<?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-25198436</id><updated>2011-04-21T11:15:03.389-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Insight to the Minds</title><subtitle type='html'>Woman.  Student.  Leader. And more...</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Rachel</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03066824123606622874</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>10</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25198436.post-115515297630809965</id><published>2006-08-09T12:36:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-09T12:59:45.930-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Explaining...</title><content type='html'>Lately, I've been extremely (can I emphasize that more?) despondant and detatched.  Angry is another word that describes me of late.  Pushin', pushin', pushin' people away. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It started after I got back from my vacation.  But it didn't hit the fan until my parents had a blow-up.  (Actually, this has been going on for a long time now, but under the radar.)  That night, something clicked.  Something dramatically changed in me.  My attitude towards people.  Towards my own family.  Towards my own friends.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm a total doormat.  To everyone.  This girl constantly complained to me about her relationship with her boyfriend and his parents.  And the moment I utter some grievance about the relationship I'm in (mind you, this was over a month ago.), she quips, "Stop complaining Rachel."  Always listening...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to anymore.  I don't want to listen to the going-ons of everyone's life.  I don't even want to be around "everyone" anymore.  And I haven't been.  "Do you wanna hang out tonight?" Nope, gotta work.  "Wanna go out to lunch with us?  We're going out to Los..."  Nope, I can't stand to look at you.  Yeah, there have been those occasions where I've said "sure, that sounds like it'll be fun," but I've always called back to say no.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not talking.  I'm barely even writing.  I'm exhausted because there are too many birds.  I was depressed, but now... Now, I'm just hardened.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I told my mom that I'm bitter and resentful.  I can't stand my friends.  (I've even stripped a few of them of that title.)  Avoiding?  Nope.  Just sending clear, hard messages.  When I said that everyone is replaceable, I really meant it.  There isn't a single person in my life that can't be replaced or hasn't been replaced.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This entry serves as an explaination.  It is directed in no one's particular direction.  (Blanket, maybe.)  It has been brought to my attention that I need to clarify the intentions of my actions.  So, you've got it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/25198436-115515297630809965?l=talesofquail.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/feeds/115515297630809965/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=25198436&amp;postID=115515297630809965' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/115515297630809965'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/115515297630809965'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/2006/08/explaining.html' title='Explaining...'/><author><name>Rachel</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03066824123606622874</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-25198436.post-114848811473899614</id><published>2006-05-24T09:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-05-24T09:31:08.510-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Worship</title><content type='html'>"For all You do... For all You are to me..."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I put a worship cd in my dvd player.  So that I could have something... less coarse to listen to while I cleaned.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's what I like.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Worship.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I could only stay in for the Worship at church... I'd be set.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's so much more powerful than the actual message.  Or so I think.  I know that I'm alive because of it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember what Rob said so long ago.  I remember what Michael Reyes said.  What Jordi said.  I remember....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now when do I act?  When do I do what I &lt;em&gt;know&lt;/em&gt; I'm supposed to do?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Time to be brave, Rach....&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/25198436-114848811473899614?l=talesofquail.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/feeds/114848811473899614/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=25198436&amp;postID=114848811473899614' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114848811473899614'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114848811473899614'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/2006/05/worship.html' title='Worship'/><author><name>Rachel</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03066824123606622874</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-25198436.post-114789047938001066</id><published>2006-05-17T11:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-05-17T11:27:59.556-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Ten most Important Questions...</title><content type='html'>In my philosophy class, we are discussing the most important 10 questions ever asked.  We each made a list.  &lt;br /&gt;What's truth?&lt;br /&gt;Are humans inherently evil?&lt;br /&gt;Who is God?&lt;br /&gt;Who/What is responsible for life?&lt;br /&gt;When does life begin?&lt;br /&gt;How are memories stored?&lt;br /&gt;What's love?&lt;br /&gt;Is there life on other planets?&lt;br /&gt;Why?&lt;br /&gt;Why not?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A few of those are easy to answer.  But... most of them... aren't.  I've been thinking about those hard questions....  And I want answers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's it; I want answers.  I want... wisdom.  Solomon-style.  Is that too much to ask for?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope not.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/25198436-114789047938001066?l=talesofquail.