<?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-1186184482315958221</id><updated>2012-02-16T04:57:15.396-04:00</updated><title type='text'>She-Beast</title><subtitle type='html'>The life of a morbid and thoughtful lurker.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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>38</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1186184482315958221.post-4401493538920960666</id><published>2008-12-13T17:46:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-13T17:47:15.367-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Moving time</title><content type='html'>I have moved:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://nimbusnemus.blogspot.com/"&gt;http://nimbusnemus.blogspot.com&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All old posts have been imported there.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-4401493538920960666?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/4401493538920960666/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=4401493538920960666&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4401493538920960666'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4401493538920960666'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2008/12/moving-time.html' title='Moving time'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-6181263415451808970</id><published>2008-12-11T21:43:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T21:46:44.199-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Heath Ledger</title><content type='html'>No. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;No.&lt;/span&gt; I thought. I hate this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't even explain the pain &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Brokeback Mountain&lt;/span&gt; evoked in me. It's so much worse with Heath Ledger dead, which was already painfully sad, because of the movie's ending.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm so sad. What a beautiful film. And yet it's a tragedy two times over.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't...think. I want to go cry over this, I really do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Heath Ledger, my god, you should've lived.&lt;br /&gt;I hate this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I hate this.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-6181263415451808970?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/6181263415451808970/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=6181263415451808970&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/6181263415451808970'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/6181263415451808970'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2008/12/heath-ledger.html' title='Heath Ledger'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-7247446637822584417</id><published>2008-11-28T22:34:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2008-11-28T22:48:08.713-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Contemplations</title><content type='html'>So it's back to the old grind. Mother having a fit at me. Dad acting like a two year-old instead of being mature and letting me be a kid for once. Behind like hell in classes. No idea where my life is going.&lt;br /&gt;Well, that's Friday for you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;AP European History will be my downfall yet. It's not that I couldn't get straight A's...it's just that I don't care. And I'm failing Biology, of all things, possibly my favorite class. I love the subjects...but I just don't do the work, and it's idiotic. I know it is, and yet I don't stop it because my life is so bland. I just have no inspiration.&lt;br /&gt;And it's depression. But what does telling anyone help? Telling my parents in the past has resulted only in distrust and strict timelines every night. (Which is the equivalent of Chinese water torture to me, really. I effing hate it.) My closest friends aren't really my friends at all. My sister, my truest friend, shares depression, she's no inspiration. Not anymore.&lt;br /&gt;I don't know where I'm going, but it's stupid. I expect that typing it out will show me some direction like it always does, but in this case there's only ever one thing to do: Get off my butt and work. But I don't want to. So I don't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's immature. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I'm&lt;/span&gt; immature.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just want a hobby or something. A distraction that I enjoy, but there's nothing. I'd love to walk through woods and think, but our woods house a black bear and her cubs, and is torturingly hilly, and hard to walk on. I'd love to arch, but where would the funds come from? We're not well off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And as I contemplate all this my life gets steadily worse and worse. I need a light, a hope, something to inspire me, show me that life is truly a beautiful thing. But I lack that ray of light; I have my entire life, turning to the movies and books that would capture my heart for joy and emotion because my life lacked such experiences. But it was all hollow; the characters I loved are not real, the world I yearned for an imagining, and above all else, they were mostly just ploys for money, on the basic end of it.&lt;br /&gt;So what inspires me? What captures my soul like nothing else? Is there &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;anything?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Will there ever&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; be&lt;/span&gt; anything?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-7247446637822584417?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/7247446637822584417/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=7247446637822584417&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7247446637822584417'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7247446637822584417'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2008/11/contemplations.html' title='Contemplations'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-3865687564043137803</id><published>2008-11-26T00:39:00.004-04:00</published><updated>2008-11-26T00:50:23.427-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Jokes</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/SSzVHpwPk5I/AAAAAAAAAC4/8QK8N5t6LRw/s1600-h/thinf.bmp"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 188px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/SSzVHpwPk5I/AAAAAAAAAC4/8QK8N5t6LRw/s400/thinf.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272823591188009874" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't even begin to describe how hard I laughed at this. At my own joke. How sad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me and my chimpy bretheren are gonna have a pimpin' Thanksgivin'.&lt;br /&gt;LOL'ing. Oh man. God, that's funny.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am dying, here.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-3865687564043137803?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/3865687564043137803/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=3865687564043137803&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/3865687564043137803'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/3865687564043137803'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2008/11/jokes.html' title='Jokes'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/SSzVHpwPk5I/AAAAAAAAAC4/8QK8N5t6LRw/s72-c/thinf.bmp' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1186184482315958221.post-120913054837964669</id><published>2008-11-24T17:57:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2008-11-24T18:14:24.754-04:00</updated><title type='text'>MI-5, Matthew MacFadyen, andThe Road</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;"  &gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Spoilers&lt;/span&gt; for season one of &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;MI-5 (Spooks):&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;It's completely sucked me in, &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;"  &gt;like a drug. Today in class I sort of sailed through it all, thinking about that one last moment of season one, the two lovers looking at each other, knowing that it was going to end; it wrenched my heart out. I remember after seeing it, I just lay my head back and covered my eyes, because of the sheer emotional intensity.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:times new roman;"&gt;The second season is fifty dollars, seventy normally; that a hell of a lot for a TV show, I mean &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" &gt;really&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:times new roman;"&gt;. It's the best thing I've seen in a while, but still. I'll be hard-put to convince my father that he should let me spend my money on that, even if I never watch the tele anyway.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:times new roman;"&gt;The only reason I picked it up was because it stars Matthew Macfadyen, who played Mr. Darcy in the 2005 &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" &gt;Pride &amp;amp; Prejudice&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:times new roman;"&gt;. I've seen him in a few things now, and I have to say, he's really excellent. It's kind of a shame so few people in the US know about him, but I suppose if he did become a celebrity here, he'd eventually end up in shit movies, like everyone else. All the movies here are tragedies and cheesy superhero&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: times new roman;"&gt;s and romantic comedies.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:times new roman;"&gt;Sigh. We have no artistic taste; I'm going to the UK, goddamnit.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:times new roman;"&gt;I'm also reading &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" &gt;The Road&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:times new roman;"&gt; (Cormac McCarthy), which is not only depressing but revolutionary. It's incredibly thought-provoking, and unfortunately, the future it paints is only so far away.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:times new roman;"&gt;Ciao for now.&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/1186184482315958221-120913054837964669?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/120913054837964669/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=120913054837964669&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/120913054837964669'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/120913054837964669'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2008/11/mi-5-and-road.html' title='MI-5, Matthew MacFadyen, andThe Road'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-8063726808098013600</id><published>2008-11-23T00:36:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2008-11-23T00:50:08.323-04:00</updated><title type='text'>She-beast Returns</title><content type='html'>I'm posting after &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;over a year&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've changed; reading through my posts shows me my own childishness. Now, having just turned sixteen, I'm a much more controlled person. Even throughout this year, I've come to notice that my face is sharper, from it being contorted in deep thought, often as not, or pain of some kind.&lt;br /&gt;I've also developed a morbid curiosity about things that are dark and devious, yet not scary or evil. As I put in my 'about me', like a world of trees and birds and mist, where it was always dawn or midnight, but never bright. And lurking beings, animals, yet no violence between them; and pools, many clear, shallow pools. Just a calm, ancient, beautiful, dark world. I believe this all speaks of my growing seriousness.&lt;br /&gt;I regret quitting art class now, because I've recently come to miss drawing. I take it up myself, but it's not that same as with a teacher, even a teacher such as I had. Since I did not write about it here, know I quit Art I halfway through freshman year for Journalism, because I was fed up with our teacher, who should be teaching Home Ec, not Art. It was immature. I take Ceramics now, but it's not the same. I sit down at the wheel to throw a pot and imagine drawing trees dancing; I knead the clay and think of the soft sound of charcoal against paper; I smell wet earth and think of the smell of paper, the smell of life. It's not a substitute; it's a miserable alternative.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Perhaps I'll change this blog's name. I do intend to keep up with it now, and I've been on livejournal, a messy alternative. Blogger is much cleaner.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-8063726808098013600?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/8063726808098013600/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=8063726808098013600&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/8063726808098013600'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/8063726808098013600'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2008/11/she-beast-returns.html' title='She-beast Returns'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-7937284005638592332</id><published>2007-10-13T13:41:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2007-10-13T13:43:12.326-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Bye....</title><content type='html'>I hate to do this, but Chelsea won't get off of my blog.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm going to stop posting here, but I won't delete it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sorry to anyone that reads my blog besides my sister...she just won't go away, and I want my blog to be private.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*sigh* Sorry again....&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-7937284005638592332?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/7937284005638592332/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=7937284005638592332&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7937284005638592332'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7937284005638592332'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/10/bye.html' title='Bye....'