<?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-8563468938956645654</id><updated>2011-11-27T15:48:52.771-08:00</updated><category term='I&apos;m a princess'/><category term='pony tails'/><category term='girl code'/><category term='photos'/><category term='girls'/><category term='princess'/><category term='absurdity'/><category term='squats'/><category term='hair'/><category term='comb overs'/><category term='torso'/><category term='friends'/><title type='text'>Girls Are Absurd</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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>37</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-793075910188434092</id><published>2010-01-14T10:16:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T15:45:38.459-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Whose body do you have in your family?</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/S09i24mnc7I/AAAAAAAACCo/Ut0X9ZK11Ng/s1600-h/Clinton_family.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426664771051549618" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/S09i24mnc7I/AAAAAAAACCo/Ut0X9ZK11Ng/s320/Clinton_family.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 233px;" /&gt; &lt;/a&gt;Passed a few girls in a drunken convo last night, and all I heard was this: &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Because you know, I got my dad's body and my sister got my mom's body, so it's like, you know, totally not fair."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Girls love discussing about whose body we got in our family. Not only is it a serious source of resentment (especially among sisters), but it's also interesting to discuss the traits we wish we had. I often pull out pictures of my brother on my iPhone to show friends, "And look, my brother totally got my mom's olive skin. He tans so easily. Although, he does have more moles." &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Whose body in your family do you have? Discuss that with a friend today, if you haven't already. And then talk about whose Chelsea Clinton got? Girls are absurd!&lt;span style="font-size: 85%;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-793075910188434092?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/793075910188434092/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=793075910188434092' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/793075910188434092'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/793075910188434092'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2010/01/family-bodies.html' title='Whose body do you have in your family?'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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/_jxCNq826ZV0/S09i24mnc7I/AAAAAAAACCo/Ut0X9ZK11Ng/s72-c/Clinton_family.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-7264632363689984959</id><published>2009-12-21T22:39:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T15:56:58.179-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Profile Pics: Baby Fake-Outs</title><content type='html'>That's just a picture of you and a baby as your Facebook profile. Oh, I get it. You didn't get knocked up. Whew! But if you did, that's great! Just be clear. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Girls love to set their profile pic to a photo of them holding a baby. Why? Because for a second, everyone thinks it is their baby, freaks out, and then looks at their profile.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And it works. I find myself searching and searching through girl's profiles for wasted minutes of my day. "Okay, this pic was taken four months ago, and they were not pregnant then so... Oh look, their sister is pregnant. It must be hers."  Then I click on the sisters page and look at all the pics of her baby. Usually, her profile pic is just a picture of the baby. Acceptable, but still absurd.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Should it be an international Facebook rule that you can only  put a baby in your profile pic if the baby came out of you or your girlfriend/wife/adoption agency/surrogate mother? Maybe? But then it's always fun to figure out if someone had a baby or not, ya know? What else are you doing with your afternoon?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Despite the absurdity, I still find it really tempting to post pictures of myself with babies. They're just so cute. Other people need to see how cute this baby is. I can't help that I'm in the photo, right? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SzBrL2lCgWI/AAAAAAAAB_Y/6muoLv1W884/s1600-h/IMG_0943.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417948203100307810" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SzBrL2lCgWI/AAAAAAAAB_Y/6muoLv1W884/s400/IMG_0943.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Girls are absurd.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-7264632363689984959?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/7264632363689984959/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=7264632363689984959' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7264632363689984959'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7264632363689984959'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/12/you-had-baby-wait.html' title='Profile Pics: Baby Fake-Outs'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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/_jxCNq826ZV0/SzBrL2lCgWI/AAAAAAAAB_Y/6muoLv1W884/s72-c/IMG_0943.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-7071396312212138413</id><published>2009-12-04T12:27:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:00:59.152-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Fro Yo!!!!</title><content type='html'>Girls love frozen yogurt or as girl-slang terms it “fro-yoooo!” Several of my friends find an excuse for fro-yo at least once a day. Most reasoning go something like this...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“But I need something sweet after lunch and dinner...and breakfast.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Your boyfriend broke up with you two years ago too? We should get fro-yo and talk about it.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“God, I’ve been studying really hard for fifteen minutes. I really deserve fro-yo. How convenient that I’m studying at TCBY.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm on a diet. I can only eat at Pinkberry this week."