<?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-22823199</id><updated>2011-12-14T19:03:00.913-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Woolgatherer's Tales</title><subtitle type='html'>Woolgatherer's Tales</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>mystic chick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02182033770477331931</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f90/buttercuptea/mc.png'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>7</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22823199.post-114291716005113328</id><published>2006-03-20T20:58:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-20T21:01:49.096-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Human beings feed off other people's miseries!</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"&gt;The statement hit me hard but when I thought about it...I recognized its trueness. Most of us are nice people. We do not want others to suffer. However, when we see that others have problems, there is a strangely satisfying feeling of not being the only one in trouble. That's not the definition of being nice now, is it?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/22823199-114291716005113328?l=mysticchick.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/feeds/114291716005113328/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=22823199&amp;postID=114291716005113328' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114291716005113328'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114291716005113328'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/2006/03/human-beings-feed-off-other-peoples.html' title='Human beings feed off other people&apos;s miseries!'/><author><name>mystic chick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02182033770477331931</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f90/buttercuptea/mc.png'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22823199.post-114174688640010068</id><published>2006-03-07T07:07:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-07T20:05:30.600-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Letter to an old acquaintance</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Hello mister pervert,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Remember me? I often bump into you on the street. In fact, we met twice today; once in the morning when I made my way to work and you complimented me on my dark goggles and fair complexion by singing a line of a Hindi film song, and then in the evening when you invited me to a &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" &gt;bagiya&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okay, now that you recollect who I am, let me take this opportunity to thank you for umpteen gifts you have bestowed on me. Let me beign with the gift of &lt;span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"&gt;early revelation&lt;/span&gt;. I remember meeting you for the first time when I was around 12. It was a hot summer afternoon and I was walking back from a video store when you gave me the first ever glimpse of a wee-wee. Thanks ever so much for helping me grow up before time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mister ageless man, thanks for &lt;span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"&gt;always being around&lt;/span&gt;. Friends may come and go, but you have always been there. Giving me that look as I walked back from school, making me run past the dark alley after a late tution class, whistling when I rushed for an early morning lecture with hair still wet, twitching my breast as I walked with my mother, trying to rub against me in a crowded bus...you have never let me feel unwanted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks for &lt;span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"&gt;scaring my family&lt;/span&gt;. You also get the credit for ridding me of three girlfriends whose marriage I could not attend as my family feared you would make an appearance as I got back home. Yeah, and that rafting trip I could never take, thanks to you, old pal.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mister man-from-no-particular-social-strata, you are also the one to be thanked for &lt;span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"&gt;putting me off boys&lt;/span&gt; in my teens. You made sure I never went for moon-lit walks, I never ate ice cream on the green-dewy lawns of India Gate at midnight, I stayed home on the eve of millennium, and I never wasted time on a lot of other such meaningless experiences.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After all it is my fault that I am a girl. A girl who needs to be safe. A girl who needs to think three times before visiting a friend late in the evening. A girl who has learned to inwardly smile at lewd invitations for a quickie behind the wall. A girl who is looked at as an object. And, you are the man of suppressed desires and overflowing frustration. You need an outlet. I understand. However, I do not want you to meet my future daughter. Do you understand? I do not want you to scare my little girl out of her wits while she is on a trip to Vaishno Devi with her friends. I do not want you to soil my daughter's fond memories of the first kiss. I will not let you. Today, I promise myself that I'll take the first small but meaningful step to ensure my future child's safety. I will call &lt;span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"&gt;1091&lt;/span&gt; the next time I see you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yours sincerely,&lt;br /&gt;mystic chick&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/22823199-114174688640010068?l=mysticchick.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/feeds/114174688640010068/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=22823199&amp;postID=114174688640010068' title='7 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114174688640010068'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114174688640010068'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/2006/03/letter-to-old-acquaintance.html' title='Letter to an old acquaintance'/><author><name>mystic chick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02182033770477331931</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f90/buttercuptea/mc.png'/></author><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22823199.post-114140000502113342</id><published>2006-03-03T07:14:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-07T08:26:33.953-08:00</updated><title type='text'>How much do I have?</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Post idea flicked from the veracious &lt;/span&gt;&lt;a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://chicklitindia.blogspot.com/"&gt;Desi Chick&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;They say that every woman should have:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;~&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;One old love she can imagine going back to... and one who         reminds her how far she has come&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;I can imagine going back to Nob, my first love. But the problem is that it is Nob who reminds me how far I've come. Do the two cancel each other out? Crap!