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-4028096856899886120</id><published>2007-10-13T10:19:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2007-10-13T10:24:48.436-04:00</updated><title type='text'>:'(</title><content type='html'>I have decided to read no more books that are as intellectually stimulating as pudding--AKA most fantasy books. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know I'll maim myself for this later, but it seems like a good decision. *sigh* Effing maturity.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-4028096856899886120?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/4028096856899886120/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=4028096856899886120&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4028096856899886120'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4028096856899886120'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/10/blog-post.html' title=':&apos;('/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-2295549862675079500</id><published>2007-10-10T17:17:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-10-10T17:53:05.976-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Elena, Part II</title><content type='html'>Elena dreamed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She was soaring through the clouds, light as air, her milk chocolate curls flying...then she was in the ocean, as a fish...she was so relaxed.... Now her mother was braiding her hair, like she did when Elena was but three feet tall...how she loved those times....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Elena's eyes snapped open. She was lying on a strange bed in a strange room, with no notion of how she got there. And it was dead silent.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'How very strange.' She thought, somehow utterly calm.&lt;br /&gt;She looked down: She was wearing a gray silk nightdress and nothing else, and her hair was in some type of braid she could not indentify. The room was a bedroom, with a mahogany wardrobe and a vainity to match. The floor was stone, green-blue, like none she'd ever seen.... And there was a wood door with a silver handle, partly open; she observed a bathroom within. But this was strange...there was no sink, but a simple stone pedestal with a shallow silver basin of water. The toilet was stranger yet, more a padded stone box than anything. Now Elena could hear birds joyfully chirping. She glanced out of three beautifully carved windows to find trees; and only trees. With no roots in sight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As she calmly mused over this strange situation, she realized something. The air here was somehow...different. It felt clean and pure and fresh; not like air that had been polluted by humans for many centuries. It helped her think clearly and filled her lungs in a wonderful way. The air also had the slightest hum to it, as if energy pulsed through it. It was not annoying. It filled her with comfort and familiarity...yet she did not know what it was.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then she wondered where she might be, although it was not a very pressing thought. Right now, she just felt like exploring and discovering what this place was that she had been brought. So she slipped from under silver silk sheets to stand. The strange stone felt warm to the touch, and not as hard as she would expect. She suspected that the furniture had put slight dents in the floor, for it was not completely solid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Her hand went to her head. Although she was calm, she had a simply glorious headache. Pain stabbed when she touched it. It felt somehow...used up. Empty. And now her body was trying to fix it, apparently....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She mentally shrugged it off, as she was too stiff to do so physically just now. Soon she would find out what this all was, if not just a vivid dream. She sighed as she glanced around for any type of clothes to wear. A shirt and long shorts lay on the vainity, both looking too large. 'No...' she racked her brain, 'not a shirt and shorts....' Then it came to her. It was a tunic...and breeches. 'How strange.' She thought as she put on a forest-green tunic and tan breeches, both of which were, in fact, much to large. They seemed to have been made for a man's use.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;******** Sorry to end it here, but I don't have much time right now. It does get better!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-2295549862675079500?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/2295549862675079500/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=2295549862675079500&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/2295549862675079500'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/2295549862675079500'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/10/elena-part-ii.html' title='Elena, Part II'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-4869784947536218376</id><published>2007-10-07T12:25:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-10-13T14:08:46.235-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Elena</title><content type='html'>Another story I'll probably never finish....&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;   Elena was exhausted. She had just come home from school, and she had an unnatural amount of homework. The whispers had also been extra vicious today, and her precious dog, Lamm, wasn't doing too well, health-wise. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Essentially&lt;/span&gt;, he was a regular Bedlington Terrier. A medium-sized dog, with small, floppy ears, a head like a triangle, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;and a tightly curled white coat sprinkled with gray speckles. The overall effect was that of a spotted lamb, although he could be fierce. But, he was like his owner: different. He had long legs and a graceful, powerful run. He was extremely strong and smart, and had amazing coordination. His paws also always twitched when something bad was about to happen, a characteristic Elena loved.&lt;br /&gt;   She snapped back to reality as she realized her dad was muttering how useless she was again, while her mom's under-the-breath rant about how much work she took paralleled his. She sighed. She did not hate her parents, but neither she nor her parents would ever enjoy or love one another. They didn't get rid of her because it would look bad, and she had no close relatives to be shipped to.&lt;br /&gt;   This was one of those times Elena wished she had friends. Her most recent new friend, a girl from Mexico, had stopped talking to her, like all of the others. No one disliked her, because she was kind and polite, but she intimidated them. She was  delicate yet strong, with a powerful, lean body. Elena had deep, aqua-blue eyes and slightly pointed ears. She loved her ears, although she didn't know why. She also wasn't so normally clean-cut as the neighbors in her suburban neighborhood, surrounded by &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;SUVs&lt;/span&gt; and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;ipods&lt;/span&gt;, always yapping on a phone, always wearing &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;polos&lt;/span&gt;. For this, her parents regretted her existence.&lt;br /&gt;   For Elena was different. No one could pinpoint how, not even the girl herself, but it was obvious she was. She was too clever, too creative, too skilled...too&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; graceful. &lt;/span&gt;She soared through life on her long feet, depressed from rejection, happy from experience. She was amazing with animals and plants. The very leaves seemed to want to tickle her as she walked by, and animals warmed to her easily, almost uncannily. Being in nature kept her vital and at least somewhat happy; it was very lucky her parents let her have a garden.&lt;br /&gt;   "Sorry, Dad...." She called. She did not notice her dog fall to the floor. What with all the sickening air freshener, insults, and homework, Elena just wanted to fall asleep. Life seemed so dismal. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;In fact...&lt;/span&gt; she thought as her eyelids drooped,&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; I do feel so...dreadfully tired....&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And with that, she was asleep on her bedroom floor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have more to add to this and it will get better, I promise.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-4869784947536218376?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/4869784947536218376/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=4869784947536218376&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4869784947536218376'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4869784947536218376'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/10/elena.html' title='Elena'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-3734243809133086972</id><published>2007-10-05T22:11:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-10-05T22:16:48.914-04:00</updated><title type='text'>*SIGHHHHHH*</title><content type='html'>I am content.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have Luigi's Italian Ice. I have my adorable cat posing sexy just for me. I have an adorable dog just  wanting love and attention, to give it in return. High school is easy. Fun, in fact. And I have a really nice video game for Gimli (my beloved Nintendo DS), now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Who cares that I've had a crappy week? Who cares if my period is being stupid and I don't know when to expect it? Who cares if my friends are bored with me??? ( Okay, maybe I care a LITTLE about the last one. :-(  *sigh*)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am content...mostly.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-3734243809133086972?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/3734243809133086972/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=3734243809133086972&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/3734243809133086972'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/3734243809133086972'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/10/sighhhhhh.html' title='*SIGHHHHHH*'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-5920248775295748663</id><published>2007-09-30T11:47:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-30T11:58:57.577-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Whoopdedoodle-nessity!</title><content type='html'>(Imagine this to the tune of &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;My Favorite Things&lt;/span&gt; song from &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The Sound of Music&lt;/span&gt;)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Spittles under shoe&lt;br /&gt;and curses on the street.&lt;br /&gt;Degrading music&lt;br /&gt;and poisonous playthings.&lt;br /&gt;Slicing skin becoming&lt;br /&gt;a fad.&lt;br /&gt;This is 2000 and 7&lt;br /&gt;you fag!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Staring at aaa screen!&lt;br /&gt;Innocent kil-lings!&lt;br /&gt;These make Liberals saaadddddd....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But then TV tells us&lt;br /&gt;everything's good,&lt;br /&gt;and then we don't feeeeelll...&lt;br /&gt;SOOOOOO BAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDD!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Sorry for the curse. It &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;did&lt;/span&gt; rhyme and fit, you've gotta admit.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Hey, that rhymed, too! *HEEHEE*)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(EDIT: Oh, yeah, and COPYRIGHT TO ME, NO STEALING OR USING IN ANY WAY, YOU WEIRDOS!)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-5920248775295748663?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/5920248775295748663/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=5920248775295748663&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/5920248775295748663'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/5920248775295748663'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/whoopdedoodle-nessity.html' title='Whoopdedoodle-nessity!'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-7592758041326872661</id><published>2007-09-29T00:31:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-29T00:40:06.936-04:00</updated><title type='text'>All ya' need is love! Dun, dun, dun, dun, dun! All ya' need...</title><content type='html'>Moon-colored ground,&lt;br /&gt;cold as a villain's heart.&lt;br /&gt;She looks up and snuggles closer&lt;br /&gt;to her prince.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Warm, firm chest&lt;br /&gt;covered with silky cloth.&lt;br /&gt;A face that smiles as she&lt;br /&gt;envelopes him&lt;br /&gt;in her arms.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cascading chocolate hair...&lt;br /&gt;tickling her face,&lt;br /&gt;tantalizing her mind.&lt;br /&gt;Happiness&lt;br /&gt;was an understatement.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Olive eyes open slowly&lt;br /&gt;and look into hers.&lt;br /&gt;He smiles even more and bends down&lt;br /&gt;for a kiss.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Their bodies in perfect harmony,&lt;br /&gt;warming each other,&lt;br /&gt;they fall into a dreamless&lt;br /&gt;sleep.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~~~~~~*sigh* In a romance mood. This sucks, though. Oh, well.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-7592758041326872661?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/7592758041326872661/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=7592758041326872661&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7592758041326872661'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7592758041326872661'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/all-ya-need-is-love-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun.html' title='All ya&apos; need is love! Dun, dun, dun, dun, dun! All ya&apos; need...'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-1308543563511808580</id><published>2007-09-22T21:25:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-22T21:33:36.618-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Gene Wilder</title><content type='html'>I always loved Gene Wilder. Especially on the original &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Willy Wonka.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's...what, 84 years old? He still looks pretty good considering his age.