08:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-27T09:06:53.683-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>The guy is doing better.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm off to Destin tonight for a girls weekend.  I cannot wait.  I did absolutely nothing over spring break because I had these papers due as soon as school resumed the next week.  I need a vacation.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm walking in the commencement ceremony in two weeks, because I am actually graduating.  I freaked out when I turned in my seating card for graduation and ordered my cap and gown.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm hoping for good times this weekend.  Monday would be our anniversary if we were not on a break.  And I don't think we're every going to get back together.  I started screaming at him in my dreams again.  I am under way too much stress.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-114615401367122763?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/114615401367122763/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=114615401367122763' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/114615401367122763'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/114615401367122763'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/04/guy-is-doing-better.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-114421170109358416</id><published>2006-04-04T21:17:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-04T21:35:01.106-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>He had an accident.  The car is totaled. His door was ripped off. &lt;br /&gt;It wasn't his fault.  The other car ran a stop sign.  He couldn't stop.  He has two broken vertebrae plus other bumps and bruises.  He is in so much pain and I can't make it go away.  And I can't get there to be with him until this weekend.  &lt;br /&gt;As much as I hurt when he told me he wanted to take a break I never wanted anything like this to happen to him.  His car was the only thing he had left after the hurricane and now its gone.  &lt;br /&gt;I'm so glad he is alive.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-114421170109358416?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/114421170109358416/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=114421170109358416' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/114421170109358416'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/114421170109358416'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/04/he-had-accident.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-114153555562106849</id><published>2006-03-04T21:04:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-20T17:58:30.116-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Spring</title><content type='html'>March came and with it came spring.  &lt;br /&gt;There's this smell in the air that comes with spring.  &lt;br /&gt;The air smells warm.  The sky always seems a brighter shade of blue.  &lt;br /&gt;I love the way the sun feels against my skin.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been enjoying the weather and spending time with friends.&lt;br /&gt;Things are, well they just are right now.&lt;br /&gt;I'm coming to this point in my life where things are about to change and I am comepletely and utterly scared.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-114153555562106849?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/114153555562106849/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=114153555562106849' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/114153555562106849'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/114153555562106849'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/03/spring.html' title='Spring'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113998537087826430</id><published>2006-02-14T22:18:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2006-02-14T22:47:18.033-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Today is finally over.  I didn't cry today.  I tried really hard to avoid today and the thought of today at all costs.  Having said that I don't know why I ventured to wal-mart this afternoon.  There were so many people there buying last minute gifts for whomever they were buying them for.  I must have seen like five guys walking around with dozens of pink and red balloons and without their dignity.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today was ok, because I knew there was no way that he and I could see each other.  He had to work.  I had class today.  I have two tests tomorrow.  He didn't get off work until 8 tonight.  It's a 2 hour drive.  It just wasn't going to happen. Not today.  Maybe if V-day had been on a weekend.  We talked and he told me Happy Valentine's Day. This year was still much better than last year where the guy I was dated said no to doing anything on V-day and then ran off to Vegas.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I take back the "I didn't cry today."  I did cry while watching the olympics and that 21 year old guy won the gold for the combined skiing thingy.  It was his mom that did it and her reaction.  And he is really cute.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I made myself dinner tonight.  I pan seared a ribeye steak with this garlic spice rub and made some mashed potatoes and corn.  And for desert some triple chocolate cookies.  It was so yummy.  I felt I deserved something tasty, because I've been eating grilled chicken for the past week.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I really wanted a Whitman's sampler.  But all wal-mart had were the one's that came heart shaped.  I wanted the box version.  I just couldn't buy a heart for myself.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113998537087826430?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113998537087826430/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113998537087826430' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113998537087826430'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113998537087826430'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/02/today-is-finally-over.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113951863678583987</id><published>2006-02-09T12:33:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-02-09T12:57:16.813-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I'm getting a ceiling.  There have been construction workers in my apartment all day.  Too bad they are not cute.  They are actually kind of creepy.  But they are fixing my apartment, so I can't really complain.  I just hope they don't use my bathroom.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113951863678583987?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113951863678583987/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113951863678583987' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113951863678583987'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113951863678583987'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/02/im-getting-ceiling.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113927130318411866</id><published>2006-02-06T16:13:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-02-06T16:15:03.200-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>We saw each other today.  It was good.  It felt so nice to be near him.  And it only reminded me of how much I really do miss him.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113927130318411866?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113927130318411866/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113927130318411866' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113927130318411866'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113927130318411866'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/02/we-saw-each-other-today.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113837913675882680</id><published>2006-01-27T08:23:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-27T08:25:36.783-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>At this moment.  At this very minute, there are workers putting on my new roof.  &lt;br /&gt;It's about time.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113837913675882680?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113837913675882680/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113837913675882680' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113837913675882680'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113837913675882680'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/01/at-this-moment.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113797087557525187</id><published>2006-01-22T13:27:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-22T20:53:16.070-08:00</updated><title type='text'>What a night!</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/991/895/1600/shots.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/991/895/320/shots.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/991/895/1600/keg.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/991/895/320/keg.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/991/895/1600/before.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/991/895/320/before.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We floated the keg.  We drank all the shots.  We didn't make up any of the money, but I had so much fun. There were so many people and so much drama.  There was this one girl who tried to hook up with both of my guy friends.  She went crying into the bathroom because the first one turned her down and then moments later she attacked the my other guy friend.  She lunged at him and started kissing him.  He told her nothing was going to happen and she ran away crying again.  I decided to leave at this time.  The guy that I've been talking to came and picked me up.  It was a good night.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113797087557525187?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113797087557525187/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113797087557525187' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113797087557525187'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113797087557525187'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/01/what-night.html' title='What a night!'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113788483395821966</id><published>2006-01-21T14:41:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-21T15:07:13.983-08:00</updated><title type='text'>We're doing it up right tonight!</title><content type='html'>Some friends and I are throwing a party tonight.  We've got a keg.  We're making a trash can full of this alcoholic drink, and we're making jello shots. Welcome back to school the right way.  We are also putting a tip jar at the door in hopes of making back the money we've all put into this party.  As of right now I have $5 to live on until Tuesday.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It should be fun...&lt;br /&gt;I should have some stories...&lt;br /&gt;This guy might be there that I usually do stupid things with when I'm drinking.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113788483395821966?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113788483395821966/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113788483395821966' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113788483395821966'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113788483395821966'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/01/were-doing-it-up-right-tonight.html' title='We&apos;re doing it up right tonight!'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113676614969045086</id><published>2006-01-08T16:14:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-08T16:22:29.706-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>He called me this morning.  &lt;br /&gt;Just when I had closed the book.&lt;br /&gt;And I answered the phone.&lt;br /&gt;He was lost and needed directions.&lt;br /&gt;So he called me.&lt;br /&gt;He called me.&lt;br /&gt;Why?&lt;br /&gt;Why am I the person he calls in a situation like this?&lt;br /&gt;I missed the sound of his voice.&lt;br /&gt;It was good to talk to him.&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to be hurt again.&lt;br /&gt;He told me he owed me big, for waking me so early.&lt;br /&gt;I told him yeah.&lt;br /&gt;I was thinking he owed me for alot of things.&lt;br /&gt;And then he told me to go to sleep.&lt;br /&gt;He would talk to me later.&lt;br /&gt;And it was over.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113676614969045086?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113676614969045086/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113676614969045086' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113676614969045086'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113676614969045086'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/01/he-called-me-this-morning.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113667332200134663</id><published>2006-01-07T14:29:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-07T14:35:22.036-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I made it through my class.  I have some writing to finish, but it's not due until Wednesday and I'm just about finished.  This was definitely an easy A.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There were actual workers here at my apartment this morning.  Did though do any work though?  Of course not.  I overheard one of the guys talking while he was walking around up there.  He was laughing and said you should see this big hole up here.  I wish they would hurry up and fix this before I graduate.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm actually closer to graduating than I thought.  I still graduate at the same time, but I have one more class than I thought.  I'm thinking about going to graduate school now.  I'm going to have to seriously sit down and weight the pros and cons.  I have this whole semester to think about it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113667332200134663?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113667332200134663/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113667332200134663' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113667332200134663'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113667332200134663'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/01/i-made-it-through-my-class.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113634726058789760</id><published>2006-01-03T19:44:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-01-03T20:03:44.710-08:00</updated><title type='text'>A New Year</title><content type='html'>My last post was lacking because I couldn't think of anything to write.  I talked to my ex, formerly the boyfriend, on New Year's Eve.  It's taken me three months to call him my ex.  I came to this realization that I am so angry with him, and right now I hate him.  I'd been having these dreams where we would be together and things would be going fine and then I would just start screaming at him.  Hitting him. And I couldn't stop in the dream.  I had this feeling of being completely out of control of my emotions.  Over and over again I would scream, "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"  When I finally told this to someone, the dreams stopped.  And then he became my ex to me.  I would most likely feel even better if I could tell this to him, but I don't think I have the courage for that yet.  I don't know why I called him Saturday, and I don't know why he answered.  I just knew that after that conversation that I'm not calling him again.  I still think of him sometimes and the pain is still fresh, but he's just a memory now and I'm just a memory to him, if that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the unexpected has been happening to me.  A guy from my past that I'm unsure of.  He gave me the most amazing goodnight kiss on Sunday, the first day of the new year.  It was gentle and tender and held promises that I don't know if I'm ready to believe.  He said things are different.  But my heart and head are both holding me back.  It's probably the smartest I've been in awhile.  I like not rushing into things.  He's making himself more available then he ever did in the past.  I just keep reminding myself he might still be the same stupid boy he was in the past, but I really hope he has become a man.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm taking a class this week.  I have three more eight hour days and then I will be one more step toward graduating.  And I'm still unsure of what I want to do after that.  I might go for my masters.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113634726058789760?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113634726058789760/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113634726058789760' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113634726058789760'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113634726058789760'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2006/01/new-year.html' title='A New Year'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113606972086258740</id><published>2005-12-31T14:27:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2005-12-31T14:55:20.876-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113606972086258740?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113606972086258740/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113606972086258740' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113606972086258740'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113606972086258740'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/12/merry-christmas-and-happy-new-year.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113247399435835253</id><published>2005-11-19T23:54:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2005-12-12T16:16:57.776-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Some things</title><content type='html'>I had forgotten what it was like living in an apartment.  Not having any insulation in my living room, or a ceiling, I can easily hear what is occuring in my neighbor's apartment.  Some things I have learned about them just by listening:&lt;br /&gt;           1.Dance Dance Revolution isn't just for teenagers anymore.&lt;br /&gt;           2.Doncha think you're girlfriend is hot like me can never be played too  &lt;br /&gt;             many times in a row, in a single night, or at any time.&lt;br /&gt;           3.Dance Dance Revolution can be played at home.&lt;br /&gt;           4.Their friends will park in the limited number of parking places that are&lt;br /&gt;             not being occupied by the construction trailors that are not being used &lt;br /&gt;             by the construction workers. I know the construction workers are not   &lt;br /&gt;             working because I still do not have a damn ceiling nor a damn roof,    &lt;br /&gt;             nor carpet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Some things I've learned about myself:           &lt;br /&gt;           1.I'd rather be alone than with Stupid Boy from my past.  Some things &lt;br /&gt;             will never change.&lt;br /&gt;           2.Six pages is a lot to write.  Especially when its do tomorrow.&lt;br /&gt;           3.I can do this whole college thing.  I can succeed when I try.&lt;br /&gt;           4.I am not a selfish person, regardless of what my crazy ex-friend thinks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've also learned that if I fall asleep with my hair wet, I will almost without a doubt, wake up with a cold.  Right before I have a six page paper to write, plus a book to read with chapter summaries and why it's a likely censorship target for young adults.  But it's my fault.  Wet hair and all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Things with the guy are still the same.  We've been talking.  We've almost seen each other a few times.  I've gone out and talked with guys.  Socialized.  I'm not sitting at home by myself every night, and I have made some new friends.  One more week and the semester from hell will be over.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113247399435835253?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113247399435835253/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113247399435835253' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113247399435835253'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113247399435835253'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/11/some-things.html' title='Some things'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113079095028072324</id><published>2005-10-31T14:35:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2005-10-31T12:35:50.293-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>He called me today.  He said he hasn't forgotten about me.  &lt;br /&gt;He said we would hang out soon.  When he could get away from work.&lt;br /&gt;He said he was sorry.  &lt;br /&gt;He's been overwhelmed with all that's been going on where he's at.&lt;br /&gt;Back in New Orleans. &lt;br /&gt;I won't give up on us.  &lt;br /&gt;I can't.  He means too much to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Happy Halloween.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113079095028072324?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113079095028072324/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113079095028072324' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113079095028072324'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113079095028072324'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/10/he-called-me-today.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113047249821209898</id><published>2005-10-27T23:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-10-27T21:08:18.226-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>We were building a life together.  We picked out the apartment.  We paid the deposit.  We went and looked at furniture and picked out the furniture that we liked.  He held me that night when we went to sleep.  