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/feeds/114789047938001066/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=25198436&amp;postID=114789047938001066' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114789047938001066'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114789047938001066'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/2006/05/ten-most-important-questions.html' title='The Ten most Important Questions...'/><author><name>Rachel</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03066824123606622874</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-25198436.post-114702875271960047</id><published>2006-05-07T11:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-05-07T12:05:52.786-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Yet another musing...</title><content type='html'>Its so weird...  Everyone thinks that they know so much about what's going on in everyone else's world.  But then....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You realize how far off base you really are.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But would you really be willing to take a step back, and look to see how far off your judgements really are?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Am I willing to do so?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And that is just it.  Its so easy to be on the outside, to look in.  And be totally content with what it is that you see. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Where am I going with this... Golly if I only knew...  Friday night, there was a lockin at Grace Evangelical Lutheran church for the BREAKdown crew.  And I went.  When it was "time" for everyone to go into their room (seperated by sex, of course), &lt;a href="http://www.shekina.blogspot.com"&gt;Emily O.&lt;/a&gt; went against the grain and slept out in the main room.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, to say "slept" would be somewhat misleading, because we talked most of the night.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;About a lot of things.  It was crazy.  It was nice.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nice to finally say somethinngs that have been bothering me for a few months.  And to listen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's the most important part.  Listening.  As people, we are so hell-bent on talking.  Constantly talking.  Never listening.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't think of myself as being that way.  I listen more than I do anything.  Some have the audacity of calling it "eavesdropping", but thats only if you're listening with intent, right?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No, I just don't talk.  I over-analzye instead, I guess.  Read too deep into everything. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or something.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/25198436-114702875271960047?l=talesofquail.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/feeds/114702875271960047/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=25198436&amp;postID=114702875271960047' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114702875271960047'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114702875271960047'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/2006/05/yet-another-musing.html' title='Yet another musing...'/><author><name>Rachel</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03066824123606622874</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-25198436.post-114668551528756625</id><published>2006-05-03T12:27:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-05-03T12:45:15.350-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Grieving.</title><content type='html'>Remember when I said that I wanted to be more stoic?  Well, nothing has changed, but it sure is hard.  Especially in lieu of news...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Prom was stressful...  Wait, just &lt;strong&gt;getting&lt;/strong&gt; there was stressful.  After that, things were fine.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Until I actually got there.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One of the first people that I saw was Emily.  And by-golly, she looked amazing.  She told me that her dad had passed away.  On Thursday.  And she was completely stoic about it.  (I envied her, right then.)  I, on the other hand, started to cry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hardly ever get along with parents of friends.  Because I get nervous.  And for some odd reason they look at me as a bad influence  (giggle.)  But the Millers were different.  I was always a daughter, and they were always parents.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sunday... Church, I just couldn't control myself.  That makes me feel... so ashamed.  I couldn't control my emotions.  I couldn't stifle the tears.  So like an over-emotional teenager, I cried the entire service.  I openly wept.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And when I was done, I felt... ashamed.  I couldn't get out of there fast enough, but at the same time, I felt... safe there.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How silly.  Its just a building..  And yet, I feel total safety there.  I'd rather be there, in that empty building, than anywhere else.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The viewing was emotional.  A lot of kids from school were there.  To support Emily.  Which was cool.  Don't get me wrong.  But they didn't know him.  And when they saw the hawaiian print shirt, they didn't get it.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The funeral was worse.  I wept.  Uncontrollably.  And of course, I had no tissues...  (Bleh.)  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its hard to believe that one person can have this kind of effect.   I mean, one person outside of my life.  Because I'm not close to the Family like I was back in the old days.  Its been a while since I had seen all of them.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One more thing that I took for granted.  And look where I'm at now...  I guess there's truth to that ol' saying after all...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/25198436-114668551528756625?l=talesofquail.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/feeds/114668551528756625/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=25198436&amp;postID=114668551528756625' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114668551528756625'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114668551528756625'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/2006/05/grieving.html' title='Grieving.'