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm just afraid he'll die. He &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;is&lt;/span&gt; old.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It wouldn't be like with Steve Irwin, where I was crying forever because I lost a very real and wonderful person. (Steve Irwin...*sigh* I'll never get over that. He was an amazing man. I still try not to scroll by Animal Planet in case I catch a glimpse of his shows.)&lt;br /&gt;If Gene Wilder passed away, I would feel...lost. Lost because he and all his wonderful characters are gone; lost because the movies he made will be an imprint, not of a real person.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why am I thinking about death, anyway? I'm going to bed. Ciao.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-1308543563511808580?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/1308543563511808580/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=1308543563511808580&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/1308543563511808580'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/1308543563511808580'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/gene-wilder.html' title='Gene Wilder'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-6887880235107266729</id><published>2007-09-22T17:45:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-22T18:06:00.325-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Are-Ay-Double You-Are</title><content type='html'>Am I really so misinterpreted? Am I really so &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;unclear&lt;/span&gt;? Why do people not ever get what I'm trying to say? Most of the time, I say exactly what's going through my head. I don't get it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chelsea tells me that everyone's really suspicious me. ("Everyone" being Mom, Dad, my stepdad, and Chel.) Suspicious of what, exactly? That's what I'm trying to figure out. Even though Chelsea said it (which makes it eligible for questioning), it just confirmed &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;my&lt;/span&gt; suspicions.&lt;br /&gt;See, nobody in my family seems to trust me. I'm not particularly sure why. Everyone else does trust me, but my family matters more. I think they misinterpret my intentions most of the time, because that happens so, so often with my parents. I'll say one thing, and they grab the ball of the conversation and run the other way. It drives me coconuts. (Heh heh. Okay, maybe &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;you&lt;/span&gt; don't think "coconuts" is funny, but I do. I'm so down right now, anything would make me laugh.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm a good kid, alright? I try to keep on the good side of everyone, try to keep up in class, try&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;ing&lt;/span&gt; to remember to make things easier for my sister (like trying to leave her some hot shower water in the morning), and I'm just trying to get along in life. I try to improve my personality a lot, and it's helping. I used to have such a temper, but I can control it so much better now, and I &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;try&lt;/span&gt; not to let &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;everything&lt;/span&gt; offend me. And I seem to be confusing and intimidating to some people. Like, I'll turn around, and this person is just &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;staring&lt;/span&gt; at me. They usually look dumbfounded or like they're trying to figure something out. Then they snap their head in the other direction or act all guilty. WTC?! Someone please tell when it was that I sprouted an extra head?&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, though, I don't get what they all think I'm up to. I'm a very personal type, okay? Just because I lock my door doesn't mean I'm doing something wrong, it just means that I want some serenity. And just because I don't answer all my parents prying questions about my friends &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;does not mean I'm friendless&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They seem to judge me by Chelsea's past behavior. Even though I'm like her in the phrases I use and music I like, we're two extremely different people, although no one seems to acknowledge that. Since we're sisters and look very similar, we're automatically exactly the same.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*sigh*&lt;br /&gt;Thanks for letting me vent on you, o-non-existent readers.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-6887880235107266729?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/6887880235107266729/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=6887880235107266729&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/6887880235107266729'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/6887880235107266729'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/are-ay-double-you-are.html' title='Are-Ay-Double You-Are'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-1889685943914032250</id><published>2007-09-22T09:07:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-22T09:14:46.555-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Daine and Numair</title><content type='html'>(SPOILERS, SPOILERS, SPOILERS for the &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;Wild Magic&lt;/span&gt; series by Tamora Pierce!)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Since reading that series, every time I read a book with some kind of side-love story involved, I can't help thinking of the Daine-Numair relationship and then I lose interest in whatever current book I'm reading. It drives me bananas, mostly 'cause I'm a sucker for fantasy books with a relationship build-up involved, and now I just can't read them without thinking about Daine and Numair and getting all gooey. *sniff* &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;Why&lt;/span&gt; did the relationship in those books have to be so perfect? Why was Daine so alike to me and Numair so attractive to me?! &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;Whhhyyyyyy?!?!?&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*sniffle*&lt;br /&gt;*sob*&lt;br /&gt;*SNORT*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I geth I'll thee 'ou latuh. Buyz. *SNIFF*&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-1889685943914032250?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/1889685943914032250/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=1889685943914032250&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/1889685943914032250'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/1889685943914032250'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/daine-and-numair.html' title='Daine and Numair'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-5024412946281120458</id><published>2007-09-21T20:10:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-21T20:20:52.780-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Chelsea</title><content type='html'>What the crap is with my dad?!?!?! I was trying to tell him about how Chelsea took my only sweatshirt without asking, and then left a huge stain on it after she acknowledged to me she took it, and I decided to let her. She didn't even mention the stain at the time. She claims she didn't know about it; being her of course she would. She was acting oddly when she gave it back, like she was waiting for something. I shrugged it off at the time; now I know she's just being a jerk. So I was telling my dad and he starts arguing with every little thing I say. Chelsea, meanwhile, is continually slipping little insults my way. Dad doesn't even acknowledge them. He finally outright yells at me and I just stormed off from the dinner table. He's just so unfair sometimes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chelsea's always doing all these horrible, rude little things. When I ask her why she says and does horrible things like that she just says,"It's just how I am." And then she blames our parents for raising her that way. Even if our parents &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;had&lt;/span&gt; done that, that's absolutely no excuse for not trying to change to be better. Whenever I try to change to be better, apparently I'm a "valley girl" or "sound really stupid". WTF? If I am &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;either&lt;/span&gt; of those things, I'll eat my sock. Chelsea has gone so far as to ask me if I have memory loss, do drugs (&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;thrice&lt;/span&gt;), smoked, hung out with bad people, curse with my friends, and (you'll love this) if I watch &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;porn&lt;/span&gt;. She's such a naive nightmare.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-5024412946281120458?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/5024412946281120458/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=5024412946281120458&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/5024412946281120458'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/5024412946281120458'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/chelsea.html' title='Chelsea'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-2882917454721668772</id><published>2007-09-16T13:10:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-16T13:46:10.926-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Gimli and Contiuation</title><content type='html'>I got this new video game for Gimli (I named my Nintendo DS). It's called &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;Rune Factory.&lt;/span&gt; It's about this kid who has amnesia (you can only play a boy--ugh), and is "found" half-dead by this girl who gives him a field to farm. The area has a town, seashore, shops...stuff like that. The whole game revolves around farming, but it's got a bunch of interesting twists. You can tame "monsters" (just creatures) to be your companions, and help you defeat other monsters. You can marry a girl (once again to being a boy--UGH).&lt;br /&gt;It's actually pretty cool. Even if you do have to play a boy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Here's a continuation of the story:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They traveled for several days. Enika was running out of food, and Moon (as she came to call him) couldn't hunt anything bigger than squirrels yet. Game was scarce. &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;Probably fleeing the fire&lt;/span&gt;, she thought bitterly.&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt; If I ever find out who started it, I'll kill them.&lt;/span&gt; She knew it was more than likely that the fire was accidentally started by a person in Kalka, her village, but it felt good to blame somebody. She was too angry and sad to accept that it was no one's fault.&lt;br /&gt;Her thoughts drifted towards her future teacher. What would they be like? Would she be too weak to be taught? If she was, Enika knew she would probably die. Shooting was her only natural skill, although she had others. But they would not be good enough to interest a good teacher. She sighed aloud.&lt;br /&gt;Suddenly someone yelled, and the sound of human hitting earth reached her ears. She scrambled to get her bow knocked and then stood stalk still. Moon seemed to sense the danger, and hushed.&lt;br /&gt;There was a few seconds dead silence, filled with tension. This was too much for Enika. She was sick of emotion; she justed wanted this to be over with.&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;Better now than later.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Hello?" Her voice cracked from lack of use. She heard the person stand up, then--&lt;br /&gt;"&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;Who are you?&lt;/span&gt;" Demanded a sensitive male voice, from about ten feet through the trees. Moon tried to growl, although it came out as a wobbly squeak.&lt;br /&gt;"I could ask you the same thing." Then, realizing how stupid it was to talk back just then, she added," I am simply traveling the road."&lt;br /&gt;Someone crashed through the trees, coming closer and closer, until a man emerged sword-first. He was tall and attractive, she decided. His shoulder-length hair was wavy and almost black, although his skin was fair. His long, green eyes had a permanent twinkle and his cheeks were rosy. He had a shadow of a goatee, and elegant eyebrows.&lt;br /&gt;"I asked", he said quietly," for your name."&lt;br /&gt;She glared at him. She was sure she was faster than him, although she was not about to risk death.&lt;br /&gt;"I am Enika", she said dryly," of Kalka." He looked at her for a second, shrugged, and turned to walk away. Moon yipped in relief. &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;She&lt;/span&gt; was just annoyed. "And you?" She called.&lt;br /&gt;"James of Elnor," he named the capital while looking over his shoulder.&lt;br /&gt;"Come back! Please!"&lt;br /&gt;He glared again. "&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;Yes?"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm aiming to get to the capital. May I travel with you, if that's where you're going?" &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;It's traveling with a grump, but the grump has food.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; He considered her a moment.&lt;br /&gt;"Fine."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-----Woo! That sucked! Oh well. Ciao.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-2882917454721668772?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/2882917454721668772/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=2882917454721668772&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/2882917454721668772'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/2882917454721668772'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/gimli-and-contiuation.html' title='Gimli and Contiuation'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-4875368514344118879</id><published>2007-09-13T16:57:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-13T17:08:42.090-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Career quiz</title><content type='html'>Career: &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. Costume Designer&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. Special Effects Technician&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. Animator&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. Fashion Designer&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5. Makeup Artist&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. Set Designer&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. Graphic Designer&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. Artist&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9. Musician&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10. Composer&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;11. Medical Illustrator {GAG, no!