And everything reminds me of him.  And I can't take his pictures down.  And I feel so empty inside without him.  &lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;And my fish died.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113047249821209898?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113047249821209898/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113047249821209898' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113047249821209898'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113047249821209898'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/10/we-were-building-life-together.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113037782167074088</id><published>2005-10-26T20:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-10-26T18:51:39.123-07:00</updated><title type='text'>why?</title><content type='html'>Why does it hurt so much?&lt;br /&gt;Why do I keep giving so much of myself?&lt;br /&gt;Why did he take so much from me?&lt;br /&gt;He told me he would never do this.&lt;br /&gt;Why did I believe everything he said?&lt;br /&gt;Why did he say he wanted to marry me?&lt;br /&gt;Why did I let him in?&lt;br /&gt;Why did I meet him?&lt;br /&gt;Why does it hurt so much?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113037782167074088?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113037782167074088/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113037782167074088' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113037782167074088'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113037782167074088'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/10/why.html' title='why?'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-113021532978793553</id><published>2005-10-24T23:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-10-24T21:45:38.506-07:00</updated><title type='text'>New Post</title><content type='html'>So much has happened since my last post.  So much that I couldn't talk about.  If I talked about it, then it would be real, and I still don't know if it is real or not.  The boyfriend told me he wanted to take a break after he had said he wanted to move in with me.  He told me he wasn't good enough for me.  He told me he needed to live on his own.  He needed to learn how to be independent and to not rely on anyone.  And I couldn't breath for a long time after that. And I felt like I was dying on the inside. I couldn't think about not being with him anymore.  And I still don't know if this is a permanent break or not.  But I know I shouldn't wait around.  But how do you move on when you only want to be with this one person? We've talked a lot since then.  It's been a month since he decided this is what he wanted at the moment.  But it's not what I want.  I don't know what to do.  I don't know how to feel.  So I made a choice.  I haven't called him since Thursday.  Today's Monday.  It hurts so much to not be able to talk to him.  To not talk to him. But he needs to know I'm hurt and he needs to know that I may not be there for him if he does decide that he wants things back the way they were before the storm.  And today is especially hard, it's been six months since our first date.  And I guess I've gotten my answer since he hasn't called any of these days that I haven't called.  I know I should probably move one, but he's so much to me.  And I am not ready to move on.  I am not ready to forget.  I'm not giving up, but I'm not going to stay in bed forever, or cry forever, or not go out anymore.  I have a life.  I just wish he was still a part of my life.  I may not have lost material possessions due to the storm, but I lost him, he was one of the most important people in my life. So what did I do, I called the guy that I dated before the boyfried.  The one that left me alone on the weekends and told his family that nothing was going on between us.  Why did I call him?  Why did he call back?  Why did he say that he was going to see me once he got back in town?  To come and see me at my apartment, where I live by myself.  I'm not even sure I'm not mad at him anymore. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm really thankful I have great friends who have been there for me during all this.  I really don't know what to do.  The apartment that I'm living in now, since the boyfriend decided that he didn't want to live with me and decided that he wanted to take a break, not really caring what I wanted.  I can only live in the bedroom of my apartment.  The room had some damage, so they had to take out the ceiling in my living room and over the dining room and the kitchen.  But I have a place to stay and it's cheap and right on campus.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Other than that, classes have been going really well.  I have a lot of homework every week, but I still have time to play.  I'm just trying to survive right not with all that's going on.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-113021532978793553?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/113021532978793553/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=113021532978793553' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113021532978793553'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/113021532978793553'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/10/new-post.html' title='New Post'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112698208689647196</id><published>2005-09-17T13:34:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-09-17T11:34:46.896-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>And it all comes falling down.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112698208689647196?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112698208689647196/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112698208689647196' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112698208689647196'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112698208689647196'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/09/and-it-all-comes-falling-down.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112581183274702829</id><published>2005-09-03T12:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-09-03T22:30:32.756-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>WE HAVE POWER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!&lt;br /&gt;WE HAVE POWER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!&lt;br /&gt;WE HAVE POWER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sorry.  I'm just so excited.  I know there's people that do not have power still or even a house, but it is so nice.  My sister is here, so we are helping them out.  I drove by there house the other day and it's like the water came in and lifted the house up and then slammed it back to the ground.  They found some plates and bowls that were in seperate cabinets stacked neatly together in the mud.  The water has done some funny things.  There's is this house on East Beach that is completely gone except for the foundation and there mailbox is still standing with not a scratch on it.  It's not leaning and the flag is still on it.  You can see where the storm surge came in on the barrier island.  There's no trees left in that spot.  It was this humongous rush of water all along the Mississippi gulf coast. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am so happy to sleep in my own bed.  I changed my sheets.  It's great.  The boyfriend is coming to stay tomorrow before he heads up north.  His store thankfully was able to transfer him and supply him with an apartment and furniture and some work shirts.  Tomorrow I'm going to take some clothes that I don't really need to the church for people that need them.  So I can feel like I'm doing something.  But everything is getting better here everyday.  It's not going to be normal for a long time, but at least there's people here that can help.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112581183274702829?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112581183274702829/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112581183274702829' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112581183274702829'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112581183274702829'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/09/we-have-power-we-have-power-we-have.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112568687813262841</id><published>2005-09-02T13:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-09-02T11:47:58.143-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Thank you everyone for your concerns.  I'm okay.  My family is ok.  The boyfriends family is ok. My house is fine.  We've been without power since Sunday morning.  We have a generator and just now got phones back.  It's really bad down here.  I'm in Ocean Springs and the bridge to Biloxi is gone.  The beach is gone.  The houses that were once there are gone.  We didn't know it was going to be this bad.  My sisters house is gone.  My cousin had five feet of water in his house.  My aunt had 2 1/2 feet of water in her house.  But we are all ok.  That is the main thing.  The boyfriends house sits in between the two levees that broke New Orleans.  Even if their house managed to not be underwater, the looters are so bad there may be nothing left.  It is like a war zone there.  Just keep everyone down here in your thoughts.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112568687813262841?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112568687813262841/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112568687813262841' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112568687813262841'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112568687813262841'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/09/thank-you-everyone-for-your-concerns_02.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112568653154039300</id><published>2005-09-02T13:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-09-02T11:42:11.546-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Thank you everyone for your concerns.  I'm okay.  My family is ok.  The boyfriends family is ok. My house is fine.  We've been without power since Sunday morning.  We have a generator and just now got phones back.  It's really bad down here.  I'm in Ocean Springs and the bridge to Biloxi is gone.  The beach is gone.  The houses that were once there are gone.  We didn't know it was going to be this bad.  My sisters house is gone.  My cousin had five feet of water in his house.  My aunt had 2 1/2 feet of water in her house.  But we are all ok.  That is the main thing.  The boyfriends house sits in between the two levies that broke New Orleans.  Even if their house managed to not be underwater, the looters are so bad there may be nothing left.  It is like a war zone there.  Just keep everyone down here in your thoughts.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112568653154039300?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112568653154039300/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112568653154039300' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112568653154039300'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112568653154039300'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/09/thank-you-everyone-for-your-concerns.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112520027798195842</id><published>2005-08-27T22:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-08-27T20:46:29.906-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>To the drunk girl at the bar last night.  No I do not think it was sexy when you got up on stage and lip synced into the mike that was not on to the song Doncha wish your girlfriend was hot like me.  I did think it was funny as did all my friends.  It also wasn't sexy when you and your sister danced together but not with any rhythm or to the beat of the song.  I guess marching to your own beat is cool but in your case no.  It was kind of uncool when you picked up that scary looking local and decided to go home with him.  It was very uncool when you almost spilled your drink on me and then almost tripped down the stairs that were like little platforms, so I don't know how you managed that one.  But I would like to thank you for the great entertainment.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Classes have started.  I'm like all of my classes so far.  That's about all that's been going on.  I'm super busy.  And that's why I haven't been on in awhile.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you have cable and you have the weather channel, you should not have missed what's about to hit the gulf coast.  And you know where Jim Cantore is, well that's where I live.  I'm about ten miles away from where they positioned him.  So it's gonna get scary here soon.  I'm actually worried about this one.  There's so many people that are going to be affected by this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Earlier today my aunt and her husband and three of her kids and I all piled into her honda civic to go on a mission to find Jim Cantore, because he's really hot.  But alas he was in his hotel room.  We did get to see the hotel room.  And all those people they keep showing walking around behind them are not from Mississipp.  There from Tennessee and such.  They somehow always manage to find the most redneck people to put on T.V.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112520027798195842?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112520027798195842/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112520027798195842' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112520027798195842'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112520027798195842'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/08/to-drunk-girl-at-bar-last-night.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112368272448992551</id><published>2005-08-10T09:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-08-10T07:05:24.496-07:00</updated><title type='text'>And he said</title><content type='html'>I asked the boyfriend if I could come out with him tonight.  I've been on his bike once.  I'm not comfortable riding on it just yet.  And he said I don't know what I would do if you got hurt.  At that moment all the feelings I've been having of not feeling important to him melted away.  With one sentence, he made everything right, and he had no idea it needed to be even said.  That one sentence told me that he cared.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112368272448992551?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112368272448992551/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112368272448992551' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112368272448992551'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112368272448992551'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/08/and-he-said.html' title='And he said'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112362147038280874</id><published>2005-08-09T16:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-08-09T14:04:30.386-07:00</updated><title type='text'>This job sucks</title><content type='html'>I am so freakin bored.  So bored I can't think of anything to write.  My brain has refused to work because of the lack of stimulation.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What would I have done today had I not had to work at the job that is not even my job anymore:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1.  Slept past 9 a.m. &lt;br /&gt;2.  Spent time with my dog.  She gets lonely when no one is at home.  My cat also has abandonment issues.  I think she gets that from me.&lt;br /&gt;3.  Watched Buffy reruns.  I missed this season when Buffy was on air and now FX is showing reruns.  &lt;br /&gt;4.  Worked out.&lt;br /&gt;5.  Not snacking just because I am bored.&lt;br /&gt;6.  Watching the Gillmore Girls/Beverly Hills 90210 reruns.  &lt;br /&gt;7.  Practiced my saxophone because I might actually audition for the fall.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What did I do instead since I am at the job that is not even my job anymore:&lt;br /&gt;1.  I hurt my thumb.  &lt;br /&gt;2.  I paid my cell phone bill.&lt;br /&gt;3.  I printed out a receipt for the duvet cover that was not what I thought it was going to be and decided to return it.&lt;br /&gt;4.  Ordered another duvet cover that is much prettier and found a good down comforter for a decent price.&lt;br /&gt;5.  Persuaded the boyfriend to go to Target with me if I buy him the new Staind c.d.  Yes, I have to bribe him to go to Target with me.  But at least it's only a c.d. this time.&lt;br /&gt;6.  Walked the mail out the the mailbox.  This was the only work related thing I have done today.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am so over this.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112362147038280874?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112362147038280874/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112362147038280874' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112362147038280874'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112362147038280874'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/08/this-job-sucks.html' title='This job sucks'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112328827760927958</id><published>2005-08-05T19:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-08-05T17:31:17.616-07:00</updated><title type='text'>So it's been awhile</title><content type='html'>I've been so busy since I quit working.  This is the longest I've been home in three weeks.  It hasn't all been fun.  The boyfriend and I stayed by ourselves for about a week and a half and that was a first for me and a learning experience.  And then I spent a few days at his house with him.  So two weeks straight of seeing each other.  I was ready for some time away from him, but when I left I immediately wanted to go back.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One of my best friends is going to graduate school.  It was sad saying goodbye for awhile.  But she's leaving for something good.  We had one last night out before she left.  It was so much fun.  So now our group of three is down to two.  My other best friend and I are going to have to find someone to drive for us when we go out, or at least to rotate.  What fun is drinking by yourself?   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*the braves have some sexy guys playing for them this year.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm still without my laptop.  The boyfriend still has mine.  So I'm on a ghetto laptop.  I'm missing three keys.  Just the stoppers are there.  But it's better than nothing I guess.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I made a 4.0 for the summer semester.  I haven't done that in all my years of college.  I came close a few times, but never quite got there.  I guess I am more serious this time around, probably because it's my money this time, but my mom and dad said they would help me get a car.  Never thought I would hear that.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*freakin' braves &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm working for my cousin on Monday and Tuesday.  It sucks to have to get up early on Monday but at least I'll be getting paid.  And I can play on a computer that has all its keys.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112328827760927958?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112328827760927958/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112328827760927958' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112328827760927958'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112328827760927958'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/08/so-its-been-awhile.html' title='So it&apos;s been awhile'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112119755521771156</id><published>2005-07-12T14:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-07-12T12:45:55.223-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>My phone company charged me twice this month for my phone bill.  Last month I paid my bill online using easy pay.  And after I made my payment I made sure that this was just a one time thing and this would not happen every month.  Sometimes I pay by check.  Sometimes I pay by debit card.  Sometimes I do an online check.  The freakin' morons at my phone company, since they had my visa information took out my payment on the 7th of July since I hadn't made a payment yet.  My check came in on the 11th.  So instead of contacting me telling me a payment had already been made, they cashed that check as well.  And that put my account in the negative.  My bank charges me $24 for having insufficient funds.  I talked to this one guy at the phone company about being charged twice and he was very nice and very helpful and credited my visa back.  I hadn't been to my bank yet, so I was unsure whether they would charge me the $24 or not.  After talking to my bank they told me to talk to my phone company and they would be the one to refund me that $24.  I called the phone people back again, was on hold for about ten minutes, and when I finally got someone, she told me it was not there fault.  It was my fault and they were not going to give me my money back.  I asked her why they cashed that check when a payment had already been made.  And she said they'll cash anything sent to them.  I did not authorize them to take a payment out of my account every month.  I made sure of that.  Just because I the easy pay that one time, even if I had checked that I didn't want to make another payment that way again, they could still take a payment out.  Does that make sense?  She pissed me off.  I told her thank you for her time and to forget about it and hung up on her.  She was still talking.  I don't know what she was saying.  But I hope that call was monitored because she was a complete bitch and was rude as hell to me.  I had to get off the phone because as soon as I hung up I started crying.  She made me so mad I cried.  She just continued to tell I should have done this and this.  And I had done all those things, and it wasn't their error it was mine.