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In addition, girls boast about fro-yo’s fat-free claim while adding every calorie riddled topping available. “Okay, I’ll get a TCBY Chiller with Butter-finger bites, Oreo crumbles, and gummi bears. Wait! Is that fat-free yogurt? It is? Okay, good.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the University of Texas where I went to college, TCBY maintains a “heavy flow” of sorority girls spilling their emotions from opening till close ,while a line Four Runners revolves through the drive-thru. And frozen yogurt shop owners aren’t oblivious. Last week I saw this cocky sign at Fro-Yo place in Pasadena, California.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SxmmUGUTkdI/AAAAAAAAB-M/Rd5lB59X-hU/s1600-h/IMG_1889.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411539291485737426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SxmmUGUTkdI/AAAAAAAAB-M/Rd5lB59X-hU/s400/IMG_1889.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 207px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 276px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wonder how many inquiries they had before someone deemed a passive aggressive sign necessary? However, I’ve noticed some of my friends abuse frozen yogurt beyond reasonable intake levels, and it SCARES ME, especially when two or more fro-yo crazed friends realize each other’s passion and form a “Fro-Yo Crazed Gang”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I spent a weekend with a Fro-Yo Crazed Gang a few months ago and everything they planned centered around proximity to frozen yogurt shops. I’m pretty sure we had frozen yogurt six times in two days. And if I resisted, they guilt-ed me with this...“So, you’re not going to get anything? It’s fat free and only four dollars. How dare you think all frozen yogurt places are the same! This place is totally famous for their (any of the following) creative gourmet flavors/crazy mix-ins/cool chairs.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I barley escaped at my same weight level. Girls are absurd.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-7071396312212138413?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/7071396312212138413/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=7071396312212138413' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7071396312212138413'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7071396312212138413'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/12/fro-yo.html' title='Fro Yo!!!!'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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/_jxCNq826ZV0/SxmmUGUTkdI/AAAAAAAAB-M/Rd5lB59X-hU/s72-c/IMG_1889.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-7294506814625538771</id><published>2009-11-09T12:37:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:04:56.241-07:00</updated><title type='text'>American Girl Doll Fashion</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Svh-AjFIqjI/AAAAAAAAB88/in03_4c-1IM/s1600-h/Mollyafterschool.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402206300912790066" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Svh-AjFIqjI/AAAAAAAAB88/in03_4c-1IM/s400/Mollyafterschool.jpg" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 185px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Svh_jmMgdeI/AAAAAAAAB9M/idP_dxStROM/s1600-h/2ndmollyshirt.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402208002556065250" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Svh_jmMgdeI/AAAAAAAAB9M/idP_dxStROM/s400/2ndmollyshirt.jpg" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Get so excited. I just found a shirt at Gap that strikingly similar to Molly McIntire's "After-school Outfit &amp;amp; Oxfords."&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks to: http://curtdanhauser.com/AG_Collecting/Main.html - for the Molly pic&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-7294506814625538771?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/7294506814625538771/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=7294506814625538771' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7294506814625538771'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7294506814625538771'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/11/american-girl-doll-fashion.html' title='American Girl Doll Fashion'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Svh-AjFIqjI/AAAAAAAAB88/in03_4c-1IM/s72-c/Mollyafterschool.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-595800620941294629</id><published>2009-10-23T11:55:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-23T15:16:17.066-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Hold on, I'm gonna take my shoes off.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SuImcLNIP-I/AAAAAAAAB7A/yyED32IhnSQ/s1600-h/girlwithnoshoescrop.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SuImcLNIP-I/AAAAAAAAB7A/yyED32IhnSQ/s400/girlwithnoshoescrop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395917569029324770" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;"Hold on, I'm gonna take my shoes off." How many times have you gone to a wedding, sorority formal, or prom-like function and taken off your shoes while you dance? Let me lay out for you the sequence of events that leads to this girl absurdity.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. You wear heels  that are "so cute" or what Rachel Zoe would term "beyond".&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. You decide to to hit the dance floor with your friends.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. Your feet hurt after five minutes of dancing so  you take off your shoes and &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;hide them under the nearest table, &lt;/span&gt;not the table where your purse is because that would be sensible.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. You dance violently with your free feet and end up a crazy-sweaty mess. Everyone loves you and swears you're the best dancer at the party until...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5. A girl who kept her shoes on steps on your foot with her heal.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. You take a seat and check your dance-battle wound. During this time you notice your feet are NASTY  but hit the dance floor again anyway.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. The party ends and you can't remember what table your shoes are under.  After ten minutes of yelling to your friends, "Don't leave yet. I can't find my shoes!" You find them just as they turn the venue's real lights back on or...