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;~Enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of         her own even if she never wants to or needs to&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;I guess, I do. However, I detest living by myself. But that is not the question, is it?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;~&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;Something perfect to wear if the employer or date of her dreams         wants to see her in an hour&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Oh yeah, that I definitely have. =)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;~A youth she's content to leave behind&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;The way things are, I think that should not be a problem.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;~A past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it         in her old age&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Juicy? I am more of a nice girl, but yeah, I think I'd have a couple of anecdotes under this category as well.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;~A set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace         bra&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;No, no, and no. But these can be easily fixed. I'll start with number three. ;)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;~One friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her         cry&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Yes and yes. :)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;~A good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else         in her family&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Nope. I am planning on getting myself a smart bookcase soon. Will that count?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;~Eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe         for a  meal that will make her guests feel honored&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;NONE. I begin honing my cooking skills Sunday onwards. Plates and glasses shall follow.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;~A feeling of control over her destiny&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Hmm...to a certain limit, yes. I'd say, I control 50% of my destiny and G controls the other half.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/22823199-114140000502113342?l=mysticchick.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/feeds/114140000502113342/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=22823199&amp;postID=114140000502113342' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114140000502113342'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114140000502113342'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/2006/03/how-much-do-i-have.html' title='How much do I have?'/><author><name>mystic chick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02182033770477331931</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f90/buttercuptea/mc.png'/></author><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22823199.post-114113979404834773</id><published>2006-02-28T07:09:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-07T08:28:11.743-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Voice your opinion. Every bit counts.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:85%;" &gt;If you are a woman who leaves her house for more than five minutes a day, you have experienced it!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; If you are a guy who knows at least one woman, you have heard the tales about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We all see it. But we ignore it. We think it is normal. I think it is normal.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because it is an everyday happening. But normal does not mean it is right. Normal does not mean that we should suffer it. Let's join the &lt;a href="http://blanknoiseproject.blogspot.com/2006/02/blank-noise-presents_22.html"&gt;blank noise project&lt;/a&gt; and take a step towards eradicating &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;eve teasing&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/22823199-114113979404834773?l=mysticchick.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/feeds/114113979404834773/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=22823199&amp;postID=114113979404834773' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114113979404834773'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114113979404834773'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/2006/02/voice-your-opinion-every-bit-counts.html' title='Voice your opinion. Every bit counts.'/><author><name>mystic chick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02182033770477331931</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f90/buttercuptea/mc.png'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22823199.post-114105600220057786</id><published>2006-02-27T07:47:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-07T08:29:31.290-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Are we secretly at war?</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;There is no doubt that the world is divided in two halves, married people and singles. Time and again, I am forced to think if the married people of the world have united against the singles. Not a day passes without someone mentioning the M word to me. The whole world (alright the married half, at least) thinks I should get married. Do not get me wrong, I have nothing against marriage. In fact, I want to get married sometime. But the point is, why is my single status such a big deal to the people around me?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Is it my potential freedom that scares them? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Do they think all single women are out to get the married men? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Do they recent their state and want others to burn in the same hell?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Or maybe, they are the kind souls who are rolling in marital bliss and want the whole world to experience the joy, is it?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;What is it?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;I am preplexed by everyones interest in my marital status. I talk of a vaccation in Goa, and they tell me I should get married. I talk about a job shift, and they suggest marriage. I mention a boring weekend, and they swear life can be turned into a fun ride if I just get married. It scares me, it irritates me, and it bugs me to no end.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/22823199-114105600220057786?l=mysticchick.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/feeds/114105600220057786/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=22823199&amp;postID=114105600220057786' title='6 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114105600220057786'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114105600220057786'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/2006/02/are-we-secretly-at-war.html' title='Are we secretly at war?'