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112119755521771156?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112119755521771156/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112119755521771156' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112119755521771156'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112119755521771156'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/07/my-phone-company-charged-me-twice-this.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112118426574992776</id><published>2005-07-12T11:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-07-12T09:05:43.516-07:00</updated><title type='text'>And my last day is tomorrow</title><content type='html'>I am so excited.  My last day of work is tomorrow.  And it's only a half-day.  I can now concentrate on going to school full-time and finally graduating.  I am so over this job.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The boyfriend and I haven't had our mini-vacation yet, or rather my mini-vacation.  He has to work while there during the day.  He's heading up there today and I'm going tomorrow.  I plan on relaxing by the pool, hitting the hotel's exercise facility, drinking, and sleeping in.  And not having any responsibilities for a few days.  I have some classwork to finish for my online classes, but not much.  About a day's worth.  I can't wait.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks everyone for the concern for all of us on the gulf coast this weekend.  We were lucky with this one, but once again we are watching the tropics.  I know it comes with the territory.  So, I am not shocked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yeah for no more work for awhile!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112118426574992776?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112118426574992776/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112118426574992776' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112118426574992776'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112118426574992776'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/07/and-my-last-day-is-tomorrow.html' title='And my last day is tomorrow'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112093149003328790</id><published>2005-07-09T12:53:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-07-09T10:51:30.040-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Hope for the best</title><content type='html'>That's all anyone can hope for.  This happens every year.  Some years are worse than others.  Some years nothing will come even remotely close to the coast. Last year was an exception.  But this year makes it look like a trend.  Right now is the calm before the storm.  The anticipation.  The waiting.  The worrying.  Clouds are slowly rolling in.  The sun is still out, but for how long?  And when the rain and wind finally do come, how strong will it be?  What will be left in its wake?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wish the weather channel would quit showing the same freakin clips over and over again.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Keep in mind every that's in the path of this storm.  And that's a wide range.  It really does not matter where the strom goes in directly because to the east and west will still receive strong winds.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The boyfriend and I are evacuating to the north.  We're going on a minivacation that is being paid for by his work.  It'll be nice to spend some time with him for a longer time period.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hoping for the best here.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112093149003328790?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112093149003328790/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112093149003328790' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112093149003328790'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112093149003328790'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/07/hope-for-best.html' title='Hope for the best'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-112058169667981848</id><published>2005-07-05T11:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-07-05T09:42:26.943-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Bring it on TS Cindy</title><content type='html'>The gulf coast is under a tropical storm warning again.  Cindy is supposed to make landfall sometime this night.  I am so crossing my fingers that my night class will be canceled tonight.  My body is hurting from this weekend.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The boyfriend and his family came and stayed on the coast Sunday night.  I stayed with them and had a blast.  They had a suite so the boyfriend and I had our privacy.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sunday night we decided to go to a casino and go to one of the bars there.  As we are walking in from the parking garage, my ex comes in from the front entrance and passes a few feet in front of us looking spectacular in his new balances and t-shirt.  Great attire for going out to the nicest casino on the strip.  He's walking in front of us and hasn't seen us and then he stops and we have to walk right by him.  And I touched his shoulder and said hi.  What possessed me to do that, I don't know.  I guess I wanted him to see me with my boyfriend.  But it's not like I went and sought him out.  I had no idea he was going to be there at that casino.  There's like ten casinos and we both ended up at that one.  It was nice seeing the look on his face when he realized I was with another guy.  The boyfriend and I were at bar and the ex came walking by.  I guess he was checking us out again.  I'm now glad I got all dressed up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After saying hi, I was shaking.  And the boyfriend asked me if I still had feelings for the ex.  I know for a fact I don't.  That's not why I was shaking.  I dislike this guy.  And I hate running into him.  Because I am nice to him when he does talk to me.  But I never know if what he's telling me is a lie.  He lied to me so much.  I was out to have a good time and the ex was not someone that I was expecting to see.  I wasn't prepared for that.  At church I know he's going to be there.  I guess he was meant to see that I've moved on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My shoulders are so sunburned.  And my body feels like I slammed against a wall at some point yesterday.  But I had fun.  We hung out at the pool and drank some until we had to checkout and then went to the beach.  Icky Mississippi water.  The boyfriend rented a jet-ski and I was on for like 5 minutes and I told him to take me back.  It was way too rough for me.  He had more fun without me because he could go super fast and do stupid stuff.  We had some crab legs for dinner and we both made a huge mess.  I didn't care though.  I'm comfortable with him.  He gave me a ride on his motorcycle and I loved that.  I like his motorcycle much better than the race car.  Even though the motorcycle is more dangerous.  After they left I went with my family to the beach and watched the fireworks.  Tons of people everywhere and you could see fireworks going off for miles along the beach.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had a great time.  I just wish I wasn't so sore and my class is canceled tonight.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-112058169667981848?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/112058169667981848/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=112058169667981848' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112058169667981848'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/112058169667981848'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/07/bring-it-on-ts-cindy.html' title='Bring it on TS Cindy'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111997746152170462</id><published>2005-06-28T11:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-28T09:51:01.526-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>2 1/2 weeks and no more sucky working job for me.  I will be broke for a month.  But I will be happy.&lt;br /&gt;My mom moved out of the house for awhile.  Not sure for how long.  My dad seems okay.  I hope she comes back.  &lt;br /&gt;My blow dryer broke about a month ago and I have been using my mom's.  She took it with her.  I came to work with wet hair today.  I guess I'm going to have to buy a new one.&lt;br /&gt;I was approved for my apartment.  I've made my credit better.&lt;br /&gt;I wish I could quit right now and not come back and they could still pay me that $750 that I would make anyways.  That would be so awesome.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111997746152170462?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111997746152170462/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111997746152170462' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111997746152170462'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111997746152170462'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/2-12-weeks-and-no-more-sucky-working.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111955404648709627</id><published>2005-06-23T14:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-23T12:14:06.496-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Must study Economics.  Must stay off the internet.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111955404648709627?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111955404648709627/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111955404648709627' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111955404648709627'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111955404648709627'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/must-study-economics.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111938175889784105</id><published>2005-06-21T14:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-21T12:24:58.990-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I have an apartment when I'm ready to move into it.  I met with the manager of the apartments on Saturday and filled out the application and he said I would have an apartment.  Sixteen more work days left and 23 days until I can start moving into my apartment.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm sad for my parents.  A part of me will be sad about leaving, but a bigger part of me needs the independence.  Their house is the house where I grew up, but it doesn't feel like home anymore.  I feel at home with the boyfriend.  He'll still be in another state, but it will be easier for us to spend time together, and he can walk around naked at my place, which I fully endorse.  I've missed the days of being able to watch T.V. in my panties.  And my parents need  the time alone to figure out what is left now that my brother and I are pretty much out of the house for good now.  I know it will be hard for them, but I think they can work it out.  I need for them to work it out.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn't get to see the boyfriend this weekend.  He was sick and I think he just needed some time to himself.  I understand.  He has spent every day off he has had since we've met with me.  But it still sucked and I still felt like I was being left out of his life.  He then proceeded to make me laugh when I thought I wasn't in the mood to laugh.  Another reason why he is wonderful.  He gave me his work number today to call him on if I really needed anything.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have a test tonight.  I should be studying.  I'll get to it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111938175889784105?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111938175889784105/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111938175889784105' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111938175889784105'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111938175889784105'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/i-have-apartment-when-im-ready-to-move.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111895332846915696</id><published>2005-06-16T15:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-16T13:22:08.473-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Tentatively I have an apartment.  There is a unit available and I'm going to fill out all the necessary paperwork on Saturday.  I was going to try to move later, but I have to get out.  And there is an apartment available now, so I am going to jump on it.  I am tired of my parents putting me in the middle of their problems.  My dad is taking out his frustrations with my mom on me and my mom is telling me how she is feeling suffocated by my dad everyday.  They both need to compromise and talk about things instead of letting all this continue to build up.  My dad yelled at me about staying out with the boyfriend.  He said he didn't care if I'm 24 as long as I'm living under his roof he won't allow it.  And that would be fine if they were taking care of me still.  I pay for everything.  I'm paying for my school and for my apartment in the fall.  I'm paying for my summer classes.  I've paid for everything that has gone wrong with my car since I've been working.  And he wants to tell me what I cannot do.  And if this had been my younger brother, he wouldn't have said a thing.  And I just want to cry.  I'm so sad for my dad.  My mom is being not so nice to him and I feel awful for him.  But it's not fair for them to put me in the middle and to take out their frustrations on me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111895332846915696?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111895332846915696/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111895332846915696' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111895332846915696'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111895332846915696'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/tentatively-i-have-apartment.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111887142087553590</id><published>2005-06-15T16:36:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-15T14:37:00.880-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Poo!!!</title><content type='html'>One of the classes I am taking over the summer is Economics.  I don't know why I chose Economics for one of my social electives.  I hated Accounting.  I don't know what made me think that I would like Economics.  I really needed an A in this class to boost my GPA back to where it should be, but it looks like I'm going to get a B.  Getting a B is not so bad, but its not what I want.  So poo on economics.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I have 21 days left at this job.  And two weeks into taking my summer classes, I am almost ready to take the midterms of my online classes.  The perk of having online classes and being an overachiever.  Once I am done with work I should be done with both my online classes and will only have two weeks left of the night class.  I will then spend my days before the fall semester working on my tan and losing this weight this stupid job has made me gain.  This job has forced me to eat all day and have zero energy when I get home from work.  I'd rather be skinny and have less money then be where I am now, not so much skinny.  And more time to spend with the boyfriend.  He has a better job.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111887142087553590?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111887142087553590/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111887142087553590' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111887142087553590'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111887142087553590'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/poo.html' title='Poo!!!'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111877851387532758</id><published>2005-06-14T14:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-14T13:28:02.936-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I'm supposed to be shredding an obscene number of brochures at the moment.  It's easy once I remove the staples.  But I've someone broke the paper shredder.  What to do now?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111877851387532758?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111877851387532758/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111877851387532758' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111877851387532758'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111877851387532758'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/im-supposed-to-be-shredding-obscene.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111869044973866894</id><published>2005-06-13T14:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-13T12:21:41.903-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Only in Mississippi.  The desk clerk at the hotel we stayed at last night asked the boyfriend what kind of car he was driving.  He has an Audi TT.  The guy spelled it Outtie.  Brilliant.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111869044973866894?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111869044973866894/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111869044973866894' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111869044973866894'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111869044973866894'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/only-in-mississippi.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111868672967657862</id><published>2005-06-13T13:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-13T11:18:49.680-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I left work early on Friday.&lt;br /&gt;I came into work late today.  A half a day late.&lt;br /&gt;Tropical storm Arlene fizzled out.  Just some light rain and wind.&lt;br /&gt;The boyfriend came and yesterday and we went out last night.  We are so expensive.  He's more expensive than I am.  We drank at Chili's and had really great food.  I tried something different and loved it.  And we also had the molten chocolate cake.  Yummy.  Once we developed a good buzz, we went and watched to movie High Tension.  That movie was freaky.  The boyfriend loved it of course.  Before the movie actually started we were going to get a little frisky in the theater.  There were only like four people there.  And right before the show starts, this girl comes and sits at the very back where we were by herself when there were a gazillion other seats available.  She sucked.  &lt;br /&gt;We ended up staying in a hotel last night and that is why I came in late this morning.  I only get to see him on the weekends and I would much rather stay in bed with him then go to work at 8 in the morning.  &lt;br /&gt;My mom called me early this morning and asked why I didn't leave a note to tell them where we were.  They were both asleep when I came to get some stuff, so I didn't bother.  She said her and my dad both figured that we were at my cousin's.  I was like yeah, at my cousin's.  She said my dad said we were probably there having sex, he just didn't want to know about it.  My mom said if she were our age, she would be doing the same.  Nice early morning conversation with the mom.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111868672967657862?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111868672967657862/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111868672967657862' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111868672967657862'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111868672967657862'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/i-left-work-early-on-friday.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111841547605026780</id><published>2005-06-10T09:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-10T07:57:56.056-07:00</updated><title type='text'>This doesn't bode well</title><content type='html'>We are under a tropical storm watch.  It is only a week into the Atlantic Hurricane Season and there's already a tropical storm heading for the Gulf Coast.  Tropical storms are actually kind of exciting.  Having lived on the Gulf Coast all my life, I've gone through plenty of tropical storms.  And three major Hurricanes.  When I was five the center of Hurricane Elena made landfall where I live.  We were on the bad side of the storm.  I don't remember much, because I slept most of the time.  The danger of the situation was lost on my being five.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Georges was next.  I remember this one vividly.  The eye made landfall where I live again.  And once again we were on the bad side of the eye.  We actually did not go through the eye, but were on the eastern eye wall.  Where the strongest winds are located.  I remember how the wind sounded making its way through cracks in our wooden door.  The creaks and moans the door made under the strain of the wind.  Whenever I hear the wind howl even remotely close, I am drawn back to that night and how afraid we all were.  Hearing things hit the house.  Not being able to see anything because the storm made landfall in the middle of the night was so scary.  The night became even blacker.  The air is so thick and heavy during the storm.  You can feel it wet against your skin.  You are immediately transported back 100 years when there was no electricity.  Even though we were not in the eye, you could tell when it had passed north of us, the wind increased in intensity.  Your ears pop constantly from the pressure change.  When day broke, you could see the lines of the wind in the grass and the trees.  They were all facing the same way.  After the storm passes, the sky begins to clear and the air feels and smells cleaner.  The storm clears away all that is needed and the nature that has been damaged begins to grow again.  It is a cycle that has kept the coast beautiful.  And it will happen again and again.  I don't know why people act the way they do when a storm approaches.  It is inevitable.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ivan sideswiped us.  