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. You find them but decide not to put them back on. Your date carries you piggy-back to the car OR you walk to the car with no shoes on. I've done both.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9. Once home, you wash your feet off in the bath-tub.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remembered this absurd sequence because I have a wedding this weekend and couldn't decide if I should wear heels. I knew I wanted to dance, but thought I was too old to take off my shoes. Resolution? I'm wearing heels but bringing flats in my purse.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-595800620941294629?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/595800620941294629/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=595800620941294629' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/595800620941294629'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/595800620941294629'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/10/hold-on-im-gonna-take-my-shoes-off.html' title='Hold on, I&apos;m gonna take my shoes off.'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SuImcLNIP-I/AAAAAAAAB7A/yyED32IhnSQ/s72-c/girlwithnoshoescrop.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-4895865276451114243</id><published>2009-08-11T22:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:10:17.107-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Jump Pictures!</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SoJgGDCcadI/AAAAAAAABTw/Aau2zjRopwA/s1600-h/jumping1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Girls love to jump in pictures. Not only is it ten times more absurd than squatting, it's sometimes inappropriate and disrespectful, which are key factors to “girl fun”.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SoJemHEYFAI/AAAAAAAABTQ/dQzLGskJoxo/s1600-h/IMG_1773.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368957714604495874" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SoJemHEYFAI/AAAAAAAABTQ/dQzLGskJoxo/s400/IMG_1773.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;In addition, jump pictures take ten minutes because the person taking the picture has to figure out the jump to press button ratio. “Jump now. Wait, I missed it. Jump again, aw, you jumped too soon. It’s 1,2,3, JUMP. Aw, I missed it again.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SoJfa9ocqiI/AAAAAAAABTo/A7oG1HX-K7A/s1600-h/IMG_1772.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368958622604503586" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SoJfa9ocqiI/AAAAAAAABTo/A7oG1HX-K7A/s400/IMG_1772.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 85%;"&gt;"But I'm not at my peak jump moment..."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And girls know that the best/most disrespectful places to take jump pictures are national monuments, historical landmarks, and foreign countries like Switzerland and Rome. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SoJgGDCcadI/AAAAAAAABTw/Aau2zjRopwA/s1600-h/jumping1.jpg"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SoJenMChYLI/AAAAAAAABTg/2TxJdHXJmZw/s1600-h/Day9jumping.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368957733118763186" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SoJenMChYLI/AAAAAAAABTg/2TxJdHXJmZw/s400/Day9jumping.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368959362790091218" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SoJgGDCcadI/AAAAAAAABTw/Aau2zjRopwA/s400/jumping1.jpg" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;Happy jumping. Girls are absurd!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-4895865276451114243?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/4895865276451114243/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=4895865276451114243' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/4895865276451114243'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/4895865276451114243'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/08/jump-pictures.html' title='Jump Pictures!'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SoJemHEYFAI/AAAAAAAABTQ/dQzLGskJoxo/s72-c/IMG_1773.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-7194187469485794023</id><published>2009-07-02T15:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:12:09.193-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Give 'em an inch.</title><content type='html'>How come when every time your nice to a weird and creepy guy, he suddenly finds his way into every corner or your life? Give them an inch, they will take a mile. This is the rule and we must live by it.&amp;nbsp; My friend and I were discussing this last Saturday. We are both weirdo magnets, and we've had to wiggle our way out of tons of awkward relationships that we never wanted in the first place. Just say no. On the other hand - give the guys you like a mile, they will take an inch! Guys are absurd.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-7194187469485794023?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/7194187469485794023/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=7194187469485794023' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7194187469485794023'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7194187469485794023'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/07/give-em-inch.html' title='Give &apos;em an inch.'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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-8563468938956645654.post-1486083381561280144</id><published>2009-06-24T23:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:13:46.544-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Girl Garage Sale!</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SkMXN6wSXcI/AAAAAAAABJQ/rMj-KFfTkQ4/s1600-h/IMG_1741.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351146310123806146" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SkMXN6wSXcI/AAAAAAAABJQ/rMj-KFfTkQ4/s400/IMG_1741.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;LIVE D.J.  +  MIMOSA  + DRINK  +  CHAMPAGNE   +   PARTY  +   MOVING&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you can't tell, a group of GIRLS is having a garage sale! I saw this poster last Friday night and was blow away at girl absurdity. Honestly, I was jealous that I never thought to decorate a garage sale poster as if I was in high school.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The best thing about this this poster is the magazine cut outs. Girls LOVE magazine cut outs because in a way that regular written word can't express you, magazine cut outs can. Even if it is a cut out of a word such at "love", if it's cut from a magazine, it's more expressive.  