<?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-5846409201201153475</id><updated>2011-04-21T18:20:06.113-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Clap On</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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>16</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5846409201201153475.post-7087113455759405776</id><published>2009-04-02T19:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-02T19:45:11.398-07:00</updated><title type='text'>You Don't Understand!</title><content type='html'>Everyone has their own trials and tribulations. For most there is the daily sturggle with how one looks and feels. But then there are those days where anything can happen...and it hapoens to someone else. When something bad happens to you there is always that someone who is like...it's alright, it will be ok. You just want someone to say that sucks or someone to say nothing at all. When you do stupid things you just hate yourself. When somone else does stupid things you can forgive them is two seconds flat. Like today he tried to make me feel better by saying sweet things and how everything will be alright, but I just wanted to hide away and not have someone there to realize what a complete idiot I was. How stupid do you have to be to throw away the biggest paycheck you have ever recieved. And how stupid do you have to be to blow up your engine. AND how stupid do you have to be to hate your boyfriend so much you want to punch him in the face and run...run forever and never look back. I guess the reason why I want a new car is because then I can start over fresh and new. I dont know why I feel like that is the way but I do feel that way. Actually right now I have a headach, just got done having a nose bleed, which was after the long 5 hours of car B.S. Which the whole losing the paycheck thing happend between, and to top it all off.....my dog left me a wonderful mess to clean up on the floor. All of these wonderful things were done on half a nights sleep, AND were done after I just completed my 7 hour shift at the wonderful stay fresh Subway. All I want to do is smash things....or sleep. I will take either.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-7087113455759405776?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/7087113455759405776/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=7087113455759405776' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/7087113455759405776'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/7087113455759405776'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2009/04/you-dont-understand.html' title='You Don&apos;t Understand!'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-8721858084322553093</id><published>2008-09-30T09:12:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-30T09:18:40.417-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Feeling Like Old</title><content type='html'>I'm starting to feel like I used to when I dropped out of school. I feel like there is nothing good happening. I feel worthless and bad. There is this big hole in my body that I just cant seem to fill. I dont have the urge to do anything but lay in bed and I just dont feel happy. I just want to be alone. I can feel my money dripping away. I just wish I could start a new. Iniziare Sopra! That would be a wonderful thing. Just move away. Start where nobody knows me. Get a lucky break and be happy again. There are many different factors that could be causing this. Dave living with me, my living situation (apartment wise), its almost my one year, we just got a new dog, my job. I just want it to be good again. I dont want to be unhappy. I want to be something that someone would be proud of. I'm not going to school, and I thus far have nothing to show for myself. I feel horrible. I dont feel accompished. I wish I was better. Worthy. I cant even keep my house clean. It doesnt help that I am reading a book about a messed up girl. You know what I feel like I dont deserve what I have, and I know I want more. I just wish that I could start moving forward.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-8721858084322553093?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/8721858084322553093/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=8721858084322553093' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/8721858084322553093'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/8721858084322553093'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/09/feeling-like-old.html' title='Feeling Like Old'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-3096847453990936202</id><published>2008-09-10T12:52:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-10T12:55:56.455-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Empty</title><content type='html'>I feel so empty and alone. I feel as though I push people away when all I want is for them to come as close as possible. I am sad. I am stuck in a small apartment is two guys and a cat. And all I feel like doing right now is crying. I just want him to hold me. Tell me he loves me and that its alright. I wish I was as beautiful as he thinks I am. Oh I hate this feeling.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-3096847453990936202?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/3096847453990936202/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=3096847453990936202' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/3096847453990936202'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/3096847453990936202'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/09/empty.html' title='Empty'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-3183024584322929187</id><published>2008-08-03T23:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-03T23:27:22.571-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Cuddle Buddy</title><content type='html'>My cuddle buddy tonight is my phone. Accompanied by my tear stained face and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;emerging&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;headache&lt;/span&gt;. I miss him. All I want is just one more call before bed. Just one more minute, just long enough to hear him say I love you. When a dead phone is your life line what is a girl to do? I just want the pain to subside. My throat hurts because my heart is in it. Shards of glass slice me up so nothing but sobs comes out. The bed is so cold it's hot, and way to empty without you. Tonight my phone is my company...hoping you will call just one more time.