/><author><name>mystic chick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02182033770477331931</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f90/buttercuptea/mc.png'/></author><thr:total>6</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22823199.post-114070655755656099</id><published>2006-02-23T06:52:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-07T08:33:27.366-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Does one still have breakfast at Tiffany and affairs to remember?</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"  &gt;Sitting in one of those posh cafés, I look around to see umpteen couples. They all seem madly in love. Eyes are fluttered, hair is flicked, slim legs are crossed; all seem perfect from a distance. Every now and then I see a hand moving animatedly to support the words being spoken, and then my eyes go to the huge flashing solitaire on the ring finger. They all look happy. They boogie the nights away, swinging to the latest tunes, they buy fresh zinnias, they buy loads of chocolates; yes, they still do that. But is there real romance out there?&lt;/span&gt;  &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;I am messed up in my head when it comes to defining romance. My most romantic moment had none of these. It had fresh air, green dewy grass, sprinkling sound of water in the background, soapy bubbles, and him. Yes, that was the most romantic moment ever. I have bottled it up in my memory and pop its cork every now and then to breathe in a bit of it. I cherish it. However, I still find myself hoping to receive an odd flower or a trinket every now and then...to mark a day I deem special. Like my second anniversary. Dating in todays time, my dear people, is a tough task. It is not easy to have a dating life of two years. I think it is a moment to be celebrated. So does he. Nevertheless, he always wants to play the important things down. “Let's not build it up” he says. I understand, mostly. But sometimes, a girl wants to feel special. Is it wrong?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;   &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;I wanted to us to feel special. We are special, to me. To him too, I know. Then, what is wrong in acknowledging it? This, dear people, is Mister High Fidelity. The man I am mad about. The man who means the world to me. The man who loves me but just does not know how to make me feel special. Do not get me wrong, he is a gem. He really is. But this girl still has her woes. You see, nothing is meant to be perfect. Nothing is perfect. Neither am I. Have no doubts about that. If he could not make me feel special that day, I did not leave any stone unturned in throwing tantrums either. Silly, we both are.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/22823199-114070655755656099?l=mysticchick.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/feeds/114070655755656099/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=22823199&amp;postID=114070655755656099' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114070655755656099'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114070655755656099'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/2006/02/does-one-still-have-breakfast-at.html' title='Does one still have breakfast at Tiffany and affairs to remember?'/><author><name>mystic chick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02182033770477331931</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f90/buttercuptea/mc.png'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22823199.post-114068443251810277</id><published>2006-02-23T00:44:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-03-07T08:32:08.140-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Hello world. I am ready to run.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;The Dixie Chicks number plays in my head as I type my first post here. Before I start, let us get some points straight.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;   &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Who are you and what are you doing here?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;   &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;I am just another ordinary and perpetually perplexed woman. I am starting this blog because I realize I need to accept certain basic truths of life. The kind that I refuse to acknowledge even to myself. This is more than a blog. This is project of self improvement. Heh. Having said that let me add, I do not intend to make this a serious, philosophical space. So chill.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;   &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;What made you start an anonymous blog?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;   &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;I have already answered this, in a way, in my previous reply. However, let me put it in more clear terms. It is not like I am new to the blog world. I have been around for over three years now. Over this period, my cyber pals and I have gotten friendly and now, they know me well enough for me to feel ill at ease while talking about things so personal.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;   &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Why do you need to talk about personal things at all?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;   &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Because I do. These are things, both joyous and somber, that have a deep affect on me every day. And, I am not the emotionally wisest person around. I need other people's perspective. I need to open my mind. What better than utilizing the power Internet unleashes by allowing me anonymity?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;   &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;What exactly are you going to talk about here?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;   &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Mostly myself. And my friends. Of course, no names will be taken.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;   &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Okay, and why are you ready to run?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;   &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Ah! Yes. I am ready to run from someone I love a lot. I cannot bear the thought of him not being around and if he as much as frowns at me, it upsets my whole system. I still want him but I want to clear my head. More on this and my Mister High Fidelity in the next post.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p  style="margin-bottom: 0in;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Thank you and hope to see you around.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/22823199-114068443251810277?l=mysticchick.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/feeds/114068443251810277/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=22823199&amp;postID=114068443251810277' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114068443251810277'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/22823199/posts/default/114068443251810277'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysticchick.blogspot.com/2006/02/hello-world-i-am-ready-to-run.html' title='Hello world. I am ready to run.'/><author><name>mystic chick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/02182033770477331931</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f90/buttercuptea/mc.png'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>