Also, pictures of girls enjoying nature in a mystical ways is always a pleasure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also really love that they hired a live d.j.  (because I don't want a dead one) and will have champagne - because why throw just a garage sale when you could have a party too?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, next time you're throwing a garage sale, think marketing and GIRL IT UP! Pull out your old &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Seventeen &lt;/span&gt;magazines and get to work. And glitter paint! Lots of glitter paint, at least.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-1486083381561280144?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/1486083381561280144/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=1486083381561280144' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/1486083381561280144'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/1486083381561280144'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/06/girl-garage-sale.html' title='Girl Garage Sale!'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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/_jxCNq826ZV0/SkMXN6wSXcI/AAAAAAAABJQ/rMj-KFfTkQ4/s72-c/IMG_1741.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-5167594322209107819</id><published>2009-05-27T15:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:19:56.893-07:00</updated><title type='text'>TV Character Romance Remixes</title><content type='html'>Even though I hate procedural dramas, last week I  watched an episode of Fox's &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Bones, &lt;/span&gt;where according to IMDB  "a cynical and lonely forensic anthropologist (Emily Deschanel) and a cocky FBI agent (David Boreanaz) partner up to solve long-ago murders". After reading that log line, I'm sure you already guessed that I was hooked, not on the crappy murder cases, but on the witty banter/sexual tension between the main characters.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Naturally I typed Bones into Youtube to watch a few more clips of just Deschanel and Boreanaz and was quickly reminded of &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;TV Character Romance Remixes&lt;/span&gt;. These are short Youtube videos with spliced clips of a TV show's romantic couple to the ballad of an overplayed pop song usually by James Blunt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The best part about Romance Remixes is that they center around characters with suppressed relationships, so by creating the video, obsessed fans can receive the fulfillment they long for on screen. i.e. Jim and Pam, Booth and Brenen, etc.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://3.gvt0.com/vi/Sp9LeMjU-88/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Sp9LeMjU-88&amp;fs=1&amp;source=uds" /&gt;&lt;param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /&gt;&lt;embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Sp9LeMjU-88&amp;fs=1&amp;source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-5167594322209107819?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/5167594322209107819/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=5167594322209107819' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/5167594322209107819'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/5167594322209107819'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/05/tv-character-romance-remixes.html' title='TV Character Romance Remixes'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-492191586635543214</id><published>2009-05-19T11:52:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-19T14:09:42.047-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Look how cute we are!</title><content type='html'>Doesn't it just warm your heart when you see a girl show off how cute she is with her boyfriend? Me too, except by warm my heart I mean throw my face up. I'm not talking about PDA, I'm talking about jumping all over him, swinging your hair around on him, excessive punching, and giggling. I was reminded of this absurdity yesterday at Runyon Canyon when a really in shape couple ran up in front of me and stopped to show off. How did they know I was single? Was it my old sorority t-shirt and heart rate monitor/watch?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;    At one point they stopped to stretch next to me and she decided to run through his legs about seven or eight times just to be cute. Luckily, I have an iphone and took a picture.&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/ShML3kQHdQI/AAAAAAAABF4/j29AVRiLBrU/s1600-h/runthroughlegs.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 471px; height: 351px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/ShML3kQHdQI/AAAAAAAABF4/j29AVRiLBrU/s400/runthroughlegs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337623032616154370" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;       This was before she decided it would be better to run with her hair down. Yes, he reached out and started playing with it along the trail.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;     In addition, this issue is also demonstrated when a girl wears her boyfriend's clothes excessively. It's permissible to wear his sweatshirt or jacket occasionally, but when it becomes almost a uniform, it's time to shut your face. Incredibly guilty of this is my sorority little sis who when she met her now fiance, wore his  green fleece jacket so much I think she showered in it. Seriously, she wore everyday all day and to bed. At the time I thought, "At least it can't go the other way", but I was quickly corrected when I saw him around campus wearing her hospital pants from her appendectomy.  Congrats Katie and Will. GIRLS ARE ABSURD.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/ShMRACu7piI/AAAAAAAABGA/Nhm6yW9CEZg/s1600-h/katiepowell.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/ShMRACu7piI/AAAAAAAABGA/Nhm6yW9CEZg/s400/katiepowell.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337628675795559970" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Katie in Will's green sweatshirt. This pic was EASY to find.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-492191586635543214?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/492191586635543214/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=492191586635543214' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/492191586635543214'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/492191586635543214'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/05/look-how-cute-we-are.html' title='Look how cute we are!'