}&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;12. Actor&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;13. Comedian&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;14. Magician&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;15. Auto Detailer {ICK}&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;16. Locksmith&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;17. Taxidermist&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;18. Humanitarian Aid Worker&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;19. Veterinarian&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;20. Sign Maker&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;21. Oceanographer&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;22. Zoologist&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;23. Conservator&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;24. Music Teacher / Instructor&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;25. Genetic Counselor&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;26.Agronomist&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;27. Botanist {WTC is this?}&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;28. Marine Biologist&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;29. Pharmacologist&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;30. Child and Youth Worker&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;31. Marriage and Family Therapist&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;32. Furniture Finisher&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;33. Picture Framer&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;34. Pharmacy Technician&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;35. Upholsterer&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;36. Medical Lab Tech&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;37. Veterinary Technician&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;38. Explosives Specialist&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;39. Ecologist&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;40. Electrician&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My "Career Clusters" are Arts&amp;Culture and Fashion&amp;Design. Weird, eh?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-4875368514344118879?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/4875368514344118879/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=4875368514344118879&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4875368514344118879'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4875368514344118879'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/career-quiz.html' title='Career quiz'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-2828509179375242335</id><published>2007-09-09T10:20:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-09T15:42:01.663-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Beginning of story:</title><content type='html'>Enika sat up snappishly--she was having the nightmares again. The ones where the fires rose, roaring, to the heavens. The ones where the gods watched but did nothing. The ones where she had to watch everything she knew being charred and devoured--and she then had to run.&lt;br /&gt;Enika knew that everyone must be dead; she had seen no one so far, and when she had gone back to pick through the remains of her precious village, she found nothing... Nothing but black, smoky bits which could have been any old thing. Her beautiful, graceful horse, Klik, had probably been burned to death. She had been trapped in the stables, after all. Enika shook her head sadly at the thought. And her mother... Her large eyes began to blur.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; No!&lt;/span&gt; she told herself, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I've spent enough time crying, I need to &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;move&lt;/span&gt;!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And with that, she forced herself to throw off the comforting, fur-filled blankets made by her mother, and she picked up the artful, light, and efficient bow and quiver made by her father. She missed them both deeply, very deeply. As their only child, they had loved her dearly, and she them. ...But they were dead now, she knew. She felt a deep, aching sadness that only comes from losing a relative. Despite her firm command to herself, Enika's eyes were now leaking freely as she reflected. Her mother had been one of the village weavers, and she had been good at it, too. Her father was the sole weapons-maker and had made this bow and stuffed-full quiver just for Enika on her fifteenth birthday. Technically, he shouldn't have given her a gift until after her camping trip, when the party actually happened, but she had needed a bow. The customary three-day, solo camping trip on the fifteenth birthday of a young adult was an old tradition. In fact, no one knows how it started; they just know that the day the child comes of age, they set off with some supplies and weapons, bows for girls and spears or swords for boys, and they survive in the wild a few days.&lt;br /&gt;Enika had walked about two kilometers, humming and excited for her trip, when she had stopped dead. She had heard the screams--whether animal or human, she could not tell at the time. She only knew the things were in extreme pain. Enika had begun to panic, for the screams ripped at the heartstrings and eardrums. It was getting louder and louder, filling her soul with unknown agony, and it overwhelmed her. She had almost screamed herself, but then, as she opened her mouth, she had realized what she was doing.&lt;br /&gt;Sprinting, she had set off towards to sounds. Being quiet was no problem; the screams would mask any sort of noise she could make and she was strong and lean in body type. One thing she had always been good at was running through woods without a trail. She just knew where to put her feet naturally. Whether it was on a rock, dirt, or fallen tree trunk, it did not matter. Even at moments such as the one she was experiencing then, running like this--with woods sounds around her and her golden blonde, loose curls behind her--brought her comfort.&lt;br /&gt;Nearing the scene, she actually fell over, pancaking into the dirt. Realizing what direction she was going, it had dawned upon her: The screams were coming from &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;her&lt;/span&gt; village!&lt;br /&gt;Enika arrived at the outskirts of her village, and, coughing from the smoke, watched the wall of fire in awe and pure terror. She shivered involuntarily, her whole body shaking. The flames licking her home must have been fifty feet high, unmerciful and hot. Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and fast, dried almost instantly from the unbearable heat. In the chaos in front of her, she thought she could hear her mother calling, only to be drowned out by the cries of animals and humans alike. There was nothing, nothing that could be done except watch her home die, consumed by the devil's friend, crumbling to the earth along with children and pets and family. Enika was in another world watching, frozen, uncomprehending. She stood there, how long she didn't know, taking it in and not believing what her eyes and ears and nose were telling her. She couldn't take it; she fainted dead away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When she woke up, everything was gone. Except her backpack.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As Enika reflected sadly, she packed up. She had been gone for a week now, aiming to get to the capital. She was determined to find some weapons-master to teach her, so she could roam and hunt down the bandits that were spread throughout her country. It was the only thing she could think to do right now, conditions how they were. Such had been her dream forever, besides her first one of wanting to be trained in the art of star magic. Star magic was, she thought glumly, a beautiful type of magic where you called on stars to help you. The stars would then send you whatever it was if they deemed you needed it or favored you; more than one wizard before had called on the stars for some kind of thing to save a battle, and that was the kind of thing Enika had wanted to do. The stars had to work through you and use some of your energy, so you needed magic in the first place, which only about one in twenty people had. She was not one of those people; she had never shown any type of magical tendencies, although she was always looking at any thing she touched for a slight aura of deep lavender, which she was sure would have been her magic color. She had seen her mother use her leaf-green magic several times, and things always glowed with a slight bit of the color for a bit afterwards. Thinking of her mother, she became quite sad again, and realized how very lonely she was. She suddenly wished she had a companion with all of her injured heart.&lt;br /&gt;A distant &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;crunch&lt;/span&gt; broke through her thoughts abruptly. Her light hazel eyes, speckled liberally with purple, darted around as she slowly, quietly knocked her arrow into place. She was excellent at shooting, she knew, so she wasn't so afraid as tense.&lt;br /&gt;The thing crashing through the woods came closer and closer, as Enika's bow arm drew back the string at the same rate, until it the source of the noise popped out of the trees suddenly and tumbled clumsily into the clearing. Enika gasped and stopped herself shooting just in time; for the dirt-covered thing was not a bear or human. It was a short-haired, young wolf with startlingly deep lavender eyes, it's tongue lolling while it looked at her curiously. She was flabbergasted. She had never seen a wolf, but she had read about them avidly. They fascinated her. She knew it must just be starting to nibble meat, as it looked around four months old; it was a cute, harmless, normal wolf pup.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; No... &lt;/span&gt;she thought,&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; no, that's not right...&lt;/span&gt; For the wolf pup, now contently sniffing her leather boots, was pure white, an exceptionally not normal color for wolves in these woods. And it was definitely not a northern wolf, for those had long, shaggy hair...&lt;br /&gt;Whatever it was, she realized, the babe had no mother, for they are always stuck to them at this age. The little one was obviously very hungry, as it tried to gnaw the leather of her shoe. She gently flicked his nose to let him know that that was not okay, and fished some dried fish strips out of her bag. He wolfed them down, and as he did so, she began to walk away, continuing East towards to capital. She soon forgot about the strange little wolf, musing about what it be like to have magic as she walked. She knew you couldn't do just anything, for everything took from your energy, although not as much with star magic. Few people used it because the stars favored few people, and if the stars made that fact known to you and you called on them anyway, they made sure you learned to leave them alone in rather unpleasant ways. But the magic was always more powerful.&lt;br /&gt;Suddenly a &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;yip!&lt;/span&gt; cracked through the formerly-silent air and Enika, distracted by the sound, tripped over a root peeking sneakily through the dirt. Sprawled on the ground and silently cursing, she swiveled her head around to find the noise. Through the trees she could see the little white pup trotting towards her. The little cotton ball had&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; followed&lt;/span&gt; her! She got up gingerly and brushed the dirt off of her gray cloak, forest-green tunic, and charcoal breeches, this time cursing aloud richly.&lt;br /&gt;The wolf sat down in front of her, tongue still hanging out, waiting for her to finish. When she was done the wolf set about chewing on her boots.&lt;br /&gt;  "Oh no, you don't!" She growled grabbing the puppy up from her boots. He turned and, detecting her tone, licked her cheek apologetically. That did it. She set him down, not particularly gently, and stalked off, fuming. She hated, hated, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;hated&lt;/span&gt; charmers. The boys in her village were always doing it to her, not because they liked her, but her fair hair and full lips. They didn't even give her a chance to grow into her body before they came onto her.&lt;br /&gt;And they were the reason she had never had friends. The other girls always shunned her, believing she liked and wanted the attention, thinking she stole the boys' hearts. Her childhood was spent in trees or her mother's workroom.&lt;br /&gt;For this she hated flattery of any type.&lt;br /&gt;She could hear the gentle&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; pat-pat&lt;/span&gt; of the little wolf's paws behind her. She refused to turn around, refused to acknowledge his presence. She refused to feed, play, or love him. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;He will go away. &lt;/span&gt;She thought, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Eventually.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;So, it went on for three days. She ignored the pup completely, he went hungry and spent the night with her, following obediently the next day. He was a constant presence, whether she was walking or sleeping. He stayed with her constantly. On the third night of this, she broke when he whined quietly for food.&lt;br /&gt;  "&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;What?!&lt;/span&gt;" She shouted at him while she cooked rabbit over the fire. "What do you want from me?! I am not your&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; mother&lt;/span&gt; or &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;caretaker&lt;/span&gt; or &lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt;friend&lt;/span&gt;, so just go away! Back to where you came from! &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Away from&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;me!