We had around 75 mph sustained winds but nothing like Pensacola.  We had some gusts but we were spared the worst.  My family and I went to our church and you could stand outside and watch the winds.  Actually being able to see what was going on was weird.  You could see transistors blowing across the bay and power lines swinging in the wind.  The quietness of everything compared to the winds is eerie.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We are directly in the projected path of Arlene.  But it will only be a little windy this time and will rain tremendously.  So nothing to worry about.  Tornadoes are the most to worry about with tropical storms.  And they are rain wrapped, hard to see, but are usually very weak.  Hope for the best this season and we won't have any Hurricanes, just tropical storms.  But it doesn't seem like that is going to happen.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111841547605026780?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111841547605026780/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111841547605026780' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111841547605026780'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111841547605026780'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/this-doesnt-bode-well.html' title='This doesn&apos;t bode well'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111826582708870678</id><published>2005-06-08T16:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-08T14:23:47.096-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Inspired by &lt;a href="http://alibutt.blogspot.com"&gt;ali&lt;/a&gt;, I decided to tell one of the most recent  accounts of how I have embarrassed myself with falling.  Oh, I've also embarrassed myself with running into things as well.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A month ago when I was with the boyfriend, we went out with his family to go see a movie.  As we were going to leave, I was walking behind him and his mother when I felt my foot slip out from underneath me and I landed on my bottom on the stairs.  Thankfully the boyfriend and his mother didn't actually see me, but they did turn around when they heard me fall.  He was sweet and kept asking if I was okay.  Okay but humiliated.  I told him to get used to things like this.  I get to the bathroom after exiting that place and look in my purse and my cell phone is gone.  It had flown out of my purse in my fall.  That's like the twentieth time I've almost lost my cell phone.  When we get back to his house, I'm looking all over for my sunglasses, and I turn to his mom and tell her I think I lost my sunglasses in my fall too.  But alas, the humiliation wasn't done yet, because they were on top of my head.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two weeks ago, we went to another movie, and as I was rushing to the bathroom I almost slipped again, and this time it would have been in front of a crowded movie theater.  I was wearing the same shoes as when I landed on my bum the first time.  I have learned, and will not wear those flip flops to any more movie theaters.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111826582708870678?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111826582708870678/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111826582708870678' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111826582708870678'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111826582708870678'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/inspired-by-ali-i-decided-to-tell-one.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111817421772235358</id><published>2005-06-07T14:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-07T12:57:31.936-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I did it!</title><content type='html'>I told my boss when my last day will be.  I have 26 days left to work here.  That's not counting weekends or the 4th of July.  It might even be less if I take off some Mondays.  I am so excited.  I just hope they don't give this job to the other bosses wife, the one that sleeps all day and I do her job for her.  I don't see how she could do it.  They have a baby, I don't see them putting her into day care, nor do I see her staying here all day.  Hopefully they will give it to my cousin.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111817421772235358?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111817421772235358/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111817421772235358' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111817421772235358'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111817421772235358'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/i-did-it.html' title='I did it!'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111808787242876585</id><published>2005-06-06T14:55:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-06T13:11:10.940-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>So, my boss knows I'm leaving.  I didn't tell him.  My cousin broke the news to him when he was drunk and made him sign a form saying that she could have my job.  All I have to do now is tell him when I'm leaving.  Easy enough.  Except I want to say tomorrow and I really need to stay until the middle of July.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had a great weekend.  I went to my three year old cousin's birthday party on Saturday.  This one was for her and her friends.    She acts like she is so grown up.  They had some kiddy pools set up and this sprinkler thing with these little arms that twirled and shot water out.  Her little brother, who just turned one, loved those things, and kept squirting all the kids with the arms.  He's gonna be trouble.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I spent the day with the boyfriend yesterday.  I still can't get over that I'm someone's girlfriend and that I have a boyfriend, it's been so long.  And I love hearing him call me his girlfriend.  We went to lunch, watched some movies, and had some fun time.  I love the weekends.  I can't wait until it's Friday again.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111808787242876585?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111808787242876585/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111808787242876585' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111808787242876585'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111808787242876585'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/so-my-boss-knows-im-leaving.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111783332817479249</id><published>2005-06-03T16:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-03T14:15:28.180-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I really think I am going crazy working here.  I want to scream all the time.  When one of the kitchen boys comes within a foot of me, I want to hit or break something.    &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was here all by myself today.  I really didn't start to hate this job until we moved into the new building.  At the other building I could see the outside.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've got most of my furniture taken care of for when I move into my apartment.  I just have to get the apartment and pay for the apartment until my student loans come in.  I am so excited about going back and living by myself again.  I love my parents, but I can only take living with them for so long.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Have a great weekend.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111783332817479249?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111783332817479249/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111783332817479249' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111783332817479249'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111783332817479249'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/i-really-think-i-am-going-crazy.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111774729153020426</id><published>2005-06-02T16:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-02T14:22:22.310-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>What has sucked about today?&lt;br /&gt;1:  My paycheck.  All $180 of it for this week.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2:  It's sunny outside for the first time in like two weeks, and I'm stuck inside with no windows.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3:  Yesterday my boss gave me this note saying I need to call his wife, who sits at home and gets paid salary while I do her job, with all the people that called for catering.  I have called and her phone is usually turned off.  What sucks even more about this, was that she was still sleeping at 1:30 in the afternoon today and still getting paid.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4:  The boyfriend is not here, I'm not where the boyfriend is, so I can't do any boyfriend/girlfriend like activities for a few more days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What's great about today?&lt;br /&gt;1:  I'm leaving in ten minutes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2:  Tomorrow is Friday.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3:  I'm giving my notice tomorrow.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111774729153020426?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111774729153020426/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111774729153020426' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111774729153020426'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111774729153020426'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/what-has-sucked-about-today-1-my.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111765738065815768</id><published>2005-06-01T15:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-06-01T13:24:19.936-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Happy Belated Birthday to Jess!!!!</title><content type='html'>I hope it was lots of fun.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Have I failed as an adult, because I can't hack it in an 8-5 job that pays crap and doesn't have any benefits?  And it doesn't look like they are going to be getting benefits anytime soon.  I have way to much schooling to be sitting here and doing absolutely nothing.  I wrote out my two weeks notice.  But only one boss came in today, so I have to wait to hand it in.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One boss asked me today to run something to UPS for him.  All I could think of saying was, "what, am I your bitch?"  But I didn't say it.  I do not get compensated for gas when I run errands for them, like taking their clothes to the dry cleaners.  I hate my job.  And they keep adding things that I'm supposed to be doing.  I am now the secretary for two businesses.  One boss put his wife in charge of the second business and she's being paid salary to sit at home with their kid while I answer the phone and take down all the information to give to her.  Am I bitter?  Am I disgruntled?  Have I said I really hate this job?  And if I stay working here, I'll never be able to move out of my parents house, pay off my bills, or get a new car.  I quit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I started summer classes last night at the local junior college to finish up some core classes I have left.  It felt so nice to have my brain stimulated and to actually be learning something.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111765738065815768?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111765738065815768/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111765738065815768' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111765738065815768'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111765738065815768'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/06/happy-belated-birthday-to-jess.html' title='Happy Belated Birthday to Jess!!!!'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111722569744752592</id><published>2005-05-27T15:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-27T13:51:09.586-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I had this dream last night, and I was talking fluently in French.  I know like four words in French, but in my dream I spoke it very well and even had the correct accent.  I've had a similar dream to this, where I was speaking Spanish.  And I understood what I was saying.  Crazy benadryl.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And why do I have to untangle the phone cord on the phone here every day?  I just untangled it and it is already getting all tangly again.  And I wish those stupid credit card people would stop calling here and asking if we take credit cards.  They are worse than having nothing to do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Is it sad I just spend five minutes shredding everything in my trash can with our new paper shredder?   I did find, however, a free blockbuster's favorite rental.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111722569744752592?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111722569744752592/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111722569744752592' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111722569744752592'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111722569744752592'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/i-had-this-dream-last-night-and-i-was.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111713030016924785</id><published>2005-05-26T12:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-26T10:59:16.353-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>My head feels like it's about to explode.  I always seem to catch a cold in the summertime.  And it is now summertime here.  The seasons decided to skip spring this year.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The cat spilled water all over my floor this morning, then proceeded to knock my music stand over, with all the music that was on it, in the water.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All I want to do is go home and go to bed.  I'm thinking it will be an early day for me.  And this is the second week in a row where my paycheck sucked.  But I'm not really caring at the moment.  And I am still taking Monday off.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111713030016924785?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111713030016924785/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111713030016924785' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111713030016924785'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111713030016924785'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/my-head-feels-like-its-about-to.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111696752540255372</id><published>2005-05-24T13:45:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-24T13:45:25.406-07:00</updated><title type='text'>My new tattoo</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"&gt; &lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/45615930@N00/15516624/" title="photo sharing"&gt;&lt;img src="http://photos13.flickr.com/15516624_28f294bcab_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;br /&gt; &lt;span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"&gt;  &lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/45615930@N00/15516624/"&gt;My new tattoo&lt;/a&gt;  &lt;br /&gt;  Originally uploaded by &lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/45615930@N00/"&gt;daisy b.&lt;/a&gt;. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;It really is that tiny.&lt;br clear="all" /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111696752540255372?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111696752540255372/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111696752540255372' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111696752540255372'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111696752540255372'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/my-new-tattoo.html' title='My new tattoo'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111696740441243902</id><published>2005-05-24T13:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-24T13:43:24.416-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Beach</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"&gt; &lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/45615930@N00/15516575/" title="photo sharing"&gt;&lt;img src="http://photos11.flickr.com/15516575_e4ca2996ee_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;br /&gt; &lt;span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"&gt;  &lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/45615930@N00/15516575/"&gt;The Beach&lt;/a&gt;  &lt;br /&gt;  Originally uploaded by &lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/45615930@N00/"&gt;daisy b.&lt;/a&gt;. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;This is our view from the Condo.  I really want to go back.&lt;br clear="all" /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111696740441243902?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111696740441243902/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111696740441243902' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111696740441243902'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111696740441243902'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/beach_24.html' title='The Beach'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111694232227110726</id><published>2005-05-24T08:45:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-24T06:45:22.276-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Happy Birthday To Me!!!!!</title><content type='html'>Thanks martini and that girl for wishing me a great birthday.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today's the day.  I am now 24 or I will be at 10:30 tonight.  And I am back at work.  I had a great weekend.  Saturday night the boyfriend took me to this great restaurant where I had fried ravioli with a crawfish cream sauce.  I could live off of this sauce.  I'm going to have dreams about this sauce it was so good.  I also had an apple martini.  It was very applelicious and just about knocked me on my ass before dinner even came.  That's what I get for not eating anything since early that morning.  Then the dessert.  Chocolate turtle cheesecake.  It melted in your mouth.  I have a new favorite restaurant.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got Ocean's Twelve for my birthday present.  I still have mixed feelings about today.  I used to always be excited about my birthday.  But even now with how great it was, I still want to cry.  I guess it's because of the thought of growing older.  Maybe it's just being back at work.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111694232227110726?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111694232227110726/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111694232227110726' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111694232227110726'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111694232227110726'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/happy-birthday-to-me.html' title='Happy Birthday To Me!!!!!'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111660782213472004</id><published>2005-05-20T11:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-20T09:53:16.716-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>In honor of martini, I have five hours left at work.  And then I am done until I decide when I want to come back on Monday.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My birthday is also in four days.  Another countdown.  Last year I cried on my birthday.  My whole family (aunts, uncles, and cousins) have a tradition of going out to dinner for someone's birthday.  My birthday falls right after everyone has gone back home after exams.  So, none of my friends are ever around to go out or do anything.  Last year I had just moved home, was getting over the Stupid Boy, and just wasn't all that excited about my birthday.  But I still wanted everyone else to be excited.  I was getting ready to go eat and my mom comes and tells me to hurry up everyone is waiting they want to get this over with.  And that's when the tears started to come.  It was my birthday and you're supposed to feel special on your birthday and I felt the complete opposite.  I just felt like I was inconveniencing everyone with having a birthday.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm always the person that remembers.  That calls people on their birthday, even if we haven't talked in months.  It doesn't take that much effort to be thoughtful.  It's just one day a year that's yours alone.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I'm going to have a happy birthday this year.  It will be special.  I have someone special I want to spend my time with who wants to spend time with me and wants to get me something even if we haven't been seeing each other that long.  No crying on this birthday for me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111660782213472004?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111660782213472004/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111660782213472004' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111660782213472004'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111660782213472004'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/in-honor-of-martini-i-have-five-hours.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111652939071985691</id><published>2005-05-19T14:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-19T12:03:10.720-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>So I might have had a salad today in attempt at cutting back for my birthday dinners coming up starting tomorrow night, but then I ate two double chocolate chip cookies.  Why do they put the cookies right next to where you have to pay at Subway?  But the salad was all vegetables and fat free Italian dressing, so they cancel each other out.  