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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/_jxCNq826ZV0/ShML3kQHdQI/AAAAAAAABF4/j29AVRiLBrU/s72-c/runthroughlegs.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-6802200097172798702</id><published>2009-04-23T15:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:23:58.928-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Honeymoon Hair</title><content type='html'>&lt;b&gt;Honey Moon Hair: &lt;/b&gt;The short period after you leave the salon when your hair looks absolutely fabulous from all the cool products and intense blow-out. &lt;span style="font-size: 100%;"&gt;Like any honeymoon, the goal of this period is to make it last as long as possible. After my previous hair cut, I went four days avoiding sweating and taking sponge baths. Call me nasty but it was worth it because as soon as that honeymoon ends, you are faced with  the challenge of recreating the salon hair everyday until your next hair  cut. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-6802200097172798702?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/6802200097172798702/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=6802200097172798702' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/6802200097172798702'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/6802200097172798702'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/04/honeymoon-hair.html' title='Honeymoon Hair'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-4589690172688964330</id><published>2009-04-08T15:07:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:26:21.094-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Look boyz, I can do gymnastics!</title><content type='html'>Cousin to dancing in public for attention is performing gymnastics in public for attention. I'm not referring to official shows or gym class. I'm talking about spur of the moment, "Hey, here's a patch of grass in this parking lot. "Watch what I can do best friend. That's a silent challenge for you to then show me what you can do."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Most guilty are girls without formal gymnastic training who brag about their "natural abilities." Their natural abilities usually include: &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;almost&lt;/span&gt; going down all the way on the splits, hand stands if someone holds their legs,  cart-wheels with almost straight legs, and round offs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember doing this several times in middle school and high school, not to mention my "bar routines" on the elementary school playground. Wait... are the bars on a playground only a male conspiracy to train young girls into strippers? Someone start an investigative report!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sd0zBcsPZKI/AAAAAAAAA0Y/KfI0JeGlXwc/s1600-h/pedo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322466434596431010" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sd0zBcsPZKI/AAAAAAAAA0Y/KfI0JeGlXwc/s400/pedo.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 290px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway - Yesterday on my lunch break, I walked across the street from my office to the La Brea tar-pits. When I arrived, I noticed several school buses parked along the side and gangs of annoyed teens taking up every picnic table instead of the usual homeless people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;I persisted to read the &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Vanity Fair&lt;/span&gt; I bought to look cool,  but immediately noticed several girls demonstrating their extreme knowledge of gymnastics for all of the surrounding tables of boys pretending not to watch.  Am I creepy for taking pictures of this social phenomenon? YES. ENJOY. YOU'RE WELCOME.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sd0zV7BQSMI/AAAAAAAAA0g/eyAFoZtcSq0/s1600-h/IMG_0976.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322466786335017154" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sd0zV7BQSMI/AAAAAAAAA0g/eyAFoZtcSq0/s400/IMG_0976.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 295px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 85%;"&gt;This attempt at the splits didn't work out.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sd0ztkmdJ9I/AAAAAAAAA0o/9Af0Xu86H5I/s1600-h/IMG_0972.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322467192633894866" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sd0ztkmdJ9I/AAAAAAAAA0o/9Af0Xu86H5I/s400/IMG_0972.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 85%;"&gt;So she got a friend to come help her. Honestly, this happened.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sd0z9alAm-I/AAAAAAAAA0w/TPf9jZqRjo0/s1600-h/IMG_0974.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322467464821382114" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sd0z9alAm-I/AAAAAAAAA0w/TPf9jZqRjo0/s400/IMG_0974.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 85%;"&gt;These boys were sitting at the table over from me. I won't repeat their dialog.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;GIRLS ARE ABSURD!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/loosepunctuation/2268120432/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/yourdon/2594625046/in/photostream/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-4589690172688964330?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/4589690172688964330/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=4589690172688964330' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/4589690172688964330'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/4589690172688964330'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/04/look-boyz-i-can-do-gymnastics.html' title='Look boyz, I can do gymnastics!'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sd0zBcsPZKI/AAAAAAAAA0Y/KfI0JeGlXwc/s72-c/pedo.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-6615912953748636555</id><published>2009-02-03T09:23:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:32:00.467-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I invoke the power of my charm bracelet!!!!</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sb_8yd6lh5I/AAAAAAAAAyA/U1WPp2El69E/s1600-h/mycharmbracelt.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314244029274490770" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sb_8yd6lh5I/AAAAAAAAAyA/U1WPp2El69E/s400/mycharmbracelt.