&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;GO!&lt;/span&gt;" The small being simply looked at her sadly for a moment as she fumed and she saw intelligence behind those eyes. Then, whining sadly, he turned away from her and trotted away, into the woods.&lt;br /&gt;She sat on the hard ground for a few minutes feeling triumphant and angry at the same time. She ate her dinner silently, built up her fire, and crawled under her blankets. Laying there, she could not sleep. She missed his warm presence pressed against her side and his soft breathing. Feeling immensely guilty, she turned onto her side and tried to ignore these absences. After an hour, she gave up; pulling on her boots and cloak, she trekked quietly through the woods, whistling softly.&lt;br /&gt;She found him curled up under some ferns. He was moaning in his sleep, and she could see his ribs poking out. He was a pathetic, lonely little thing, just like her. She wanted to cry, hug him, kiss him, something to let him know she was sorry, but she couldn't do so without waking him. Quietly as she could, she lay down and curled her arms around him. He did not wake up, simply snuggled into the pit of her arm. She let him. They fell asleep like that, on the cold, rocky ground, cold wind blowing on them, both as happy as could be.  The last thing she noticed before dropping into sleep was that the pup was not moaning anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;In the morning, Enika woke to him licking her face contentedly. She sat up, sore but happy, and hugged the little thing.&lt;br /&gt;  "I think I'll call you Moonlight," she whispered into his perky ear. He yipped his agreement.&lt;br /&gt;They found their way back to the campsite and she and Moonlight set out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;. * . * . * .&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[I will keep adding to this story, so give me feedback]&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-2828509179375242335?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/2828509179375242335/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=2828509179375242335&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/2828509179375242335'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/2828509179375242335'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/beginning-of-story.html' title='Beginning of story:'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-7646454494223426165</id><published>2007-09-07T17:24:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-07T17:25:55.737-04:00</updated><title type='text'>SEND</title><content type='html'>http://www.luthielssong.com/blog/2007/09/07/25-of-arctic-sea-ice-gone-in-one-year/&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;READ READ READ READ READ&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;READ!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And send it to everyone you know via email (just make sure to credit him) or the blog!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Go. Now. I command you.&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/1186184482315958221-7646454494223426165?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/7646454494223426165/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=7646454494223426165&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7646454494223426165'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7646454494223426165'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/send.html' title='SEND'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-8280212964067282958</id><published>2007-09-02T13:14:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-02T13:27:40.772-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Wild Magic</title><content type='html'>You know, I really ought to stop reading half a series and then starting another, only to finish the first series later. It totally throws off the emotions and anticipations.&lt;br /&gt;I just finished the &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Wild Magic&lt;/span&gt; series by Tamora Pierce (awesome author, if you didn't know), and I'm about to spoil some parts of the books. So, stop reading if you haven't read it. I mean it. STOP NOW.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okay, so out of the whole series I loved the Daine-Numair relationship the best. I loved the build up, the hints, and then they finally broke and kissed. I also can really relate Daine's personality in general, because she reminds me so much of myself. Daine's powers and parentage were also fascinating.&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, the books are really awesome, and I have a different series I can start now. But I can't stop getting all lovey-dovey over that adorable relationship.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dang. I'll probably have to give it a day or so before I can freaking stop cooing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;OH! I didn't tell you yet! I got my SOL scores and I am in the top three percentile of the entire country for math, which I cannot believe. It just sounds too amazing to actually be true, because math, well... I'm good at it, but it's not that interesting most of the time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So anyway, I'm done.&lt;br /&gt;Auf Wiedersehen.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-8280212964067282958?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/8280212964067282958/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=8280212964067282958&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/8280212964067282958'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/8280212964067282958'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/wild-magic.html' title='Wild Magic'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-7479092640984539640</id><published>2007-09-02T10:50:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-02T11:22:05.190-04:00</updated><title type='text'>School (Again)</title><content type='html'>So, I've discovered high school isn't that hard. In fact, after I adjusted to all of my classes and got a smidgen more settled, I really liked it. The classes, thank gawd, are far more in-depth as far as I can tell, and we actually have a science teacher who knows whats she's talking about! *Angels sing*&lt;br /&gt;I dunno if I've mentioned it on this blog, but last year's science teacher was a nightmare. He knew practically &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;nothing &lt;/span&gt;about science, and spent a lot of the time telling us stories about things that happened to him. (Though, admittedly, they were really funny stories.) We learned almost nothing, and a bunch of the stuff he told us was stuff he had heard (and were&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; not&lt;/span&gt; true).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oho, and something funny now and miserable then happened yesterday. I decided to take Loki for a walk down the street. Our road is very woody and long, Loki loves sniffing everything. I took Loki to the end of the road, and as we were walking back past this one house, these idiot two little dogs come scampering out of the yard. They were barking and running at Loki as if they thought they were sheepdogs. Loki is not a full-grown German Shepherd yet, but he is big and&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; will &lt;/span&gt;attack dogs if they attack him. I turned Loki around and walked fast the other way, not letting Loki turn his head towards the other dogs. Those air-headed little furballs stood triumphantly in the middle of the road thinking they had scared us off. Hardly. Loki would have ripped those cotton balls apart if I didn't lead him away.&lt;br /&gt;So. I tried four or five more times to get past the house without them noticing, no success. There was a fenced farm on one side of the road and the dogs' house on the other, so there was no way to sneak around. I just sat with Loki for a while, hoping my dad would realize I had been gone too long and come with the car and pretending to be resting Loki when the occasional strange car came by. I felt like crying, mostly because I was helpless. I &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;despise&lt;/span&gt; have no power over a situation.&lt;br /&gt;Finally I decided we should make a dash for it past the house. We did, and I lost a flip flop on the way. I walked halfway back home in bare feet, because Loki was going crazy and needed something to chew on, so I gave him my remaining shoe. I just wanted to get &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;home&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;Dad finally came along in the car and we got my flip flop and everything ended up just sugar doodle-y. I did eventually cry (I'm such a wimp, I hate it). I've got blisters all over my feet, but oh well.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dad suggested I get pepper spray, because it apparently only irritates the heck out of dogs' eyes. I'm smiling evilly just thinking about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ciao.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-7479092640984539640?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/7479092640984539640/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=7479092640984539640&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7479092640984539640'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7479092640984539640'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/09/school-again.html' title='School (Again)'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-2666515307848914335</id><published>2007-08-26T09:26:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-22T09:31:51.211-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Moth</title><content type='html'>Poor dead moth.&lt;br /&gt;It died in my drawer,&lt;br /&gt;trying to escape,&lt;br /&gt;suffocating in my shirts,&lt;br /&gt;and now I wear a crape.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Poor dead moth.&lt;br /&gt;All the humanity,&lt;br /&gt;killings things that should&lt;br /&gt;be let be&lt;br /&gt;save him, I wish I could.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Poor dead moth.&lt;br /&gt;I hope beyond you forgive me&lt;br /&gt;for not leaving my drawer a little open,&lt;br /&gt;I promise to remember you&lt;br /&gt;every time it's a'snowin'.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Goodbye, moth, goodbye.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;EDIT: "a'snowin'"...LOL. XD&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-2666515307848914335?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/2666515307848914335/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=2666515307848914335&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/2666515307848914335'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/2666515307848914335'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/08/moth.html' title='Moth'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-1400241013597513191</id><published>2007-08-25T17:14:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-08-25T17:19:26.410-04:00</updated><title type='text'>School 2</title><content type='html'>Well, I didn't die.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm actually somewhat disappointed. My History and English teachers are awesome, but the rest... Urg. I really don't like my Art teacher; she's really inflexible so far, really typical. She gives us  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;specific directions&lt;/span&gt; on what we &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;have to do&lt;/span&gt;. It annoys the bejeezers out of me, because she is so uncreative.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well. That's it. Bye.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-1400241013597513191?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/1400241013597513191/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=1400241013597513191&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/1400241013597513191'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/1400241013597513191'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/08/school-2.html' title='School 2'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-4949750763924027670</id><published>2007-08-21T17:57:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-08-21T18:01:35.926-04:00</updated><title type='text'>School</title><content type='html'>School is tomorrow. HIGH school.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;"&gt;OMG!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How on earth am I going to survive??? Where do I sit at lunch? How can I find the gym? I WILL GO CRAZY, HERE.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Whimpers* Wish me luck. I won't be able to get back to my computer 'til later this week.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Byez.  D-:&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&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/1186184482315958221-4949750763924027670?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/4949750763924027670/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=4949750763924027670&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4949750763924027670'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4949750763924027670'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/08/school.html' title='School'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-1401423834789737021</id><published>2007-08-20T11:11:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-08-20T12:22:04.595-04:00</updated><title type='text'>HP Quiz</title><content type='html'>SPOILERS FOR HARRY POTTER SEVEN***********&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;SPOILERS START HERRRREEEEEE&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stolen from &lt;a href="http://www.blogger.com/emmyc.com"&gt;Emmy Cicierega:&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;b&gt;The Books in Order from Favorite to Least Favorite: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. Deathly Hallows&lt;br /&gt;2. Prisoner of Azkaban&lt;br /&gt;3. Goblet of Fire&lt;br /&gt;4. Order of the Pheonix&lt;br /&gt;5. Half-Blood Prince&lt;br /&gt;6. Sorcerer's Stone&lt;br /&gt;7. Chamber of Secrets&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Number of Times You Have Read the Series: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ahy, like six times.