No more sweets until tomorrow night for me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111652939071985691?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111652939071985691/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111652939071985691' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111652939071985691'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111652939071985691'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/so-i-might-have-had-salad-today-in.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111651253379823494</id><published>2005-05-19T09:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-19T07:22:13.803-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I had every intention of making it to work on time this morning.  I woke up on time.  I got in the shower on time.  I even had time to eat breakfast.  I wasn't able to eat breakfast, however, because we were out of milk.  So I am now drinking a sprite for breakfast.  I left my house with enough time to make it work by 8.  I came to my street that I use to get on the Highway and they had moved all the road closed thingy's, so I thought the road was opened.  (Yesterday the road was closed all day, and I forgot every time and had to drive almost to another city to get on my street.)  When I came to the railroad crossing, the road was blocked to all traffic.  I had to turn around and continue on the back road until I could get on the highway again.  This isn't so bad going to work because the street that leads to the highway is one light away from my work.  The bad part is that it's through a school zone, so by the time I get there in the mornings, all the buses have dropped off the kids and are turning back onto the street.  I had to wait for ten minutes.  Then the crossing guard favors one side of the intersection over the other three sides.  So instead of being almost on time for work today, I  was sixteen minutes late.  But I don't feel like crying today.  I get paid today.  Tomorrow's Friday.  And I'm getting an expensive dinner for my birthday from the boyfriend on Saturday night.  I'm getting a couple of good dinners out of this birthday.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111651253379823494?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111651253379823494/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111651253379823494' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111651253379823494'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111651253379823494'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/i-had-every-intention-of-making-it-to.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111642980502401309</id><published>2005-05-18T10:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-18T08:23:25.026-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I think I have carpel tunnel.  My whole right arm is aching, from my wrist all the way up to my shoulder.  I know I shouldn't type, but what else am I supposed to do during the day.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have zero energy today.  And I feel like crying.  It took all I had to pull myself out of bed this morning.  I've got to fix this.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111642980502401309?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111642980502401309/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111642980502401309' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111642980502401309'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111642980502401309'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/i-think-i-have-carpel-tunnel.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111636005923174222</id><published>2005-05-17T15:13:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-17T13:15:52.710-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Back from the Beach and Other Places</title><content type='html'>How do you have a small emergency?  An emergency is an emergency.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I actually feel refreshed coming into work today.  Having a 4 and 1/2 day weekend is awesome.  Too bad the internet is being sucky here at work.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On Thursday, we didn't end up leaving until like five or six.  But on the drive over, we had lots of beers.  We stopped every 30 minutes and a normal 2 and 1/2 hour drive took us 4 hours.  But it was fun.  The hotel was not what I was expecting for the money we all had to pay.  But it worked.  And we had an incredible view.  It was right on the beach.  The bed that I had to sleep on was like trampoline.  I toss and turn through the whole night unless I am exhausted, so every time I would turn I would bounce for a few minutes.  It was great fun when I came back Friday night drunk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The one night we did go out was kind of interesting.  That was the night I audioblogged.  We were at Fudpuckers and the wait was so long we went to the bar and had a few drinks.  That's where we found the guy playing guitar by himself.  This guy rocked.  I was all the way at the back of the bar and I yelled out Satellite and I didn't know if he heard me or not.  He started playing another song, and I know he saw me making a fuss and he kept singing and said Satellite is next.  He was great.  When he finished he said that was fun and right then we got our table.  Good stuff.  We finally ate and it's late and there were some party poopers, so only three of us went back to  Fudpuckers.  They had a great band when this chick who was a Gwen Stefani wannabe.  She even dressed like early Gwen, with the tank tops and dickies, except she was no where near as good as Gwen.  We managed to get seats at the bar and this is where we stayed until we had to leave (meaning we could not drink anymore).  I made friends with the bartender.  We bought shots, tipped him extra well, and he made me a free drink.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was sitting there at the bar and I hear my name being yelled out.  I turn around and there is this guy I made out with like once, who I really didn't like but only did it to support my friend on her quest for the guy's roommate.  I am quite a distance from where I live and from the city we both lived in when this occurrence happened.  He was all cool at first.  And I thought he was going to be all friendly.  He then said he stopped calling me because he thought I was hung up on some guy, which is funny because it wasn't the guy he was talking about, it was the &lt;a href="http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/03/stupid-boy-part-i.html"&gt;stupid boy&lt;/a&gt;, and I'm the one who stopped calling him.  I thought he was kind of crazy.  He then mumbles something.  I didn't know if I heard him right.  He says it a little louder and it was "I need some attention."  He's trying to hit on the wrong girl.  I tell him no.  He asks me why, and I tell him I have a boyfriend.  He says he doesn't care, and I tell him I care and my boyfriend would care.  He then tries to get me to dance with him.  So not happening.  He finally leaves and plants himself on the dance floor where I can see him.  I turn the other way.  I'm talking to my friend now, and I've only had a few sips of my free drink Mr. Bartender had made for me when I spill it all over my white capri pants.  My pants are now pink.  But I got another free drink and a huggy that says "Shut up and Drink" to make sure I didn't spill this one.  I know I'm special.  My friend conned a sombrero off of a boy.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Saturday I spent the day sobering up on the beach and by the pool.  Somewhere during the day, in our drunkenness, we decided to all get tattoos.  Three chickened out.  I now have two tattoos.  This one is itty bitty.  It's smaller than a dime.  It's a tiny heart on the right upper part of my bum.  It took like five minutes.  It isn't much to brag about.  But I liked it and I wanted it and it's the last one I'm getting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had a good time.  I came back early on Sunday to have lunch with my mom and family and to go see the boyfriend.  I didn't have any money to go shopping.  So there was no reason for me to stay and I rode back with someone that drove over by alone.  I called in sick yesterday because I really wasn't ready to get back to work.  And I spent the day with the boyfriend and his family.  We went to lunch with his mom, watched his little brother's baseball game, and went to a movie with the little brother and his mom and dad.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111636005923174222?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111636005923174222/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111636005923174222' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111636005923174222'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111636005923174222'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/back-from-beach-and-other-places_17.html' title='Back from the Beach and Other Places'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111605456651611984</id><published>2005-05-14T00:09:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-14T00:09:26.520-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="audblog"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/58676/189934.mp3" class="audLink"&gt;&lt;img src="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/images/audioblogger.gif" class="audImg"border="0" alt="this is an audio post - click to play" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111605456651611984?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111605456651611984/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111605456651611984' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111605456651611984'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111605456651611984'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/this-is-audio-post-click-to-play_14.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111605186313171808</id><published>2005-05-13T23:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-13T23:24:23.133-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="audblog"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/58676/189926.mp3" class="audLink"&gt;&lt;img src="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/images/audioblogger.gif" class="audImg"border="0" alt="this is an audio post - click to play" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111605186313171808?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111605186313171808/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111605186313171808' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111605186313171808'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111605186313171808'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/this-is-audio-post-click-t_111605186313171808.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111603538215657544</id><published>2005-05-13T18:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-13T18:49:42.160-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="audblog"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/58676/189748.mp3" class="audLink"&gt;&lt;img src="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/images/audioblogger.gif" class="audImg"border="0" alt="this is an audio post - click to play" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111603538215657544?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111603538215657544/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111603538215657544' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111603538215657544'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111603538215657544'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/this-is-audio-post-click-t_111603538215657544.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111603463956688567</id><published>2005-05-13T18:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-13T18:37:19.570-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="audblog"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/58676/189743.mp3" class="audLink"&gt;&lt;img src="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/images/audioblogger.gif" class="audImg"border="0" alt="this is an audio post - click to play" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111603463956688567?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111603463956688567/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111603463956688567' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111603463956688567'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111603463956688567'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/this-is-audio-post-click-to-play_13.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111603397391819285</id><published>2005-05-13T18:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-13T18:26:13.940-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="audblog"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/58676/189734.mp3" class="audLink"&gt;&lt;img src="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/images/audioblogger.gif" class="audImg"border="0" alt="this is an audio post - click to play" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111603397391819285?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111603397391819285/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111603397391819285' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111603397391819285'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111603397391819285'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/this-is-audio-post-click-to-play.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111591798472403189</id><published>2005-05-12T12:13:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-12T10:13:04.733-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm on vacation</title><content type='html'>I haven't left yet.  But I am on vacation.  No more work until Monday.  Lots of beach and lots of sand.  I'll take some pictures and see if I can figure out how to post them.  I also signed up for audioblogger.  I don't know if I will use that or not.  I recorded a post, and like That Girl I sound like I'm twelve.  But I'm might record some ocean sounds once my free minutes kick in.  But let's see how drunk I get.  Except I sound really southern when I get drunk.  Not redneck, but southern.  There's a difference.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's really no point to this post.  So I am off for a great weekend.  I hope everyone is safe and has tons of fun.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111591798472403189?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111591798472403189/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111591798472403189' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111591798472403189'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111591798472403189'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/im-on-vacation.html' title='I&apos;m on vacation'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111582899844303583</id><published>2005-05-11T11:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-11T09:29:58.450-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Umm... okay.  Some random guy just walked in and asked me if I had some more paperwork on something.  When I went up to look, he started touching things on my desk, then did not put them back in the right spot.  He really freaked me out.  Ick.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111582899844303583?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111582899844303583/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111582899844303583' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111582899844303583'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111582899844303583'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/umm.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111582869320088465</id><published>2005-05-11T11:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-11T09:24:53.213-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Again</title><content type='html'>I started writing a post earlier this morning, but I couldn't get anything to come out.  I guess I'm still so excited about yesterday and all the money.  Now I am so ready to go back in the fall, so I can finish already.  It's about time I graduated.  Now I can go apartment hunting.  I'm going to buy those dishes I wanted from Target and that shower curtain.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My mom and my dad have been having some marital tiffs.  I guess you could call them.  They had a talk yesterday morning and she told they need to put some excitement back into their marriage.  He went to lunch with us yesterday and brought her some flowers at work and gave her a long kiss after lunch.  At dinner he held her hand when they went into the restaurant.  I'm glad he listened.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have a bug bite on the top of my foot and on the inside of my big toe.  I'm gonna go crazy with the itchiness.  I was late again for work this morning.  Not really my fault this time.  I stepped in cat poop with my bare foot.  Then I spilled an opened can of diet coke my dad had put back in the refrigerator all over the kitchen floor.  The good part about that, I was completely awake when I got to work this morning.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111582869320088465?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111582869320088465/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111582869320088465' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111582869320088465'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111582869320088465'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/again.html' title='Again'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111575617657530580</id><published>2005-05-10T15:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-10T13:16:18.650-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm in the money</title><content type='html'>I got all the financial aid I needed for next year.  All of it.  I might not even have to work.  But I probably will.  And half of my financial aid came in the form of a grant.  I am so excited.  I've been anxious about whether or not I was going to get the money.  And how much I would have to pay back.  It's all good now.  And my day has been make so much better.  If only I had minutes on my phone to tell people.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111575617657530580?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111575617657530580/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111575617657530580' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111575617657530580'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111575617657530580'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/im-in-money.html' title='I&apos;m in the money'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111574977629811343</id><published>2005-05-10T13:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-10T11:29:58.500-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I can't watch the show Dave put on for AOL on my computer here at work, because it's a Mac.  &lt;br /&gt;Is it me or is he looking even hotter than ever?  Has he lost weight?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111574977629811343?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111574977629811343/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111574977629811343' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111574977629811343'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111574977629811343'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/i-cant-watch-show-dave-put-on-for-aol.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111574847242221654</id><published>2005-05-10T13:07:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-10T11:07:52.426-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I ate way too much at lunch.  I was so hungry.  And now I feel kind of sick.  &lt;br /&gt;I have two days till I go on vacation.  &lt;br /&gt;I'm putting in an application for something part time tomorrow.  It's at a shoe store.  Hopefully I will get hired based on my obscene love of shoes.  Except I wouldn't have any money, because I would always be buying shoes.  But my feet would be happy.&lt;br /&gt;What do I want to be when I grow up?  I wish I knew, so I could start doing that.  I really do not want to work.  That would make me happy.  But I know I need something to fall back on, so I'm off to get the degrees.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111574847242221654?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111574847242221654/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111574847242221654' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111574847242221654'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111574847242221654'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/i-ate-way-too-much-at-lunch.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111573787090830842</id><published>2005-05-10T10:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-10T08:12:44.980-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The flood</title><content type='html'>Yesterday when I spilled water on my keyboard, I thought everything was fine.  I was wrong.  There was more water than I thought.  My keyboard did not survive the flood, as Luke put it.  But thankfully we had an extra keyboard and now everything is fine.  I got a little scared for a moment of the thought of not being able to get on the internet.  What would I do with my time?  Sit and watch the clock.  Wait for someone to call and then tell them that no my bosses are not here at the moment, even if they really are.  I'm just here to do their dirty work.  This is why that I've decided that I want a part time job.  I'm taking three classes this summer.  I'm going back to school full time in the fall.  I want a break.  I'm am so burned out with this job.  I slept from 6 last night until I had to get at 7:30 this morning.  