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 269px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 201px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;In second grade charm bracelets were a very important fashion accessory. I even remember when my teacher asked me to take mine off because it jingled too much. I was so offended. "Does she not know  the symbols represent everything important in my life? How am I supposed to concentrate if my charm bracelet doesn't constantly remind me of roller blading, my dog's paw, and the letter K?" (see picture right)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Charms originated in Ancient Egypt and for some unnecessary reason, girls and women still find it heartwarming to wear small metal versions of everyday objects or ideas  on a chain.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt; Charm Bracelet Population&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sb_9avKNQ9I/AAAAAAAAAyI/yfUj0h3VnF4/s1600-h/CharmBracelet+Wear-ers.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314244721098179538" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sb_9avKNQ9I/AAAAAAAAAyI/yfUj0h3VnF4/s400/CharmBracelet+Wear-ers.png" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 331px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 391px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;According to Websters, &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;charm&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;s &lt;/span&gt;are something worn or carried on one's person for its supposed magical effect.&lt;br /&gt;Ironically, this strongly contradicts the morals of the strongest Charm Bracelet group, Christians and Southern Christians. If the Bible says not to believe in magic, then wearing a charm bracelet to invoke its powers is highly sinful. So to justify, Christians load their bracelets with tons of crosses.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;King of this phenomenon is jewelry craftsman, &lt;a href="http://secure.jamesavery.com/index.jsp?utm_source=rkg&amp;amp;utm_medium=ppc&amp;amp;utm_campaign=brand&amp;amp;gclid=CK2gg_bRqpkCFRJxxwod6V3v0w"&gt;James Avery&lt;/a&gt;. James Avery stores are the candy land of charms. Classy panels under windexed glass cases display every power you can imagine invoking. Yes, I'm so thankful my doctor wears a charm bracelet so she can invoke the charm of a stethoscope.  Real stethoscopes never work.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Charm Absurdity&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;REAL James Avery Charms&lt;/span&gt;: &lt;/span&gt;Warm Thoughts Charm, Bullet Charm, Rifle Charm, Flip Flop Charm, Pizza Slice Charm, Luxury Liner Charm, Laptop Charm, 3-D Boy Charm, and to put it all inside - the James Avery Shopping Bag Charm.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Renamed by me: &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Fads Charm&lt;/span&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://secure.jamesavery.com/images/item-photos/large/CM-1882.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" src="http://secure.jamesavery.com/images/item-photos/large/CM-1882.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 146px; width: 146px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Terrorism Charm     &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://secure.jamesavery.com/images/item-photos/large/CM-1649.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" src="http://secure.jamesavery.com/images/item-photos/large/CM-1649.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 147px; width: 147px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Consum&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;e&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;r&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;ism Charm&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://secure.jamesavery.com/images/item-photos/large/CM-1746.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" src="http://secure.jamesavery.com/images/item-photos/large/CM-1746.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 137px; width: 137px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;New charm suggestions:&lt;/span&gt; Hand Sanitizer Charm, Lost Virginity Charm, No Longer Handicapped Charm.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="color: #ff99ff; font-size: 78%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;http://farm1.static.flickr.com/102/261200292_fcc8bd20e6.jpg?v=0&lt;br /&gt;http://farm1.static.flickr.com/150/395755292_64d7a7da3e.jpg?v=0&lt;br /&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/mishmish/2573127420/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-6615912953748636555?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/6615912953748636555/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=6615912953748636555' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/6615912953748636555'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/6615912953748636555'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/02/i-invoke-power-of-my-charm-bracelet.html' title='I invoke the power of my charm bracelet!!!!'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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/_jxCNq826ZV0/Sb_8yd6lh5I/AAAAAAAAAyA/U1WPp2El69E/s72-c/mycharmbracelt.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-1667330450400432404</id><published>2009-01-09T10:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:34:30.879-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Toile Nation</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SWeY5jUpi7I/AAAAAAAAArY/_RsYg53jGkw/s1600-h/IMG_3824.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289364401871752114" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SWeY5jUpi7I/AAAAAAAAArY/_RsYg53jGkw/s400/IMG_3824.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;A very classy Magic Eye&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Over eight years ago, my mother incorporated toile into every room of her house. The toile pattern wallpapers two bathrooms, composes three bedspreads, accentuates fifteen pillows, and adorns twenty seven plates. "Toile is a classic pattern" she says, "It doesn't go out of style. I'll never have to redecorate again!" And she hasn't. In fact, the French pattern finds it's way into more and more rooms each year. If you're unsure what I'm referring to, toile is a 16th century French pattern featuring  romantic couples and happy children in tranquil park scenes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SW4jSAgBgnI/AAAAAAAAArg/dKJrzHoagqA/s1600-h/Toilepillow" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291205404485845618" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SW4jSAgBgnI/AAAAAAAAArg/dKJrzHoagqA/s400/Toilepillow" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;But it wasn't just my mom. Suddenly, every girl/woman went toile crazy. Everything from craft fair lady jackets to dog beds were made of toile.  