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Chapter from Your Favorite Book:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The "dream sequence" thing with Dumbledore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Five Favorite Characters:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dobby, Lupin, Hermione, Tonks, Harry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Three Least Favorite Characters:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Umbridge, Fenrir Greyback, Crabbe&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Member of the Trio:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Harry, 'acourse!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Three Favorite Magical Creatures: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thestrals, Centaurs, and Merpeople&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Family:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Weasleys! They're awesome!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Villain:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Voldemort, once again an obvious answer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Death Eater:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Narcissa&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Non-Hogwarts Magical Building:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Burrow, possibly Gringotts.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Diagon Alley Location:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Zonko's&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Three Favorite Spells:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Expecto Patronum, Bat Bogey Hex, Accio.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Three Favorite Potions: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Veritaserum, Amortenia, Felix Felicis&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Unforgivable Curse: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Imperius Curse&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Department of Mysteries Room: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I forgot which room it was, but it had Time in it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Biggest Surprise: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dobby. I couldn't believe she would kill &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Dobby.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Biggest Letdown: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just as we're sure Snape is good, he's dead. And the whole wanting-to-see-Lily's-eyes thing was incredibly, beautifully sad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Mode of Transportation:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Broom, definitely.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Weasley:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fred and George.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Order Member:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tonks&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite pet:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Crookshanks, especially his first apperance. Otherwise, Pigwidgeon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;One Character You’d Bring Back to Life:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fred, oh Fred, why are you gone?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Moment That Will Always Make You Cry: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When Ron comes back and R and H kiss. (Happy tears)&lt;br /&gt;When Ron leaves, Dobby dies, Fred dies, when Harry uses the Resurrection Stone, and Dumbledore's death.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Hogwarts Room: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Prefect's Bath and Room of Requirement.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Class: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Charms or Care of Magical Creatures.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Teacher: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Snape, NOW that we know. ;_;&lt;br /&gt;Or maybe Mcgonagall.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite DADA teacher: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lupin, Lupin, Lupin.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Least Favorite Teacher: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Professor Binns.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Non-Human Hogwarts Resident:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Peeves and Hagrid (half-giant, so not technically human).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Hogsmeade Location:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Triwizard Champion: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cedric&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Triwizard Task: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The lake.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Which Character You’d Ask to the Yule Ball:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fred, totally.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Which Character You’d Like to Use a Love Potion On:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wouldn't ever use one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Which Character You’d Like to Use Veritaserum On:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dumbledore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;How Long You Have Been a HP Fan:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Since I was like seven, around the second book.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite Wizard Rock Band:&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What else besides the Weird Sisters?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Number of Midnight Releases You Have Attended: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Only managed to get to the sixth. :(&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Favorite HP Website: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;JKR's website.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Most Ridiculous Potter Theory You’ve Heard: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The one which said Luna was Snape's daughter. Estupido.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Character You’re Most Like: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm a mix of Hermione, Tonks, and Ginny.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;House You Think You’d Be Sorted Into: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I took a quiz and it said Gryffindor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Your Patronus Would Be A: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A sea turtle or a cat of some type, like a snow leopard or a lynx. Maybe even a gazelle or arctic fox.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;To You, Amortentia Would Smell Like: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After a rain, a warm fire, and Autumn air.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;You’d Use Felix Felicis To: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'd save it for an emergency (like getting kidnapped) or I'd just use it on some special occasion.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;The Job You Would Most Like to Try: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A Quidditch player, maybe, or someone who works in a pet shop.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Which You Would Rather See — a Sequel or a Prequel: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Prequel because sequels generally stink.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;The Movies in Order from Favorite to Least Favorite: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't like any of them. I watch them only for the sake of criticizing them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;EITHER/OR...&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Animagus or Metamorphmagus:&lt;/b&gt; Wow, that's tough... I think I'd be an Animagus. I'd turn into a bird or house cat.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans or Chocolate Frogs:&lt;/b&gt; Beans, 'cause it'd be more fun.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Black or Lupin:&lt;/b&gt; Lupin. I always liked Sirius, but not as much as everyone else did.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;CAPSLOCK HARRY or Emo!Harry:&lt;/b&gt; Capslock&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Death Eaters or Dumbledore’s Army:&lt;/b&gt; Dumbledores Army, dur!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Draco or Lucius:&lt;/b&gt; Draco, for being good deep down.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Durmstrang or Beaubaxtons:&lt;/b&gt; Definitely Beaubaxtons.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Floo Powder or Broom:&lt;/b&gt; Broomstick&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Fred or George:&lt;/b&gt; I love them both together, not one without the other.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Grimmauld Place or The Burrow:&lt;/b&gt; Burrow&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Herbology or Care of Magical Creatures:&lt;/b&gt; CoMC&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Hippogriffs or Thestrals:&lt;/b&gt; Errrr... Maybe both. Hippogriffs, to choose one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Invisibility cloak or Pensieve: &lt;/b&gt;Pensieve&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Mermish or Parselmouth:&lt;/b&gt; Mermish&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Occlumency or Legilimency:&lt;/b&gt; Legilimency&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Peeves or Nearly Headless Nick:&lt;/b&gt; Peeves&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Peter Pettigrew or Mundungus Fletcher:&lt;/b&gt; Mundungus, 'cause he was a marginally better person.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Professor Binns or Professor Umbridge:&lt;/b&gt; Binns&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;S.P.E.W. or the Inquisitorial Squad:&lt;/b&gt; S.P.E.W.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;The Ministry of Magic or Gringotts:&lt;/b&gt; Gringotts would be fascinating to explore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Three Broomsticks or The Leaky Cauldron:&lt;/b&gt; Three Broomsticks&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Werewolf or Inferus:&lt;/b&gt; Werewolf, 'cause you can actually hurt it to get away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Whomping Willow or Flying Ford Anglia:&lt;/b&gt; The Ford.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Yule Ball or Quidditch Championship:&lt;/b&gt; Ooooo...toughie. Yule Ball?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Woo! That was...long.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-1401423834789737021?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/1401423834789737021/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=1401423834789737021&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/1401423834789737021'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/1401423834789737021'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/08/hp-quiz.html' title='HP Quiz'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-2229764791172055805</id><published>2007-08-14T08:10:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-08-14T08:44:01.780-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Loki</title><content type='html'>My dog. My stupid, stupid dog.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He is, as you've probably gathered, a German Shepherd. He grew up with this wandering neighborhood dog that technically belongs to some people down our street, named Joey. They just turn him loose in the neighborhood--I don't even know if he's fed by them or the other neighbors. He's always shown signs of being beaten on. Not horribly but still bad enough that he cowers a little if you raise an arm.&lt;br /&gt;I've never particulary liked this dog, because he takes it upon himself to chase our cats. He killed a neighbor's cat years ago, although he sniffs my cats, more than anything, and they usually slash him across the nose. He always comes back though; he never quite got that cat=pain in nose. I will stand by my word that he is also a doofus.&lt;br /&gt;What my dad likes to do with said dog (with permission from his "owners") is let him in the fence to play with our dog, Loki. I never liked him doing this, 'cause I knew one day something bad would happen. My dad is the type that thinks everything will always be okay unless &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;experience&lt;/span&gt; tells him otherwise. That is Reason Number One that I get into arguments with him. Also because last time that I blindly trusted him resulted in the death of my poor guinea pig, Mozart.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, anyway, this morning I slept late.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wake up to horrible, strangled screams. Dog screams. Once I realized what it was, I ran out to the deck, butt clad in little white undies, and screamed at Loki. Loki, being the imbecile often sometimes is, was oblivious to Joey's screams and would not stop. He was biting Joey in such a way that Joey's jaw was being pushed back in an undoubtedly extremely painful way. I tried to pull Loki off, once, but I was afraid that I'd be bitten. I ran in and pulled on some pants, and by the time I was out there again, they were both waddling around like the ding-dongs they are. Joey looked unhurt, just covered in saliva, same with Loki. I shooed Joey out after watching to see if his jaw was hanging oddly, which it wasn't. About three seconds later, he came right back up to the gate, begging to be let in. Idiot. Then I checked Loki who for once did not jump up, seeming to realize that I was really mad at him; He had what looked like a cut in the side of his face but he was otherwise fine.&lt;br /&gt;So I went inside and called Dad, and I ended up crying on the phone. He said he'd be home soon.&lt;br /&gt;I went outside again with a bowl of hot water and an old washcloth to wash Loki's face off, and discovered the blood was not his, so Joey actually had been hurt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now I feel shaken, more than anything. It would not take much to cause me to vomit right now as I can barely down my coffee. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Sighhhhh.... &lt;/span&gt;Dumb dogs.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-2229764791172055805?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/2229764791172055805/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=2229764791172055805&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/2229764791172055805'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/2229764791172055805'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/08/loki.html' title='Loki'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-8119819020336148201</id><published>2007-08-13T13:17:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-08-13T13:28:35.097-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Stardust 'n' Highschool</title><content type='html'>I've just watched Stardust.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I honestly don't get what every one's getting hyped about. It was really very predictable, boring, and kinda typical. It basically stole all these different plot elements of other movies and stuck them into this movie, and yet it still sucked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dunno. I probably just don't like it 'cause of it's lack of originality.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On a different note, I got my schedule for my high school classes. *shudders* Aye, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;high school&lt;/span&gt;. I is vewy afwaid.&lt;br /&gt;Oh, and I have practically no classes with my friends! GRR!&lt;br /&gt;I'm excited, but the prospect of trying to find my way around in that labyrinth is positively daunting. I mean, it's a huge school! How do they expect a puny little freshman like me to find my way around or see where I'm going? The guys are really tall now! Kinda annoying, actually, seeing as I've been taller than most of them my entire school career. Now I'm stuck at 5'5" while they grow an inch every hour. *rolls eyes*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Sigghhhh&lt;/span&gt;. My days of towering over the boys are officially over.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-8119819020336148201?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/8119819020336148201/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=8119819020336148201&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/8119819020336148201'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/8119819020336148201'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/08/stardust-n-highschool.html' title='Stardust &apos;n&apos; Highschool'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-6808186694304963989</id><published>2007-08-06T15:28:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-08-06T15:39:02.781-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Babysitting</title><content type='html'>Dang it. Dad's making me save up for that camera, which seems kind of inconsiderate to me. I mean, I'm &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;14&lt;/span&gt;! No one wants a babysitter that young and, even if it is legal in our state, no one will hire me for a counter job or something. RAWR.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;could &lt;/span&gt;try babysitting, but I've never had practice; I'm grew up the youngest kid in the family. The problem is that on my Dad's road, I'm bound to get stuck with Elle, who's this little girl that has practically stalked Chelsea since she babysat her. Chels actually hid inside for a while, 'cause if she went out, there went Elle asking her to play. Doesn't seem&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; that&lt;/span&gt; bad, I guess, but I don't want her following me around if I decide to go outside.&lt;br /&gt;The other immediately avaliable kid is Cole, who is, in all respects, adorable. I played with Cole's older brother, Logan, growing up, and it wouldn't be very easy to make him go to bed or whatever. He's only a year younger than me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With my mum's road.... Well, alright, I don't have an excuse. I don't even know if there &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;are&lt;/span&gt; little kids there, actually....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh FINE. Stop saying it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'll go make some flyers. :/&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-6808186694304963989?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/6808186694304963989/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=6808186694304963989&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/6808186694304963989'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/6808186694304963989'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/08/babysitting.html' title='Babysitting'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-1015210207322522921</id><published>2007-08-04T15:56:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2007-08-04T16:11:20.132-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Writing Practice</title><content type='html'>Hey, have you ever noticed, the older you get, the less creative and "big picture" you are? Like, I used to be really good at writing and it was easy for me. But now I suck at it. There's no humor or variety or feeling in it.&lt;br /&gt;Okay, I am going to practice by telling a funny story the best I can, although you already know this one:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ahhhh. After a horribly long, stupid car ride to ol' hickville, AKA West Va, we were at the little runt  of a cabin that was supposed to be our home for the night. Miss Grumphead, my sister, being the brilliantly grouchy girl she is, decided to flop onto my mum's bed, and, what else?, nap.&lt;br /&gt;Just minutes later Mum discovers her wallet is gone. Announcing it loudly and plainly, we all rush to her aid, because this is clearly a national tragedy in the making. Where could it be? The car? The gas station? Chels was the first to riffle through the nearly-empty car.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Annnddd, yeah. I'm too lazy to type the rest. I think it's okay. I could do better.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-1015210207322522921?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/1015210207322522921/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=1015210207322522921&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/1015210207322522921'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/1015210207322522921'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/08/writing-practice.html' title='Writing Practice'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-4431980261969010022</id><published>2007-08-03T15:35:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-08-03T15:38:25.128-04:00</updated><title type='text'>I am NOT immature!!! WAHHHH!</title><content type='html'>Aggggggg!!! I am dying for this camera:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://accessories.us.dell.com/sna/productdetail.aspx?sku=A1151520&amp;cs=19&amp;amp;c=us&amp;l=en"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://snpi.dell.com/sna/images/products/large/A1151520.jpg" alt="" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But my dad says I should use the one I have. Well, to be honest, the one I have now &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;sucks.&lt;/span&gt; Barely any features and a bit of a grainy quality. It also has an annoyingly slow start-up time. (And I kinda lost the plug for it to connect to my computer. SH! I wouldn't use it anyway, though.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With the camera I'm looking at, they have a seven bucks p/month plan, with no down payment. I promised my dad to pay for it, and he hasn't responded yet. Rawr. I'll call him....&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;So I called Dad, and he refused, saying I wouldn't work off the seven dollars a month, and he would end up paying it. I can understand where he's coming from; I mean, I was irresponsible when I was smaller and I would never keep my promises. But now I do. Almost always. And for something like this, I would most definently keep up on it. It's really important to me, 'cause I've never had a serious camera. The only ones I've had are those stupid little digital kind that are for technical dipheads. So, anyway, my dad said to ask my mom, so I did. She used the most annoying excuse&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; ever&lt;/span&gt;: You're not old enough. Like I would be throwing it around! (Which, funnily enough, my sister did. I get really tired of them basing what they think I will do on Chelsea's behavior at my age. No offense to her, but I am much more responsible, and Mum knows it.) She said get a job in a few years and save up for it, even though I told her how popular it is, and how the price will probably skyrocket. ARRGGG!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They never seem to trust me; I can't stand it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;...Maybe I can ask Chelsea.... I mean, she &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;does&lt;/span&gt; have a job. She gets something like $200 a month, so I could work for Mum for the money, and then give it to Chels. Hmmmmm.... :)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-4431980261969010022?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/4431980261969010022/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=4431980261969010022&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4431980261969010022'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4431980261969010022'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/08/i-am-not-immature-wahhhh.html' title='I am NOT immature!!! WAHHHH!'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-3172788170117857098</id><published>2007-07-24T21:38:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2007-07-24T22:40:36.312-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Fayetteville</title><content type='html'>I suppose I really ought to tell you about our trip.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, we went to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Fayetteville&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;, West Virginia, which I am now missing terribly. Our idiot city, however nice the critics call it, cannot compare in my mind.&lt;br /&gt;The first day we drove four hours, and may I tell you being cramped in the backseat with a grouchy sister is not &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;pleasurable&lt;/span&gt;; I'm sure she'd say the same thing about me. We stopped at an adorable pie place on the way. The stopping was more entertaining than actually being in there. See, it had just started to downpour furiously and the only available poncho was in the trunk. So, sitting in the parking lot, we decided to make a run for the ten-foot-away roofed porch they had. Three seconds of running through the rain and we were almost, although not quite, soaked;  in the split second we had of dryness, we began the feel relieved. Then the moment was over; the wind roared and sent a barricade of wet bullets horizontally at us under the porch roof. We were &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;really&lt;/span&gt; soaked as we made a mad race for the door.&lt;br /&gt;So, after that little fiasco, we went to a nice, little cabin. It had three rooms: a main room with twin bunk beds, a king bed and a little kitchen, a bathroom with an indoor toilet and nice shower, and a porch-type-thing facing the woods. It was on the back of the cabin and screened in with a little picnic table. It was not cramped in the least, and I really enjoyed the lovely little place. As we were &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;beginning&lt;/span&gt; to unpack, my &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;step dad&lt;/span&gt; mentions absently that we had a hot tub. Needless to say, I scrambled like a spooked cat to get to it and jumped in, clothes and all. I'm weird like that.&lt;br /&gt;We finally settled down and then Mum realizes that shes misplaced her wallet. We all start making suggestions as to where it might have gone, all the time searching the cabin while the car was raided by us at least three times. Maybe an hour later, after several frustrating directories towards that gas station where we decided it had been put down, Mum&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; finally&lt;/span&gt; got &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;ahold&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; of the place. Just then, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Chels&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;, who is behind her, holds up a rectangular, dark object, and silently, but suppressing laughs, indicates it to my &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;step dad&lt;/span&gt; and I. The wallet. After all that mad crap with the phone, the wallet was in the cabin. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;Chels&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; taps my mum's shoulder; Mum slaps away the wallet, giving &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Chels&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; a look, and then does a double-take. We all start laughing. It turns out it was under the complimentary bath towel. Oi.&lt;br /&gt;So, the next day we went white water rafting down the lower New River (second oldest in the world, ironically) with this company called Class VI. I kind of wish I had worn more flattering clothes because, forgive me, our guide was so, so adorable. Smart too. His name was...what, Matt? I think it was. Crap, that kind of kills the possibility.... ;) He was, I would guess, maybe seven years older than me. ...Hey, it could happen! But besides the cute guide, rafting is by far my favorite sport. I wish I had pictures! :( There were a lot of cool rapids we got to go over, and the guide told us a bunch of funny things about the place. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;Arggg&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;, I want to go again....