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-3183024584322929187?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/3183024584322929187/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=3183024584322929187' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/3183024584322929187'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/3183024584322929187'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/08/cuddle-buddy.html' title='Cuddle Buddy'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-8228925571334628648</id><published>2008-07-15T12:55:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-15T12:57:32.030-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I feel like Im boring. I am boring. I lead a boring, uneventful life. I might as well be married, with kids, and ready to die. Wow!...I'm just this nothing of a person floating around on earth taking up space and oxygen. I'm boring!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-8228925571334628648?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/8228925571334628648/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=8228925571334628648' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/8228925571334628648'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/8228925571334628648'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/07/i-feel-like-im-boring.html' title=''/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-3248401734541848295</id><published>2008-07-04T14:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-04T14:23:43.308-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Not Sure</title><content type='html'>People always say that animals resemble their owners. Sometimes they even start to look like one another. This comes to mind &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;every time&lt;/span&gt; Ebony (my cat) is neurotic and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;spazzy&lt;/span&gt; tearing around the house not caring of the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;consequences&lt;/span&gt;. Am I neurotic? Maybe. There are things I am and there are definitely things that I am not. I feel as if I have been living in denial to certain parts of my life for the past two years. Like I reached a point that I couldn't move past because that means that I would miss something and would have to admit all the wrong that I have done. I am stuck as an eighteen year old girl who is scorn by life. To bad I am now twenty and should have already forgiven the world, fate, god...myself. My cat is only a lover when she wants to be. She will not except being pet if she &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;don't&lt;/span&gt; want it. To bad the reason why I got her was because I needed someone to snuggle with at night, and someone to take care of. For me, well...I need love all the time. I need attention, I need words, and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;mostly&lt;/span&gt; I need security. Last night as I cried the hardest I have cried in a while, and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;probably&lt;/span&gt; was the most upset that I have ever been with Adam. I was upset at him for being right. For telling me everything that I knew, and I was upset that he was sounding like everything was my fault. It most likely was my fault but I &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;didn't&lt;/span&gt; want to hear that. Everyday when I am alone I need to fight to keep myself from crying. I miss her. I miss the other one too. I miss them all sometimes, but those two...I miss them the most. Growing up means that you get to look at yourself and go..."you're stupid...grow up!". I am not grown up. I may act professional and whatever people want but I do not, and most of the time will not grow up. I am stuck. I am held by my feeling to a time in the past that I know I should just let go of, but cannot. I am going to write a letter. This will be the end of part 1.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-3248401734541848295?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/3248401734541848295/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=3248401734541848295' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/3248401734541848295'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/3248401734541848295'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/07/not-sure.html' title='Not Sure'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-526984393390792917</id><published>2008-05-01T21:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-05-01T21:33:58.376-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Walking</title><content type='html'>It is kind of funny how you feel when you finally get over the HUGE bulder in your way. I hadnt complete one class for a  year and a half...until today. The day before my 20th birthday. I feel myself slipping further from my parents and more into my own. Maybe this is something that needs to happen. There are still things that are around that I cling to, you cannot get rid of everything. I think I really hurt my moms feelings, but she hurt me. Mer...just a bad time to socialize with people. Well anyway, Im proud of myself. I hope that this is putting one foot foward with the other following.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-526984393390792917?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/526984393390792917/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=526984393390792917' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/526984393390792917'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/526984393390792917'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/05/walking.html' title='Walking'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-3279254511888438003</id><published>2008-04-30T19:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-30T19:05:20.423-07:00</updated><title type='text'>what to do</title><content type='html'>i think i am killing the people around me. slowly. i dont konw why i feel this way. but i feel it. i can never keep plants alive. i either give them too much attention or to little. i dont want him to leave. i dont know what i would do without him here. please dont leave me...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-3279254511888438003?