Magazines featured tons of toile on toile action as perfectly legit.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.coraneedhamhouse.com/photos/parisiantoile.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.coraneedhamhouse.com/photos/parisiantoile.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 293px; width: 390px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;break&gt;Toile on Toile Bedroom Action&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/break&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SW40IpnhFHI/AAAAAAAAArw/Tkyx8ZkJO8k/s1600-h/toilejacket" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291223935422108786" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SW40IpnhFHI/AAAAAAAAArw/Tkyx8ZkJO8k/s400/toilejacket" style="cursor: pointer; height: 300px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;Craft Fair Toile Crazy&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SW4nCLHJiuI/AAAAAAAAAro/IhvzYoaCzDE/s1600-h/toile+amp" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291209530502908642" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SW4nCLHJiuI/AAAAAAAAAro/IhvzYoaCzDE/s400/toile+amp" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 166px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 221px;" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; Not even the most punk rock girls go un-toiled&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;N&lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 130%;"&gt;o toile stone was left unturned. Yes, toile was declared the greatest fabric ever designed. It was the ultimate trend, but yet, not a trend at all!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 130%;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 100%;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/trentsketch/2500390828/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/squirrel_cottage/2472123516/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-1667330450400432404?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/1667330450400432404/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=1667330450400432404' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/1667330450400432404'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/1667330450400432404'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2009/01/very-classy-magic-eye-over-eight-years.html' title='Toile Nation'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SWeY5jUpi7I/AAAAAAAAArY/_RsYg53jGkw/s72-c/IMG_3824.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-2974142399676871484</id><published>2008-11-26T09:18:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:39:34.087-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Ugg Decorating! Face painting for the Self Absorbed</title><content type='html'>This weekend I went to Nordstrom and to my un-surprise, a whole quarter of the store was sectioned off and dedicated to Uggs.&amp;nbsp;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273042037848849554" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SS2by6-uvJI/AAAAAAAAAd0/C8xatPmmnO0/s400/2969885472_e453745953.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /&gt;This is totally appropriate because it's finally winter in LA, a snowy 65 degrees. Yes, I expect this, but what I saw next was a new level of absurdity. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Stretching from the shoe department all the way to the men's scarves, a line of girls waited for their Uggs to be decorated by a rapper-like but highly talented Ugg&amp;nbsp;Tattoo&amp;nbsp;artist. &amp;nbsp;Why go plain when you can be "personalized" ... or extra tacky?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273036922876923618" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SS2XJMOZDuI/AAAAAAAAAds/VQgfJ1n4gds/s400/artandsole.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 282px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Don't be ashamed. For all of you girls who are reading this now, totally wanting to get your Uggs decorated, I talked to Mr. Nordstrom myself. The Ugg&amp;nbsp;tatt man will be at the Nordstrom at Westside&amp;nbsp;Pavilion, the day after Thanksgiving.&amp;nbsp;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-2974142399676871484?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/2974142399676871484/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=2974142399676871484' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/2974142399676871484'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/2974142399676871484'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/11/ugg-decorating-face-painting-for-self.html' title='Ugg Decorating! Face painting for the Self Absorbed'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SS2by6-uvJI/AAAAAAAAAd0/C8xatPmmnO0/s72-c/2969885472_e453745953.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-5161309621001434508</id><published>2008-09-27T12:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:41:28.403-07:00</updated><title type='text'>It's Bonus Time!</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="left"&gt;If your mom tried to teach you anything, its to revolve your make-up purchases around the "bonus time" season at Clinique (or some other department store make-up counter).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251893529092215234" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SOJ5Vse20cI/AAAAAAAAAWE/GLo8icn6ob0/s400/Clinique+2008-05+Sears.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;Heaven forbid you buy new concealer when they're not offering a "free" gift! You'd be cheating yourself out of a whole bag of goodies. Of course, after weeks of stretching your concealer to last until Bonus Time, you have to buy an extra lip gloss, mascara, and face lotion to receive the free gift, which coincidentally contains a lip gloss, mascara, and face lotion.