I only sleep that much when something is not going right in my life.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was like twenty minutes late for work this morning.  Didn't really care.  I think that's a sign.  I was trying to hurry and get ready for work, but I just couldn't get my body to work.  I am definitely in a rut.  Or it could be a big hole.  Or I could be running into that brick wall again.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've gotta get out of this funk.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111573787090830842?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111573787090830842/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111573787090830842' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111573787090830842'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111573787090830842'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/flood.html' title='The flood'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111566830530151118</id><published>2005-05-09T14:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-09T12:51:45.390-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Getting used to something</title><content type='html'>I found out from the boyfriend, that I'm not really the type of girl that he usually dates.  I think that's a good thing.  He's not what I usually go for either, but it all seems to be working out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I got into town to see the boyfriend on Saturday, I really didn't know what to do.  I was shy.  I wasn't used to be around him.  I was used to talking to him on the phone.  He wanted to break the ice really quick because we hadn't seen each other in a week, and I just felt nervous.  I just needed to reacquaint myself with him.  Chili's helped fix this problem.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We get to the restaurant.  We were going to go to Outback.  The line was unbelievable.  So we went to Chili's.  Walked in and were seated immediately.  I ask him if I can get a drink.  Right now I really need one.  I don't know why I'm being all awkward around him.  I order the Calypso Cooler.  It's my favorite.  And I always forget that it comes 2 for 1.  He gets this little tiny glass of his drink, and I have two huge glasses of alcoholly bliss.  I just smiled and told him I forgot about the 2 for 1.  I really did.  I forgot all about being nervous very quick.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't keep eating dessert with every meal.  I don't really care right now, but I know I will in the future.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I haven't told him that I keep this blog.  I don't know if I should or not.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111566830530151118?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111566830530151118/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111566830530151118' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111566830530151118'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111566830530151118'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/getting-used-to-something.html' title='Getting used to something'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111565236872143628</id><published>2005-05-09T10:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-09T08:26:08.800-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Did I ever think I would end up here again?  This moment of realizing that I have this person in my life that wants me in their life as much as I want them in my life.  Knowing without ever having to question if they really feel this way.  That all the pain that I've gone through, all the hurt, makes this moment, this point in time, all the more wonderful.  And when he turned to me and said I'm falling in love with you, I smiled and told him I was falling in love with him too.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While at lunch with his parents, and grandparents, and great-grandparents, and one of his aunt's and uncle's, (And this was just a part of his family.  I have no idea how many people I met, but I was told by his mother that this was a small part of their family.  But they were all nice and seemed to like me.), the boyfriend leaned over and said my ex-girlfriend is over in the corner table.  She was across the restaurant, but you could see her, and she was seated to where she could see us.  I don't know how long she had been there, but we were in a large group and had already ate and were waiting on dessert.  And he and I are very affectionate with each other.  It was really great timing.  I've just met his family and we have an ex staring at us.  I glanced over.  But only for a second.  If that much.  And then I felt self-conscious.  I wonder if she said, he looks happy.  Because I'm pretty sure I make him happy.  I sure am happy.  And then I wonder, did he say some of the same things that he's said to me to her?  I really feel like he didn't.  I don't think they were serious and I think she was a rebound.  He said she got kind of crazy with him.   I feel special with him.  And I trust him.  But I still do not want to think about him with another girl.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am walking into this with all my senses intact.  I know I shouldn't run heart first and think about things later.  My heart and head are actually in unison.  My gut instinct has been telling me that he's not going to hurt me.  He is sincere.  He does mean everything that he says.  And the feeling is mutual.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111565236872143628?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111565236872143628/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111565236872143628' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111565236872143628'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111565236872143628'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/did-i-ever-think-i-would-end-up-here.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111532765127694124</id><published>2005-05-05T16:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-05T14:14:48.960-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I am such a girl.  And I am not back in junior high.  So why for the past hour have I been practicing writing my name with the boyfriend's last name?  &lt;br /&gt;If I'm going to be left here to my own devices for a good two hours every day, I think I deserve a raise.  Because I'm not getting paid enough to run the business. &lt;br /&gt;I could leave early, but that would mean losing money.  And the paycheck I got today is almost gone already.  &lt;br /&gt;I am incredibly bored.  &lt;br /&gt;When I walked into our accountant's office to get the checks, she had this huge caramel covered, than cover in chocolate apple.  She made me eat a slice.  Well not really made me.  But now I wish I had another slice.  It was so yummy.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111532765127694124?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111532765127694124/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111532765127694124' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111532765127694124'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111532765127694124'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/i-am-such-girl.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111530728391763739</id><published>2005-05-05T10:34:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-05T08:34:43.996-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Happy Cinco de Mayo</title><content type='html'>I took some Tylenol PM last night to help with my thumb.  It's gotten to where it hurts to even grip stuff and it definitely hurts to type.  I talk on the phone a couple of times to the boyfriend.  I'm really not making any sense and I keep calling him back because I'll wake up and not remember if I told him bye.  The phone is still in my hand.  It's closed so I must have said goodbye.  He keeps laughing at me and asking me to repeat myself.  In my mind all the words are coming out and forming complete sentences, but when it comes out of my mouth that's a whole different story.  I even fell asleep talking to him.  I'm glad he thought it was cute.  My cat, however, was not cute.  She was pissed I had fallen asleep and had her shut in my room.  That's really my dad's fault for bringing her in there.  She was hungry and could not wake me up with her constant meowing, so she decided to knock my make-shift blinds off the windowsill, where they bounced off my shoulder and onto the floor.  The blinds also knocked the glass of tea that I had for when I got thirsty later in the night all over my bed and onto the floor.  But to her dismay this did not wake me up.  My mom heard the whole thing and ran in and was all scared and wondering what happened.  I told her I guess she was hungry and said my shoulder is red and it hurts and went back to sleep.  This is on the same arm as my thumb.  Stupid cat.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But today is one more day closer to Friday.  I get paid today.  I'm going to see the boyfriend on Saturday.  All that puts me in a great mood.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111530728391763739?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111530728391763739/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111530728391763739' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111530728391763739'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111530728391763739'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/happy-cinco-de-mayo.html' title='Happy Cinco de Mayo'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111523010889782165</id><published>2005-05-04T13:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-04T11:10:52.166-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Today</title><content type='html'>My cat threw up on one of my pillow's this morning.  The one that I was sleeping on.  And I put my hand in it by accident.&lt;br /&gt;I have had a headache for two days now.&lt;br /&gt;My arthritis in my thumb on my left hand has been acting up.  (I have arthritis from jamming my thumb four times during gymnastics.)  It might be from all the cell phone usage I've been doing or from all the driving.  Either way it hurts.&lt;br /&gt;I had $0.06 in my bank account when I went to put gas in my car yesterday.  It was very embarrassing when the cashier told me I had insufficient funds, when I knew I had money in there.  I still haven't sat down to see what the problem was.&lt;br /&gt;I basically drove to the gas station this morning on fumes.  And put in $10 that I borrowed from my mom.&lt;br /&gt;I took tylenol P.M. so I could sleep through the night and to help with my thumb and my head.  I talked to the boyfriend sometime after I had only been asleep for about an hour.  I don't remember what I said.&lt;br /&gt;But what makes all this not matter, when I told the boyfriend that I only had $0.06 in my bank account, he asked me if he needed to send me some money.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111523010889782165?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111523010889782165/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111523010889782165' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111523010889782165'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111523010889782165'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/today.html' title='Today'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111514619834473134</id><published>2005-05-03T13:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-03T13:00:24.056-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Beach</title><content type='html'>I have eight days until I go on my vacation to the beach with the girls.  But I'm going to have no money.  I have zero ability to save money.  I don't even know what I spent it on.  And all my bills had to be paid before the trip, not after.  So, I'm working through lunches now to make up for taking off a half day last Friday.  And the days are going by so slow.  I'm going to have very little money to take with me.  I was just never taught to save money.  I was raised with the "you can't take it with you" philosophy, so why should you save it?  I mean I know why.  In case of emergencies.  But I just like to spend money.  And when it's not mine, it's even better.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cannot work here anymore.  I hate roaches.  I develop a tick whenever one comes near me.  I cannot breath.  They give me the creepy crawlies.  And I find one on a weekly basis.  I guess that's what comes with working in a warehouse.  But they suck.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The new guy, now to be called the boyfriend (I have a boyfriend.  I'm not used to this.  I get a thrill out of calling him that.)  wanted to know what he could get me for my birthday which is in three weeks.  I told him him not to worry about it this time, because we haven't been seeing each other that long.  And he said he wanted to get me something, because when his birthday comes around later in the year and I get him something he's going to feel bad.  He then told me we could go to the mall or wherever (He suggested Victoria's Secret.  And I said wouldn't that be more for you than me?) and I could pick whatever I want for around $50.  I told him that was way too much.  All I really want is to be with him on my birthday.  But I could get used to this.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111514619834473134?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111514619834473134/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111514619834473134' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111514619834473134'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111514619834473134'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/beach.html' title='The Beach'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111504778904874313</id><published>2005-05-02T10:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-05-02T10:10:24.603-07:00</updated><title type='text'>It's official</title><content type='html'>On Friday, I drove an hour and a half to meet with someone to register.  I met with her for ten minutes.  TEN MINUTES.  I lost a half a days pay, gas, and money that I needed to be saving for ten minutes!  And I could have done what she did myself.  Then I sat through a two hour jazz concert.  It was 10 p.m. before I ate my first bite of solid food.  I had some skeezy locals try to hit on me at the college club, which was devoid of college students and overrun by locals. Saturday I stayed in bed, or rather my friends futon, all day.  My back is still hurting.  I never got out of my pajamas on Saturday, even when we had people over.     &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My weekend was kind of dull until Sunday.  I was feeling refreshed after all the sleep I managed to get.  I was a lazy bum all weekend.  I haven't done that in awhile.  I decided that I wanted to see my new guy.  Wednesday was just too far off.  He'd been asking me to drive and see him all week, because he had to work.  Sunday was a beautiful day.  I wasn't tired, so I knew that the early Monday morning drive wouldn't be so bad.  And I am in the car again.  I spent six hours driving this weekend.  But it was all worth it.  I couldn't kiss him enough.  I couldn't get close enough to him.  I did not want to leave this morning.  But it was worth it to be able to fall asleep next to him and wake up next to him.  And to hear him say that he doesn't want to be with anyone else.  And that he is going to start telling everyone that I'm his girlfriend.  I am so incredibly happy.  Because I feel the same way.  I know it hasn't been that long.  But we've spent the better part of everyday that we haven't seen each other on the phone.  And it feels like months since I've met him.  It also feels right, which is the important part.  It might be a week before we see each other again, or it might be three days, but either way he has claimed a spot in my life.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111504778904874313?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111504778904874313/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111504778904874313' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111504778904874313'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111504778904874313'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/05/its-official.html' title='It&apos;s official'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111478209787158823</id><published>2005-04-29T08:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-29T06:42:24.216-07:00</updated><title type='text'>She swallowed an eyeball!</title><content type='html'>For the past few days my dog has been hacking.  Last night was extremely bad.  I think she swallowed an eyeball off of one of her toys that she is not supposed to have.  It was originally for the cat.  I came to this conclusion after finding one of the eyes on the floor.  And I haven't seen the toy lately, so I'm thinking she swallowed the eyeball.  I was going to take her to the vet, but she starting sounding normal.  I told my Dad to watch her all day, and if she doesn't get better, he has to take her to the vet.  My dog can be so stupid sometimes.  Why would she swallow a plastic eye?  Hopefully it's working its way down to her stomach, she can still breath fine, she just starts hacking every now and then.  She crawled in bed with me and came and put her head on my chest.  I felt so bad.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've lost a shirt that I wear under the shirt that I was going to wear today.  Pisses me off.  I'm off after twelve today, because I have to go out of town to register for the fall semester.  I'm staying the weekend, so I packed this morning, could of packed last night, but I fell asleep.  If I had packed last night, I might have found the shirt, but I had to be a slacker.  Guess I'm going shopping this weekend.  Oh wait, I was going to do that anyways.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My new guy has to work all weekend.  He's been out all week sick, and has to make up the days he was out.  So, we are not going to see each other until next week.  This is a great way to start this weekend.  Good thing I'm going drinking tonight.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111478209787158823?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111478209787158823/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111478209787158823' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111478209787158823'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111478209787158823'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/she-swallowed-eyeball.html' title='She swallowed an eyeball!'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111461693224557873</id><published>2005-04-27T10:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-27T08:53:33.830-07:00</updated><title type='text'>You're not allowed in here</title><content type='html'>I was looking for some chapstick this morning in a purse that I hadn't used in a few months.  And there it was.  A picture.  Someone that I've tried so hard to forget about.  Someone who doesn't even exist in my life anymore.  In the picture we are both smiling.  It's a great picture of him, and my eyes are closed.  I never take bad pictures, but I took a bad picture with him.  I don't want to remember him.  I don't want to think about him.  I had a dream about the guy in the picture this morning.  Why am I dreaming about him?  I was never really happy with him.  He was always leaving me alone on weekends so he could go out with his friends.  He was selfish.  He rarely showed that he cared.  And now when I have a chance at something great and wonderful, I dream about him and find this picture.  The only picture I have of us.  I looked at it, then I put it back where I found it and pushed the thought from my mind.  I don't want him.  I would not go back to him if he ever asked me to.  But I now know what I want from a relationship.  I will not settle for anything less than spectacular.  I would have been settling with him.  He just realized that before I did.  He could never treat me they that I wanted, or they way that I deserved.  He couldn't and wouldn't be there for me when I needed him.  Why did I stay?  The hopeless romantic in me thought I could be enough for him.  This person who, years older than me, who had not settled down yet, I thought maybe I could be enough for him that he would want to settle down.  It just took me awhile to realize how messed up he was, and he will probably never be ready to settle down.  But one day he will be forced to, and the person he does settle down with will be miserable (I hope this isn't the case, but I have a feeling it will turn out this way).  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am happy now.  This is the happiest I've been in a long time.  I am smitten with someone.  I can't stop smiling.  We've talked so much since we've met.  We live an hour and a half apart, and we both work full time jobs, so the distance is keeping us from moving too fast.  We both can't wait until we see each other again.  It's nice knowing that we both feel the same way at the same time.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111461693224557873?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111461693224557873/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111461693224557873' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111461693224557873'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111461693224557873'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/youre-not-allowed-in-here.html' title='You&apos;re not allowed in here'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111454718490171771</id><published>2005-04-26T15:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-26T13:26:24.903-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I have writer's block.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am a little scared right now of how I am feeling.