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/3279254511888438003/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=3279254511888438003' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/3279254511888438003'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/3279254511888438003'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/04/what-to-do.html' title='what to do'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-4442105455791066749</id><published>2008-04-20T20:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-20T20:06:18.185-07:00</updated><title type='text'>ignorance = ingnoring something</title><content type='html'>When you are ignoring something does that make you ignorant? My brain is really good and ignoring things...puting them out of site out of mind. I used to be really good at doing my homework, but not anymore. Before I would have school everyday, and desks, and a locker to work with but now I have two days and a bed, and a hot distracting man laying next to me. Ah, what do you do?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-4442105455791066749?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/4442105455791066749/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=4442105455791066749' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/4442105455791066749'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/4442105455791066749'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/04/ignorance-ingnoring-something.html' title='ignorance = ingnoring something'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-4597912350859447158</id><published>2008-04-18T19:15:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-18T19:16:09.275-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I sitting her listening to you play and you sound wonderful. I know you dont think so but you do. You make me laugh how you bit your toung when you concentrate really hard. Baby, I love you and I wish you knew how much you really mean to me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-4597912350859447158?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/4597912350859447158/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=4597912350859447158' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/4597912350859447158'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/4597912350859447158'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/04/i-sitting-her-listening-to-you-play-and.html' title=''/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-800147359920660890</id><published>2008-04-16T21:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-16T21:12:48.758-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>What is wrong with me? I like things run down but nice. I like good bad boys. I like guys sensitive and talkitive but too much is way too much. I like him. Why do I feel like Im not good enough. I know I am. I know things have gotten better for both of us sice we started dating, but when I upset him...I feel inadiquite. When the other guys talks about other girls I feel small. I love that he doesnt look...I really love when he touches me in public to show people that I am his. I dont want to be anyone elses but his, but I feel like he is to good for me. Or worse of he will finally wake up and ralize how horrible I am and get all his things together and leave. I havent thought like this in a long time so why am I now? I have never felt this way about anyone. He is so special, and he does so much for me. I'm very lucky! Does he feel the same? The blinking cursor taunts me...why dont you write something it asks? There was this book series that I really like, and when he is gone for a long time or when we make each other feel bad I just keep thinking of how the author describes the characters heart. Like there is a hole through the middle and every little thing picks at the edges causing pain. As the heart pleads for it peice, for there is nothing that can fill the hole...just distract the heart from the pain. I feel like a dog has taken a bit out of mine and is playing with it on the ground while I watch. Emptiness surrounds me...please come save me prince charming. You are the only one that I want right now, and you are the only thing I cannot have. You have so much power over me...................please...save me!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-800147359920660890?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/800147359920660890/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=800147359920660890' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/800147359920660890'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/800147359920660890'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/04/what-is-wrong-with-me-i-like-things-run.html' title=''/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-8701192636287575521</id><published>2008-04-16T20:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-16T21:02:09.996-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Internal Bleeding</title><content type='html'>It was always about keeping secrets with my family, and the biggest of them all was the big "P". And now I find myself once again surrounded by it. Relationships have been ruiend by this stupid thing, and feelings have been shredded. How could I not hate it. I feel so left out; I always have. Nobody understands...does it matter? I stopped...not because you asked but because I knew you would like it better if I didnt. It hurts so much...It's like watching you kiss another girl right in front of me. I know that I should be fine with it and just not care. I'm not being forced into it, but sometimes I almost rather it be that then...just being forgotten, or better yet doing it while being played with like a child. I feel so left out. I feel so alone. I wish someone understood. It hurts so bad. I try. I try so hard. I love you so much. That's the funny thing. I like it from a distance, and I really dont mind that much. I really dont. Go ahead, do it, I just wish I could sometimes. Maybe that is my problem. I want to so bad...but I'm so scared. I have thought about it. I just wish you didnt care that I care so much. Lol...stupid. I feel so stupid. I feel pathedic, and young, and nieve. I feel like an outsider looking in. I'm not a drinker...I'm done with that. I just want you to want me. I feel like that was always way more important than me. My mom and my dad...that was them. If they werent doing that...oh god if they werent flying then they were mean. And if they were they were care free. What do you expect me to do...be happy. Im scared. I know you are SOOOOOO not like normal people who do it and you would stop if I asked, but that is not what I want. I dont want you to start giving up things just because im not happy...that really wouldnt make me happy. Just understand where I am coming from. Do you know how much it hurts? Really bad....