/><author><name>Rachel</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03066824123606622874</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-25198436.post-114547247756229387</id><published>2006-04-19T11:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-19T11:49:31.770-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Blame/Responsibility</title><content type='html'>I already feel redundant because I posted a little bit on this topic in my xanga, but I feel like I should expound upon it a little....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'd love it if.... everyone took responsibility for how they felt.  Bobby said I scared him. &lt;strong&gt;I&lt;/strong&gt; scared him.  Wrong.  (But how would you word that right?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It goes back to 5th Grade peer mediation.  "I" sentences versus "You" sentences.  When one says "Rachel, &lt;strong&gt;you&lt;/strong&gt; make me angry!" that's wrong, because I'm not in control of your emotions.  "Rachel, I feel anger towards you due to some of your actions."  There you go, that's better.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No one can make anyone feel something.  "I love the way you make me feel"  Noooo, wrong wrong wrong!  "I love the way I feel when I hang out with you"  Mucho better-o.  (Now I'm making my own language... rock on)  I am solely in control of how I feel.  You are solely in control of how you feel.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What makes us feel the way we do?  How we handle information that is given to us. And that is the true show of maturity.  Disturbing news?  Take it stoically, and deal with it in private.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It just bothers me.  I've noticed it a lot more lately.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think a lot of people are still living with that "high school" mentality...  What a shame.  What a shame, what a shame.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A close friend of mine told me her dad had about a week left to live.  Rather than cry in front of her, I smiled, and patted her back, and told her things would be fine.  When I got home, I cried and cried.  Stoic.  That's what I'm striving for.  I want to be more stoic when in public.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate the thought that people can read me...  I feel uncomfortable.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/25198436-114547247756229387?l=talesofquail.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/feeds/114547247756229387/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=25198436&amp;postID=114547247756229387' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114547247756229387'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114547247756229387'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/2006/04/blameresponsibility.html' title='Blame/Responsibility'/><author><name>Rachel</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03066824123606622874</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-25198436.post-114453783127825126</id><published>2006-04-08T15:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-08T16:10:31.300-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Conflict</title><content type='html'>I was filling out my FAFSA (because I'm a bum and haven't done it yet) and I noticed that my mom wrote down a bunch of pertinent information about Wright State.&lt;br /&gt;I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.&lt;br /&gt;She decided that I didn't want to go to Wilmington.  (Which isn't totally wrong... I am not 100% gung-ho about anywhere.)  I figured it out.&lt;br /&gt;Well yesterday, she brought up the prospect of me going to Wright State instead.  Normally, when we have these "serious" discussions, one of us gets pissed and leaves.  This time, however, we were both angry.  &lt;br /&gt;Guh, how far away is May 1st?!  Not that far.  This conversation is coming too late.  And her reasons are completely legitimate for not wanting me to go to Wilmington.  $40,000 isn't a lot when tuition is %28,000 a year...  And I know that if I go to Wright State, I can still do the things that I'm wanting to do around Springfield.  I won't be leaving Breakdown.  I can maintain my relationships.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because as much as I want to cut myself free from everyone, I don't.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, this Friday, she and I are going to go and check the campus out.  Dorms, class, food.  This'll be interesting... I may not be going to a quaint, pascifist college afterall...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I guess I'll just make a list of pro's and con's for both schools, because that deadline is getting awfully close...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But on a better note... Last night, I got a call from this guy that I used to be good friends with.  The last time I spoke to him, I told him to not talk to me again until he had sobered up.  Well, lo-and-behold... he has.  From everything-drugs, alcohol, etc.  I was so happy.  &lt;br /&gt;So, he and I are going to go out on Tuesday.  Since I'm on Spring Break, and I'm alone at the house, I figured I will take advantage of this.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/25198436-114453783127825126?l=talesofquail.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/feeds/114453783127825126/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=25198436&amp;postID=114453783127825126' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114453783127825126'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114453783127825126'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/2006/04/conflict.html' title='Conflict'/><author><name>Rachel</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03066824123606622874</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-25198436.post-114427750143313191</id><published>2006-04-05T15:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-05T15:51:41.456-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Volunteer</title><content type='html'>As a "member" of ASA, I went to go volunteer at the IOOF home today.  Out of the 25 people that are members of this club, only 3 of us went.  Guh.  But nothing came of it, because our contact was gone...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wasted afternoon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I read my horoscope today, and for the second time this week, I had a 5-star day.  Golly, it felt like it.  Everything went well.  Applebee's for Lunch (skipping three classes, oh yeah).  Pesoli for dinner.  New music.  Sunshine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The most important- sunshine.  I'm sick of this dreary weather.  That may be the only thing I envy about the crew in Tulsa; its warm.  Now, I'm in four shirts and a jacket, and I'm still cold.  Go figure...