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am afraid that I am going to do something to mess this up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel I always do something to mess things up when I really like someone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe this time is different.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How is this possible?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111454718490171771?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111454718490171771/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111454718490171771' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111454718490171771'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111454718490171771'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/i-have-writers-block.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111444034325258596</id><published>2005-04-25T09:45:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-25T07:45:43.253-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Unexpected</title><content type='html'>On Friday I talked to the guy who I thought might be a keeper and realized that he reminded me too much of my ex, the greatest guy.  So, I decided to just let that one go.  It was a good decision on my part.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was introduced to this couple two weeks ago through my uncle, and they have a son my age.  They are completely adorable and so much fun, so how could they not produce a son that was hot.  And oh my gosh was he hot.  Black, spikey hair, tall, rocker like fashion style.  And he has a hot car.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We've talked all weekend.  Sunday we went to dinner and a movie.  The Amityville Horror was so scary.  I jumped, and it's not easy to make me jump.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I felt really comfortable with him.  He was easy to talk to and it felt like we had known each other longer than two days.  We both had the butterflies in our stomach feeling.  I'm not insecure about this one.  He is so sweet.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How is it I feel like I'm falling for him and we've only just met?  I can't find the right words to describe this feeling.  And it came out of nowhere.  Neither of us was expecting this.  But it's fun.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When he came to pick me up yesterday, when I opened the door, he was even cuter than I remembered.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111444034325258596?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111444034325258596/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111444034325258596' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111444034325258596'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111444034325258596'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/unexpected.html' title='Unexpected'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111411859754173859</id><published>2005-04-21T16:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-21T14:23:17.543-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Shh...  I'm just going to close my eyes for a few minutes.  If anyone sees or hears my boss coming wake me up and I'll tell him I was just resting my eyes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(My uncle made it to the semi-finals of his singing contest.  Yeah!!!)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111411859754173859?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111411859754173859/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111411859754173859' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111411859754173859'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111411859754173859'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/shh.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111411709573619766</id><published>2005-04-21T15:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-21T13:58:15.736-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I still know what you are doing.  You can't fool me.  Going into my bathroom, which my desk is against the wall of.  And turning the water on.  Did you think I thought you were taking a shower?  Eww and you didn't even shut the door all the way when you came out.  That's just gross.  Go use the other bathroom.  This one is mine.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111411709573619766?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111411709573619766/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111411709573619766' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111411709573619766'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111411709573619766'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/i-still-know-what-you-are-doing.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111410009329033158</id><published>2005-04-21T11:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-21T09:14:53.290-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I don't know what to think about this</title><content type='html'>He said: He did have a great time with me.&lt;br /&gt;He said: But she's so young.&lt;br /&gt;He said: And she just seems so good.&lt;br /&gt;He said: And I'm not that good.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I... you know... I really don't know what to think of this... I might like him even more...  He's fun being friends with... But...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111410009329033158?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111410009329033158/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111410009329033158' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111410009329033158'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111410009329033158'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/i-dont-know-what-to-think-about-this.html' title='I don&apos;t know what to think about this'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111402579634293385</id><published>2005-04-20T14:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-20T12:36:36.343-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Why are you talking so freaking loud?  It hurts my ears.  I have very sensitive ears.  I hear very well.  You don't have to scream to the other person on the phone.  They can hear you.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went home for lunch and showered for tonight and got ready.  My uncle is singing in a contest tonight and I wouldn't have had time to shower when I got off from work.  I did shower this morning.  I just did not have time to do my hair or do a decent make-up job.  So, now I am wearing a completely different outfit then I was this morning.  But I look and feel pretty.  And the hot water took some of the sting out of my ass, and I think the new soap I bought had some aloe in it.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Have you ever craved something and wanted it so much, and then when you got it really wasn't as great as you were expecting and you were totally let down?  I really wanted a sonic slush today for lunch.  I was craving something fruity and icy.  I was running late coming back from lunch after rushing to get ready in less than an hour and I stopped at the Sonic because it is right across the street from my work.  I got my slush and I was so disappointed.  I must have had too much sugar yesterday, because it was way too sweet.  I am so let down by this slush.  Slushy, you suck.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yep the slushy still sucks.  Why do I keep taking sips, if I know it sucks?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111402579634293385?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111402579634293385/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111402579634293385' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111402579634293385'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111402579634293385'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/why-are-you-talking-so-freaking-loud.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111400948867758730</id><published>2005-04-20T10:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-20T08:04:48.676-07:00</updated><title type='text'>What was I thinking?</title><content type='html'>Yesterday, I upped my minutes that I lay in the tanning bed by five.  I've been tanning regularly.  I spent time in the actual sun all weekend, but I guess I was not prepared for those extra five minutes.  You would have thought I would have learned from this happening before.  But do I ever learn from my mistakes?  Sometimes, just not yesterday.  Now I cannot sit properly.  Clothing is so not an option for me right now, but I have to wear it while I am at work.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This morning while on my way to work, this stupid person cut me off.  I sped up to try to not let him in, but he started moving in anyways and I had to hit the breaks.  I tried to honk at him, but my car sucks and you have to pound on the steering wheel so hard.  I jammed my thumb one time trying to honk at someone.  I managed a little squeak out of my horn, but I doubt he heard it.  He then proceeded to drive recklessly through traffic.  Little did he know, that driving behind me was an unmarked police vehicle.  I'm sure he didn't see that coming.  I don't think he was even on duty yet, but he must have pissed him off as much as he pissed me off.  Traffic was clogged up in the left lane, so the unmarked vehicle almost caused an accident, but it was worth it to see that car pulled over on the side of the road.  I yelled thank you when I saw that.  It's rare to see one of those kind of drivers actually being caught.  It made me happy.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111400948867758730?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111400948867758730/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111400948867758730' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111400948867758730'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111400948867758730'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/what-was-i-thinking.html' title='What was I thinking?'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111392749499183891</id><published>2005-04-19T11:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-19T09:18:14.993-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Am I really going back?</title><content type='html'>l have an appointment next week to be advised for the fall semester.  It's a pain that I have to go and do this.  I am an hour and thirty minutes away.  I work full time and I get paid by the hour.  So if I take a day off from work I lose money.  Plus with the half a tank of gas, even more money.  I have never been advised.  Never needed it.  But in order to register, after being gone for a year, I have to be advised.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I haven't told my bosses yet that I'm most likely, 99% sure, that I'm going to be leaving in August.  I feel like I am dying in this job.  I can't do this forty hours a week for the rest of my life.  I'll never be able to move out of my parents house.  I'll be out of debt when I'm forty.  There are no new people to meet at this job.  I have no windows.  But I needed to do something besides sit at home for a year.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have to go back in the fall.  If I don't I'll feel trapped with no way out forever.  Probably won't be forever, but it feels like it.  If i don't finish my degrees, I'll feel like I let myself down.  And this time it is all on me.  I have to get student loans, plus a job, on top of the 23 hours I will be taking.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am a little scared.  More excited and I'll be glad to be living on my own again.  And I'll be back with my friends.  I just have to stay away from the "stupid boy".&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111392749499183891?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111392749499183891/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111392749499183891' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111392749499183891'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111392749499183891'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/am-i-really-going-back.html' title='Am I really going back?'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111385673542304225</id><published>2005-04-18T15:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-18T13:38:55.423-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Foreign components</title><content type='html'>I was just using the restroom and I noticed the care tag on my panties.  I know I've read this over and over again, but today it finally hit me what it said.  They are made out of the usual elastic and lycra.  That's normal.  They were made in Morocco.  That's pretty cool.  Morocco seems all sultry and hot.  But what I found out was that my panties are made from foreign components.  What does foreign components mean?  Does that mean the components used to make the panties were Moroccan?  I don't get it.  Victoria's Secret's got some explaining to do.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111385673542304225?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111385673542304225/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111385673542304225' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111385673542304225'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111385673542304225'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/foreign-components.html' title='Foreign components'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111384115452731615</id><published>2005-04-18T11:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-18T09:19:14.530-07:00</updated><title type='text'>What's next</title><content type='html'>My cat, whenever there is an open door, loves to run outside.  She doesn't go far.  And if the door closes and leaves her outside she screams to be let in.  Yesterday she ran outside and no one knew.  She was outside for who knows long.  The last time I saw her was around 4 p.m. and at 10 I became worried and started looking for her.  She's been known to curl up somewhere and not be seen for a few hours, but not very often.  She likes to be fed regularly.  And that means whenever anyone is in the kitchen.  I walked around looking in all her hiding places.  I could not find her.  My hear started beating so fast.  I went upstairs on the back deck to look around the backyard to see if I could find her, and there she was.  She was by the back door, curled up in a corner, all by herself, looking so small and so scared.  I ran downstairs to let her in, and my dog ran out at the same time that I went to pick her up, so she was frightened even more.  She is not an outside cat.  She was never meant to be outside.  Her fur is too soft and too pretty and she is just too prissy.  When she finally came to me, I picked her up and she made this hummppp sound.  Like she didn't know what to do, and she was so scared, and she had been out there forever, and she was so hungry.  She gave me kisses and let me hold her.  And then she ate a whole can of cat food.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What scares me is she's just a cat.  I mean to me she is the best cat and the best animal in the whole world and she is my baby.  And she's been with me through everything and has never left my side.  How am I going to handle having kids when I cry when she gets shots?  And my heart jumped into my throat at the thought that something bad happened to her.  I am such a mess.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111384115452731615?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111384115452731615/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111384115452731615' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111384115452731615'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111384115452731615'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/whats-next.html' title='What&apos;s next'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111360241569642447</id><published>2005-04-15T17:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-15T15:00:15.696-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm really not this shallow</title><content type='html'>But I did not want to think about this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One kitchen boy just walked by.  I never noticed this before, but he has a huge head.  And he is really short.  Shorter than my 5'2ness.  And he has really poofy hair.  He walked by and his pants were shoved up his ass.  And when he walks his hips sway back and forth.  And I do not want to look, but it's hard to miss the huge wedgie he has going on constantly.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kitchen boy number two is always having problems and drama.  And he just had those veneers things put on and it looks so weird.  But he is always sighing very loud when he gets off the phone.  He tried to set me up with his brother who is probably a spitting image of him and does not have a car and manages a crappy golf course.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But one kitchen boy made a comment to the other kitchen boy about something our boss said about his girlfriend.  Something about him not even getting laid.  And then the image.  I somehow had the image of those two having sex.  Not together, but with their girlfriends, whom I've both met.  And now I want to throw up.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By stupid sick brain made me think these awful bad thoughts.  Icky.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111360241569642447?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111360241569642447/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111360241569642447' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111360241569642447'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111360241569642447'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/im-really-not-this-shallow.html' title='I&apos;m really not this shallow'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111360148180880397</id><published>2005-04-15T16:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-15T14:44:41.810-07:00</updated><title type='text'>So not what I was talking about</title><content type='html'>Okay..  My boss just walked in and asked do you like Ashlee Simpson?  I laughed.  I was still laughing and then I asked him oh wait do you have free tickets?  Ashlee Simpson in my book ranks up there with Kenny G and Michael Bolten, all being no talent ass clowns.  But the tickets are free.  I mean I wouldn't want to contribute to her excessive lifestyle, when I'm struggling to pay bills.  (Okay not really struggling, but I wish I had extra money.)  Now I have a song of hers stuck in my head.  I don't know if I want this to be the first concert that I go to.  But it is free.  And I would feel the need to make a sign that said Acid Reflux my Ass!  But then I might be kicked out of the first concert that I will ever have been to.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My old professor is giving me a hard time.  He is still my advisor.  All I want to do is register.  And I cannot get that point across.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I bought my ipod shuffle today.  In five days I'm going to be shuffling along happily to whatever songs I want.   And a lot of them.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111360148180880397?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111360148180880397/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111360148180880397' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111360148180880397'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111360148180880397'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/so-not-what-i-was-talking-about.html' title='So not what I was talking about'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111350717585068781</id><published>2005-04-14T14:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-14T12:32:55.850-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I know I've already  posted on this</title><content type='html'>But.  The nerve.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kitchen boy:  Hey did anyone call for me today?&lt;br /&gt;Me:  Ummm, do I look like your secretary?&lt;br /&gt;KB:  No.&lt;br /&gt;Me:  Do you pay me to take messages for you?  &lt;br /&gt;KB:  No.&lt;br /&gt;Me:  Then no one called for you today.  And did you shower?  Because you smell kind of funny.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn't really say this.  I told him that his girlfriend called who I don't really like.  I've only seen her twice but she irks me.  And he really did smell funny.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I must have a sign on my forehead that's flashing neon:  Go ahead and put me in a bad mood. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had a call right before he came in and the called asked for the other kitchen boy.  And I told him he was in the kitchen.  He asked if I could go get him.  And then he quickly said or I can leave a message.  I told him he could leave a message.  I think he could sense I was itching for a fight.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111350717585068781?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111350717585068781/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111350717585068781' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111350717585068781'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111350717585068781'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/i-know-ive-already-posted-on-this.html' title='I know I&apos;ve already &lt;a href=&quot;http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/03/you-know-what-i-hate.html&quot;&gt; posted &lt;/a&gt;on this'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111340848728370653</id><published>2005-04-13T11:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-13T09:08:07.283-07:00</updated><title type='text'>What is wrong with my eye?!?!?!?!?