&lt;br /&gt;Okay, so now I'm tired of typing, so I'll sum it up: The next day we went horseback riding, which is a literal pain in the butt (and the nose; my horse stumbled, reared up, and whacked me right on the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;ol&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;' honker), and went to a cool farmer's  market. We also visited this neat little artsy shop in the town. Lovely place. I bought two handmade Russian glass figures: an owl and a fish, both about a centimeter high. I also bought a wooden bookmark with a hole in the shape of a leaf. Next day, as we drove back, we went hiking on a trail overlooking the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;Gauley&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; River, where I got a fun little thorn embedded in my finger; I still bear the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"&gt;souvenir&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;The last thing that happened was that I learned to never get &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;slushies&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; from Dairy Queen. Over-sugared like mad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss West Va so much, and I've promised myself I'll go to college there. So, bye.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-3172788170117857098?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/3172788170117857098/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=3172788170117857098&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/3172788170117857098'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/3172788170117857098'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/07/i-suppose-i-really-ought-to-tell-you.html' title='Fayetteville'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-3217381684412878324</id><published>2007-07-24T11:43:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-07-29T11:12:30.230-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Harry Potter Book 7</title><content type='html'>Oh. Mi. Gawsh.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;******SPOILERS FOR HARRY POTTER****&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*SPOILERS, I'M SERIOUS--DON'T READ IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE BOOK*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*&lt;br /&gt;*SPOILERS START HERE******&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh man, the ending was awesome. Simply fabulous. Perfect, actually.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I used to say the third book was my favorite, but I like the seventh best now. I also thought I'd be upset for eternity about Harry Potter ending, but I really am not...at all. I feel kind of fresh and ready for life to happen. Such a great feeling....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Agggg! But she killed off Lupin! I knew she would kill Lupin, at least, but why Tonks, too?! And then Fred, Hedwig, Moody, and George's ear! I think she should have left one of the twins intact.&lt;br /&gt;Oh, and &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Dobby&lt;/span&gt;! Why &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Dobby&lt;/span&gt;?! I loved that little guy to death (no pun intended)!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But there were so many great turns in the book. The Kreacher thing was absolutely lovely, as was finally knowing Snape was good. I had suspected he was good, but now turned bad as Dumbledore was dead. And Dumbledore's history was fascinating.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;SNAPE, though! Oh, man! I thought it was the most beautiful thing ever that he loved Lily so much and that he wanted to see Lily's eyes before he died! Snape died just as we all came to know him as a truly good and truly pained man. Poor Severus. &lt;:'(   I loved how one of Harry's kids was named Albus Severus.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also love how JKR told everyone lies about the book in interviews when they guessed what would happen. They were lies, but, hey, they saved the book.&lt;br /&gt;I was frozen while reading that Harry had to die. I couldn't believe it. I loved that little "dream" sequence with Dumbledore, though.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Woo! I'm off to soak in the book!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-3217381684412878324?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/3217381684412878324/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=3217381684412878324&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/3217381684412878324'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/3217381684412878324'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/07/harry-potter-book-7.html' title='Harry Potter Book 7'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-4246505730042924722</id><published>2007-07-17T12:56:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-07-17T13:19:20.436-04:00</updated><title type='text'>The Quest to Find the Dog</title><content type='html'>Ever since I was, what, five? I've been begging for a dog. A puppy, specifically.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We've had cats my entire life; while I am a permanent cat fan, I'd just always wanted a dog. And believe me, I begged and begged. After a while, my cries died out.&lt;br /&gt;We'd had almost every pet except a dog. Cats, hamsters, parakeets, iguana, gerbils, rabbits, guinea pig, fish, hermit crabs, even once a snake one of our cats brought in that I insisted upon keeping until it was healed. Believe me, I loved these pets more than anything, but there were still a few pets I yearned to experience: a ferret, pet snake (as in permanently), turtle, frog, chinchilla, and most importantly, a dog.&lt;br /&gt;Sometime when I was 11 or so, my beg was rekindled. I wanted a dog so, so bad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then, finally, my dad gave in and began searching for german shepherd puppies. My dad got to choose the breed, and he'd had a wonderful german shepherd once before.&lt;br /&gt;The end of the summer right before seventh grade, my dad found cheap puppies for sale from a police chief.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So we set up an time to meet with the dude, got in the car, and drove towards southwest Virginia. I was the official MapQuest-reader in the backseat, and after I got us lost up the wrong road twice, Dad had finally found the right way for me. Then I thought I was finally getting it right when a sign passed us that said, "Welcome to Tennessee". Needless to say, we were rather late.&lt;br /&gt;But I will never forget when that policeman brought out a couple of identical, floppy-eared, panting, baby-smelling furballs that wobbled towards us over the gravel. We chose a sable male and donned him Loki.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now he's a year-old, permanently muddy cannonball of energy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I still prefer cats.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-4246505730042924722?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/4246505730042924722/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=4246505730042924722&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4246505730042924722'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/4246505730042924722'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/07/quest-to-find-dog.html' title='The Quest to Find the Dog'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-6156653763277407225</id><published>2007-07-16T21:27:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2007-07-16T21:59:32.110-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Picture Time!</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;Beautiful sunset in the park&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/RpwhKprGrpI/AAAAAAAAAA0/jyk1NVEvTBw/s1600-h/Hpim2366.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/RpwhKprGrpI/AAAAAAAAAA0/jyk1NVEvTBw/s320/Hpim2366.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087978145890872978" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know why more people don't love reflective buildings like me. They're so beautiful.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/RpwhK5rGrqI/AAAAAAAAAA8/kxya9YvjKIU/s1600-h/Hpim3162.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/RpwhK5rGrqI/AAAAAAAAAA8/kxya9YvjKIU/s320/Hpim3162.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087978150185840290" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;I've always wanted a room like this (courtesy of thedollpalace.com)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/RpwhK5rGrrI/AAAAAAAAABE/SQ28VhUeKeY/s1600-h/cool+room.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/RpwhK5rGrrI/AAAAAAAAABE/SQ28VhUeKeY/s320/cool+room.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087978150185840306" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This fat, lazy, adorable thing is my cat, Pounce.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/Rpwg8ZrGrkI/AAAAAAAAAAM/0fS5YvfGQjk/s1600-h/Hpim0649.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/Rpwg8ZrGrkI/AAAAAAAAAAM/0fS5YvfGQjk/s320/Hpim0649.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087977901077737026" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/Rpwg8prGrlI/AAAAAAAAAAU/m-qMbNSfAdA/s1600-h/Hpim0748.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/Rpwg8prGrlI/AAAAAAAAAAU/m-qMbNSfAdA/s320/Hpim0748.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087977905372704338" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;This&lt;/span&gt; fat, lazy, adorable thing is my dad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/Rpwg8prGrmI/AAAAAAAAAAc/nHGI9ug9lsU/s1600-h/Hpim0830.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/Rpwg8prGrmI/AAAAAAAAAAc/nHGI9ug9lsU/s320/Hpim0830.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087977905372704354" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you don't love and coo over him, I will send you viruses.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/Rpwg85rGrnI/AAAAAAAAAAk/Xq1lBNypR_M/s1600-h/Hpim1106.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/Rpwg85rGrnI/AAAAAAAAAAk/Xq1lBNypR_M/s320/Hpim1106.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087977909667671666" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This was my lovely cat, Jelly. She recently passed away.   :'(&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/Rpwg85rGroI/AAAAAAAAAAs/6I1pIkTs4wE/s1600-h/Hpim1563.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/Rpwg85rGroI/AAAAAAAAAAs/6I1pIkTs4wE/s320/Hpim1563.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087977909667671682" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-6156653763277407225?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/6156653763277407225/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=6156653763277407225&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/6156653763277407225'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/6156653763277407225'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/07/picture-time.html' title='Picture Time!'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iJI2e6Vkqwc/RpwhKprGrpI/AAAAAAAAAA0/jyk1NVEvTBw/s72-c/Hpim2366.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1186184482315958221.post-7155239488661892034</id><published>2007-07-16T18:37:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-07-16T18:48:07.905-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Harry Potter</title><content type='html'>I will be sad for an eternity when Harry Potter is all over. All of my reading life there's been Harry Potter; waiting for the books, getting hyped up, finishing knowing there's another waiting. The first book was published when I was almost five.&lt;br /&gt;I hope J.K. Rowling does more books, besides the children's books she's talking about (unless by "children", she means from eighteen down and not toddler/little kid).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just can't imagine life without looking forward to another book each July, without having the comfort of knowing some new material from the brilliant J.K. is coming.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;:(&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It sucks even more because I'll be on vacation over the release, although there's a copy booked for me at Barnes &amp;amp; Noble that my dad will pick up, so I can come home to it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-7155239488661892034?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/7155239488661892034/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=7155239488661892034&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7155239488661892034'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/7155239488661892034'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/07/harry-potter.html' title='Harry Potter'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</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-1186184482315958221.post-5379104583249226145</id><published>2007-07-15T00:06:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2008-11-23T00:54:26.878-04:00</updated><title type='text'>New. Oolalaaaaa.</title><content type='html'>Here's my completely perfect and, of course, accurate theory that gives this blog it's name: I  had a thought one gray, video-gaming day that I would one day be married to a man named Jack. I therefore am the Beanhead. The title is dead accurate.&lt;br /&gt;Oh, and where is my proof that he will be named Jack? It is the internet, dear friend. No one needs proof and proof means nothing here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I bet I sound so smart and scientific, don't I? Well... No, I don't, but anyway I'm a crazy, movie-loving teenager who would really like comments on her blog. Silly, unusual, and out-of-the-ordinary wish for a teenage girl, I know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;EDIT -- Nov 22, 2008&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This blog was previously named "Jack and the Beanhead".&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1186184482315958221-5379104583249226145?l=jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/feeds/5379104583249226145/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1186184482315958221&amp;postID=5379104583249226145&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/5379104583249226145'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1186184482315958221/posts/default/5379104583249226145'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jackandthebeanhead.blogspot.com/2007/07/new-oolalaaaaa.html' title='New. Oolalaaaaa.'/><author><name>The Nomad</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08422905155649066057</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