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Out of the blue, I started to feel... blue.  It was peculiar.  Unnatural.  But welcomed, because every now and again, melancholy keeps one grounded.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/25198436-114427750143313191?l=talesofquail.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/feeds/114427750143313191/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=25198436&amp;postID=114427750143313191' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114427750143313191'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114427750143313191'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/2006/04/volunteer.html' title='Volunteer'/><author><name>Rachel</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03066824123606622874</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-25198436.post-114419672177088544</id><published>2006-04-04T16:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-04-04T17:26:28.536-07:00</updated><title type='text'>That feeling.</title><content type='html'>D'ya ever get that stupid, silly feeling?  The one where... you just stop caring; lose all inhibitions.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, right now that is me.  Plain and simply put.  I have stopped caring about (almost) everything.  I decided that it is close to the right time where I start doing things the way I'd like to do them.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And if that means detatching myself from friends and others, well so-be-it.  And if it means doing something so totally wild and crazy and unfathomable, well, I'm gonna grit my teeth and bear it.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But on the other hand, that's not like me at all.  I'm not one to put myself out there and do something wild and spontaneous.  The most spontaneous thing I have ever done was pack up and leave the state for a weekend with two amazing guys that I didn't really even know.  (Except for the Horse.  Everyone knows him)  And I can't even begin to tell y'all how crazy that was; how far removed I was from my comfort zone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In Yearbook, we're doing this thing; next to each Senior Picture, we're putting down little tid-bits about the person.  Every senior had to fill out this sheet of paper; kind of like a survey.  One of the questions was "What's your most embarassing moment?".  It stumped me.  I don't have any.  And not because I'm not ashamed of anything I do, but because I'm not silly enough to do stupid things in public.  It was so hard for me to answer that.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went to Youth Group this last Sunday.  It was the first time in what- 9 months that I've gone.  I thought I was going to be sick.  Not because I hated it, but because I get so nervous when I feel out of place, and I felt so out of place there.  The best part was hanging out with Kayla and talking with Pikey.  (Going to Youngs was fun, too)  But... I still felt out of place.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My place is in Small Groups.  I am totally in love with my small group (Bruns), and nothing could change that.  I've found a niche, and its with the older crowd.  I might be 18, but its been a long time since I thought like a teenager.  Experiences change people; sometimes for the good, and other times for the bad.  I got lucky, I got a full cup of each.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know where I was going with any of this, but I needed to put it out there...  Sometimes I get that irrepressible urge to be honest.  Sort of spontaneous.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sort of.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/25198436-114419672177088544?l=talesofquail.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/feeds/114419672177088544/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=25198436&amp;postID=114419672177088544' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114419672177088544'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114419672177088544'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/2006/04/that-feeling.html' title='That feeling.'/><author><name>Rachel</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03066824123606622874</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-25198436.post-114392129243050399</id><published>2006-04-01T11:20:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-04-01T13:41:12.736-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Back on Blogger</title><content type='html'>I'm going back to blogger.  Not sure why, I just felt like xanga is... too something or another.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Whatever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, high school is almost over.  30 school days left.  And then graduation.  Its sort of overwhelming, when I think about it.  I mean, I've got to start planning my grad party, and I've got to get ready for prom, and oh man, then there's college....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm nervous.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've never been one to care about my image, or how people percieve me.  But the last few months, I guess I've realized that I have to care somewhat, because of the roles I've taken on.  I'm not a child anymore, I'm actually a young woman.  (Woah, scary thought...)  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Spring break is coming up, and I'm excited.  Its going to be great.  My parents are going to Gatlinburg with Mr. and Mrs. Bentz, so Zach and I will be home.  I'm looking forward to that vacation away from everyone.  Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love my family, even the kids, but every now and again, I like to be alone.  So, I'm getting excited...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is where I give my disclaimer; I won't update this much.  I have no plans on it, so lets keep the expectations low....&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/25198436-114392129243050399?l=talesofquail.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/feeds/114392129243050399/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=25198436&amp;postID=114392129243050399' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114392129243050399'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/25198436/posts/default/114392129243050399'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://talesofquail.blogspot.com/2006/04/back-on-blogger.html' title='Back on Blogger'/><author><name>Rachel</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03066824123606622874</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></feed>