</title><content type='html'>My eyelashes are sticking together.  Most likely because I didn't get enough sleep last night.  And I have bags under my eyes.  I am about to rip out my eyelashes.  I just want to close this eye.  But then the other eye will follow suit and I will be asleep.  I wonder if I prop my eye open if that will solve my problem?  This freaking sucks.  I have to do my taxes tonight.  I'm such a slacker and hope that I get tons of money back.  And all the while I want to stab myself in the eye because of my stupid long eyelashes sticking together.  At least I have left over Hibachi to eat for lunch.  I used my debit card for the first time last night to put gas in my car.  Great..  I'll be back later.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111340848728370653?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111340848728370653/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111340848728370653' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111340848728370653'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111340848728370653'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/what-is-wrong-with-my-eye.html' title='What is wrong with my eye?!?!?!?!?'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111333971305347212</id><published>2005-04-12T16:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-12T14:01:53.053-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I did it</title><content type='html'>Why do I feel like I am the only one here in my office?  There has been commotion going on all day.  Hammering, building, sanding, blowing dirt around.  And now there is nothing.  Just silence.  It's freaking me out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I called him.  He didn't answer.  I left a message.  He called back within five minutes.  He already had made plans to go riding around on his motorcycle.  This was last minute on my part.  So its okay.  I want to ride on his motorcycle among other things.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had a light breakfast and since then I've had raisinetes and a sprite.  It's time for me to go and eat real food.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111333971305347212?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111333971305347212/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111333971305347212' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111333971305347212'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111333971305347212'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/i-did-it.html' title='I did it'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111332617294201644</id><published>2005-04-12T12:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-12T11:36:30.320-07:00</updated><title type='text'>It's just my imagination</title><content type='html'>Running away with me.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was sitting here thinking.  Something I have a lot of time to do at work.  And there are some instances in my life that I know happened.  Then there are those times that I'm not sure happened or if it was all a dream.  I just deleted the "greatest guy's" phone number from my phone for the second time.  I don't know why I put it back there.  But its gone now.  I just have to wait for my uncanny ability to remember numbers that I should not remember to forget this number.&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;I know he and I were together, but now it's as if he never even existed.  That we never existed.  That it was all just a dream, or in this case a bad nightmare.  If he can dismiss me from his life so easily, why can't I?    &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember doing all these things with him and spending all this time with him, but it feels like it was all in my imagination.  He just vanished from my life without any word.  No goodbye.  It was just a waste of my time.  I didn't learn anything.  I didn't gain any useful information from him.  All I seem to have obtained is distrust for people.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And all this started me thinking, did Sunday actually happen.  It felt like a dream.  It felt like how I imagined our date would be.  I am trying so hard to not be this girl with all this self-doubt.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today's my cousin's birthday.  Last minute dinner plans have been made to go to a great Hibachi bar.  And I want to call and ask him to go.  It's a casual dinner.  I've never been in this position before.  I don't know if it's too soon.  This is different from college dating, if you could call that dating.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Enough of that.. I've finally got a debit card.  I feel like that last person of earth to do so.  My cousin has been on me for months to get one.  I now can pump gas without having to go inside, not write checks if I do not want to, get my ipod shuffle.  This is really the first time that I have had the funds to get a debit card.  So, I have had reasons not to, but I still feel like I'm behind the times.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111332617294201644?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111332617294201644/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111332617294201644' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111332617294201644'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111332617294201644'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/its-just-my-imagination.html' title='It&apos;s just my imagination'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111323303772738889</id><published>2005-04-11T10:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-11T08:23:57.730-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I like him.  I had an amazing time with this great guy this weekend.  We spent three hours in the car driving.  And we never had an uncomfortable moment of silence.  He met my friends and they thought he was cute.  When we got back into town, we stopped and had some drinks at a bar at a restaurant.  Drinking on a Sunday night.  I felt like a heathen.  We were there about two hours.  I did not want the night to end.  But I knew it had to end at some point.  I had only met him twice before, but spending the day with him felt so comfortable.  The chairs at the bar, were these big round bar stools with high backs and you could not move them.  He would forget and he would try to move his chair closer to mine.  There was this energy.  I felt like we were feeding off each other.  I was turned on by him.  I was turned on by the conversation.  (I had two drinks so I was safe in the not drinking too much realm.  One was free from the bar.  Thank you nice bartender.)  He walked me to my door.  He kissed me on the cheek and hugged me bye.  He said he would call.  Is he going to call though?  He sounded sincere when he said that.  Did he have as great of a time as did I?  Did he feel the same energy?  I hate that I feel I can't trust him.  And he hasn't done anything to make me feel that way.  I was hurt more than I cared to admit to anyone.  More than I cared to admit to myself.  I am so scared to believe that he did have a great time, that he did enjoy going with me, that he does indeed like me, and will call me.  This is not the kind of person I am.  I have never been scared of liking someone.  I am so afraid of liking him only to find out he is not the person I thought he was.  The person he wanted me to believe he was.  This cannot all be an act.  It felt to natural.  We have so many things in common.  But we are so different.  I know this was only the first date.  And I know he is not the "greatest guy", but I just hope there is more to come, and he does call.  I had one of those first dates that one can only dream about.  It was like we had known each other forever.  I keep telling myself not to get my hopes up.  To listen to myself.  The smart part of myself.  But what's wrong with getting your hopes up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;OOHHHHHH.... Grossness.. I totally freaked out.. I just heard a rustling in my trash can.. Like something was in there.  My heart jumped up in my throat.  I knew something was in my trash can.  I leaned over to just peak.  And there it was.  A roach.  And it had wings.  It could fly.  My worst fear.  The bug that I have panic attacks when they are anywhere near me.  And it was the size of a small child.  One of the kitchen boys took care of it.  The bug is gone.  But I still do not feel safe.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111323303772738889?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111323303772738889/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111323303772738889' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111323303772738889'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111323303772738889'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/i-like-him.html' title=''/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111296658139594160</id><published>2005-04-08T08:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-08T06:23:01.396-07:00</updated><title type='text'>We have a verdict</title><content type='html'>He really makes me laugh.. &lt;br /&gt;He has really great teeth..&lt;br /&gt;He has green eyes..&lt;br /&gt;We have plans on Sunday.. He's calling me this afternoon to confirm our plans and to possibly do something tonight.&lt;br /&gt;He is genuine... No games.. Just him.. He wants to get to know me better.. &lt;br /&gt;I know he's not perfect, but I can't wait to find out what some of his imperfections are..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had family drama last night.. At three in the morning.. I haven't slept.. My cousin is self-destructing and he needs help.. How many close calls can one person have before they realize they're hurting not only themselves but everyone around them?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My almost three year old cousin called me last night on her mom's cell phone.. She called by herself.. No one helped her.. I don't know when she got so smart...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111296658139594160?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111296658139594160/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111296658139594160' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111296658139594160'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111296658139594160'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/we-have-verdict.html' title='We have a verdict'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111289337002132654</id><published>2005-04-07T15:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-07T13:14:52.316-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Little birdies and boobies</title><content type='html'>I was driving with my mom on Monday to go walk and there was the bird in the road and it would not move.. I had the windows down and I yelled at it to move.. I even slowed down..  The bird just sat there.. In all my experience with birds in the street, they fly away when a vehicle is approaching.. This poor little bird must have found himself some pretty little female birdy.. Because he flew away too late.. He must have been struck stupid.. The birdie did not fly away from my car, but flew into my car.. I heard him hit my windshield and saw his feathers all ruffled..  I think he survived.. I hope he survived... He has to have survived.. I am not an animal killer.. I felt so bad.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My boobs have been itching non stop.. It must be from the tanning..  I'm just glad no one has walked into my office to see me with my hand down my shirt.. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm a little nervous now about tonight... My uncle is coming back... He will call the guy... The guy said on Saturday he was coming tonight... I am going to make my move...  Thank you everyone for giving me my confidence back.. I do not even know why I'm scared.  I know he's probably not like the "greatest guy".  I know not every guy is the same.  I found out the reasons why he broke up with his last girlfriend are the same reasons why I broke up with the "greatest guy".  So at least we are on the same page.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111289337002132654?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111289337002132654/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111289337002132654' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111289337002132654'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111289337002132654'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/little-birdies-and-boobies.html' title='Little birdies and boobies'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111282498033692351</id><published>2005-04-06T17:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-06T16:16:41.310-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Should I get his number?</title><content type='html'>I've been thinking about the boy that might be a keeper.  I really enjoyed talking to him and it seemed like he felt the same way.  Last Friday he was supposed to meet us at the bar we went to, but he was held up with work stuff.  When my uncle asked him to go with out, he said he would only go if I was there.. And he told my uncle he liked me and he felt we had a connection.  He has the same kind of humor that I do.. The next night he had plans to do something.  I don't know if he would ask for my number from my uncle.  Tomorrow night is karaoke night and I don't know if my uncle is going to be back from out of town.. If he's back he's going to call the guy.. But I don't know if I should get the number and call him if he's not back.. I was actually interested in him.. I'm just scared to make a move.. I'm scared of anything right now, but I want to see him again.. I hate not being confident..&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111282498033692351?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111282498033692351/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111282498033692351' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111282498033692351'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111282498033692351'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/should-i-get-his-number.html' title='Should I get his number?'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111280324469308465</id><published>2005-04-06T11:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-06T09:27:03.430-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm antsy</title><content type='html'>I don't think I've ever gone this long without making out with someone.. I definitely need the attention of a boy and I do have a certain boy in mind..  But I'm still working on that.. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's raining again today.. We're probably going to be featured on the weather channel again like last week.. I love the weather channel.  Especially Jim Cantorre..  He's been down here a few times during Hurricane season, which is rapidly approaching. Tropical storms are so much fun..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My cousin showed me this a few weeks ago.. If you've seen it, you know what I'm talking about.. It's supposed to be a German car commercial that never aired.. Oh, and I'm just learning how to do this link thingy so this is what I chose.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.princeton.edu/~ccaro/mist_or_ghost.html"&gt;Click here to view the commercial&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111280324469308465?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111280324469308465/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111280324469308465' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111280324469308465'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111280324469308465'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/im-antsy.html' title='I&apos;m antsy'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111272538259994216</id><published>2005-04-05T13:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-05T11:23:02.600-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Girls Only Vacation</title><content type='html'>My cousin R, whom I do not know what I would do without, came up with the idea to have a girl's only vacation.  The boys are going on a boy's only baseball tour the week before our adventure.  None of the boys belong to me, but whatever, they are still my boys.  We are going to spend four fun filled days at one of Florida's most gorgeous beaches, Destin.  If you go to a beach in the panhandle of Florida, this is the one to go to.  There is a restaurant at the hotel with a bar, so we do never have to leave the hotel.  By the pool, they have a tiki bar.  It really does not get much better.  This past week I started preparing for the trip.  I've started walking and eating less.  I must lose ten pounds to get back into my ideal weight range.  It can be done.  And it will be done.  I have five weeks to accomplish this goal.  So, here's to eating like a bird.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I came home for lunch today and my dad had mowed the lawn.  It smelled like heaven.  And it was so green.  I just wanted to lay down in the grass and bask in the smell and sunlight.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111272538259994216?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111272538259994216/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111272538259994216' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111272538259994216'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111272538259994216'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/girls-only-vacation.html' title='Girls Only Vacation'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111265005952577784</id><published>2005-04-04T16:27:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-04T14:29:42.346-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I love my mom</title><content type='html'>My mom once told me that if I ever moved to New York or to some big city to never get into porn.  I do not know to this day what made her say that.  I don't know if she thought I was sleeping with every guy that I met or what.  And we were not even talking about anything remotely similar to porn.  But I will always remember this as one of her words of wisdom.  And I am going to pass this on to my daughter, when I have one, please do not get into porn.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111265005952577784?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111265005952577784/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111265005952577784' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111265005952577784'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111265005952577784'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/i-love-my-mom.html' title='I love my mom'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11169611.post-111263995360228331</id><published>2005-04-04T13:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-04-04T11:39:13.603-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm through with you</title><content type='html'>I really love this band and this song.  Some things are just not meant to be.  And I've been feeling like this song a lot lately.    &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Through With You"&lt;br /&gt;Maroon 5&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Can you see me&lt;br /&gt;Floating above your head&lt;br /&gt;As you lay in bed&lt;br /&gt;Thinking about everything&lt;br /&gt;That you did not do&lt;br /&gt;Cause saying I love you&lt;br /&gt;Has nothing to do with meaning it&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I don't trust you&lt;br /&gt;Cause every time you're here&lt;br /&gt;Your intentions are unclear&lt;br /&gt;I spend every hour waiting for a phone call&lt;br /&gt;That I know will never come&lt;br /&gt;I used to think you were the one&lt;br /&gt;Now I'm sick of thinking anything at all&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You ain't ever coming back to me&lt;br /&gt;That's not how things were supposed to be&lt;br /&gt;You take my hand just to give it back&lt;br /&gt;No other lover has ever done that&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do you remember&lt;br /&gt;The way we used to melt&lt;br /&gt;Do you remember how it felt&lt;br /&gt;When I touched you&lt;br /&gt;Oh cause I remember very well&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And how long has it been&lt;br /&gt;Since someone you let in&lt;br /&gt;Has given what I gave to you&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And at night when you sleep&lt;br /&gt;Do you dream I would be there&lt;br /&gt;Just for a minute or two do you?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You ain't ever coming back to me&lt;br /&gt;That's not how things were supposed to be&lt;br /&gt;You take my hand just to give it back&lt;br /&gt;No other lover has ever done that&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Heartache heartache I just have so much&lt;br /&gt;A simple love with a complex touch&lt;br /&gt;There is nothing you can say or do&lt;br /&gt;I called to let you know I'm through with you&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11169611-111263995360228331?l=thefunisover.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/feeds/111263995360228331/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=11169611&amp;postID=111263995360228331' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111263995360228331'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/11169611/posts/default/111263995360228331'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thefunisover.blogspot.com/2005/04/im-through-with-you_04.html' title='I&apos;m through with you'/><author><name>Daisy Buchanan</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18053034900433628660</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