&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-8701192636287575521?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/8701192636287575521/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=8701192636287575521' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/8701192636287575521'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/8701192636287575521'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/04/internal-bleeding.html' title='Internal Bleeding'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-1886065550987780762</id><published>2008-04-15T21:39:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-15T21:45:51.583-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I really have to pee</title><content type='html'>I sit here as my cat lays in the fresh dirt pile I swept up from the bathroom floor. A drawer full of stuff just fell all over the floor and there is an even bigger mess outside of the small room I sit. The smell of the liter box creeks in and makes you want to gag, and there is hardly any room to move around. I have to pee but I have no ambition to get up and use the toilet that if I wanted to I could reach out and touch. My mind is as blank as a freight train and my body is so not a temple right now. In the freshly drooped drawer was the sissiors I was looking for. I searched for them for about fifteen minutes until I gave up and used the ones I use to cut hair. The dirty floor, the stench, and the mess. Oh gosh...shedding the outter skin is tough, and I think I am been pulling it around as though I could just craw back into it and it would be alright for years and am just now realizing it could never be. Dirty floor. God I have to pee.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-1886065550987780762?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/1886065550987780762/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=1886065550987780762' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/1886065550987780762'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/1886065550987780762'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/04/i-really-have-to-pee.html' title='I really have to pee'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-1585868581250945920</id><published>2008-04-13T16:55:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-13T16:59:53.805-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Yesterday I had my first art show...it was horrible but people said that they liked it. I honestly feel that I have natural talent, but I also think that pictures arent that hard to take. I kind of withsed that someone would see my pictures, love them so much, and then offer me this great traveling picture taking job. My pizza almost got burn to hell just a moment ago, but I saved it. I am being super quiet so mr. great can record some music...he sounds really good. I am also in the process of cleaning the bathroom. All that is left is throw away the garbage, wash the mirror, and clean the floors. I still would like to get the dishes, kitchen floor, and the laundry done. mmmmmmmmmm...sleep; here I come.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-1585868581250945920?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/1585868581250945920/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=1585868581250945920' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/1585868581250945920'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/1585868581250945920'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/04/yesterday-i-had-my-first-art-show.html' title=''/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-62525159453548036</id><published>2008-04-12T00:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-12T00:21:31.316-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sleep Deprived Continued...</title><content type='html'>O.K. time for something real...this is a blog for all the people who had to deal with me today. Mainly my three closest friends. I feel...something that I'm not sure of and it's nobody fault and nothing is to blam. To you, I'm sorry. I have taken my weirdness out on you guys and that's not fair. I didn't mean anything by my outburst and thank you for still loving me even after I dont deserve it. I will be better...I will work on getting better...for you guys and for myself. I love you!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-62525159453548036?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/62525159453548036/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=62525159453548036' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/62525159453548036'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/62525159453548036'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/04/sleep-deprived-continued.html' title='Sleep Deprived Continued...'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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-5846409201201153475.post-2747053407659294232</id><published>2008-04-11T22:39:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-11T22:46:19.198-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sleep Deprived</title><content type='html'>turn the lights on or off it's your pleasure...but make a decision.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5846409201201153475-2747053407659294232?l=caucamouse.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/feeds/2747053407659294232/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5846409201201153475&amp;postID=2747053407659294232' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/2747053407659294232'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5846409201201153475/posts/default/2747053407659294232'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://caucamouse.blogspot.com/2008/04/sleep-deprived.html' title='Sleep Deprived'/><author><name>Translating Life</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08527651146378053491</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></feed>