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Common free gifts:&lt;br /&gt;"Exclusive Tote" (with any $75 beauty purchase)&lt;br /&gt;'Happy' Sample&lt;br /&gt;Random shade of lipstick for a different skin tone&lt;br /&gt;Fold up brush with small mirror inside the handle that you can't see your whole face in.&lt;br /&gt;Cute cosmetic bag! (of course) &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;And could that cute cosmetic bag be any better to put tampons in so they don't break open and gather dust and lint at the bottom of your purse (ME True Hollywood Story)? We have a whole drawer of Bonus Time bags at our house that we keep stashed with tampons.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;Grandmas and Bonus Time - &lt;/b&gt;Has anyone ever received a bag of make-up from your Grandma full of old free gift crap from the 1960s to early 1990s? I have, and I used it...all. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251891671873282658" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SOJ3plzW4mI/AAAAAAAAAV8/kpzdQVjNrPk/s400/grandma.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;br /&gt;The best is when Grandma tries to pass down that lipstick or blush that does match her skin tone but doesn't realize you have the exact same skin color/genes. (great for multi-racial families!)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://bp3.blogger.com/_kEvh9NdDxO4/SBPhB-l_rnI/AAAAAAAABio/wcut40B8Bg8/s400/Clinique%2B2008-05%2BSears.JPG&amp;amp;imgrefurl=http://cinnamonkitten.blogspot.com/2008/04/clinique-bonus-time-at-sears.html&amp;amp;h=282&amp;amp;w=400&amp;amp;sz=31&amp;amp;hl=en&amp;amp;start=15&amp;amp;um=1&amp;amp;usg=__JDBNZ2L75gf6AhmJtoPZEZftuqo=&amp;amp;tbnid=eguqb3fLmsM8bM:&amp;amp;tbnh=87&amp;amp;tbnw=124&amp;amp;prev=/images%3Fq%3Dclinique%2Bbonus%2Btime%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26safe%3Dactive"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://bp3.blogger.com/_kEvh9NdDxO4/SBPhB-l_rnI/AAAAAAAABio/wcut40B8Bg8/s400/Clinique%2B2008-05%2BSears.JPG&amp;amp;imgrefurl=http://cinnamonkitten.blogspot.com/2008/04/clinique-bonus-time-at-sears.html&amp;amp;h=282&amp;amp;w=400&amp;amp;sz=31&amp;amp;hl=en&amp;amp;start=15&amp;amp;um=1&amp;amp;usg=__JDBNZ2L75gf6AhmJtoPZEZftuqo=&amp;amp;tbnid=eguqb3fLmsM8bM:&amp;amp;tbnh=87&amp;amp;tbnw=124&amp;amp;prev=/images%3Fq%3Dclinique%2Bbonus%2Btime%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26safe%3Dactive&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/donabelandewen/314405076/"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/donabelandewen/314405076/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.maccosmetics.com/templates/collections/collection.tmpl?CATEGORY_ID=CATEGORY28027"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;http://www.maccosmetics.com/templates/collections/collection.tmpl?CATEGORY_ID=CATEGORY28027&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-5161309621001434508?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/5161309621001434508/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=5161309621001434508' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/5161309621001434508'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/5161309621001434508'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/09/gift-bags-from-make-up-counters.html' title='It&apos;s Bonus Time!'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SOJ5Vse20cI/AAAAAAAAAWE/GLo8icn6ob0/s72-c/Clinique+2008-05+Sears.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-2547945180718553071</id><published>2008-09-16T14:13:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-16T16:15:01.941-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Are you married... IN YOUR MIND?????</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SNAwfBGZDrI/AAAAAAAAAVI/4l8PYxkH5pQ/s1600-h/you.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246746875315949234" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SNAwfBGZDrI/AAAAAAAAAVI/4l8PYxkH5pQ/s320/you.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Single girls listen up. Recent studies show marriages are ending in divorce by an astounding 60% (the last figure I heard when I still did high school research papers. Lexus Nexus anyone!?!).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BUT what America doesn’t realize is that a far greater percentage of the population is married and divorced than officially declared. But who? And where?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It’s you, and it’s in your mind. Every time a girl sees an attractive guy from afar, her mind immediately marries him, just as a tester. Within the next few hours, the girl develops his complete wonderful personality solely inside her imagination.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, let’s avoid a Nature vs. Nurture debate and just say that every girl does it. I’d even state that 99.9%, no 100% of girls have at one time or all times been, what hilarious comedienne, &lt;a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0276074/"&gt;Emma Field Rayner&lt;/a&gt; officially terms, MIND MARRIED.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;1 &lt;/span&gt;married&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20javascript:popWin(" wav="married')%20%20%20%20%20%20&amp;quot;"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Function: noun&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Date: 14th century&lt;br /&gt;1 a: being in the state of matrimony : &lt;a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/wedded"&gt;wedded&lt;/a&gt; b: of or relating to &lt;a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/marriage"&gt;marriage&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc33cc;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;1&lt;/span&gt; mind married&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20javascript:popWin(" wav="married')%20%20%20%20%20%20&amp;quot;"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Function: noun&lt;br /&gt;Date: 300 B.C.&lt;br /&gt;1 a: being in the state of matrimony only in your MIND, without the other person knowing.&lt;br /&gt;2 a: note that the husband and wife in this marriage do not know each other at all or have not met any more than a small introduction. Most importantly, it is only imagined by one person in the marriage, the wife.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Mind marriages can also commence if a girl says to another girl she wants to set you up with someone, tells you about him in a flattering manner, and then shows you their picture (preferably a whole album on Facebook).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SNAolZVz2xI/AAAAAAAAAU4/BLSBeXuhIfI/s1600-h/bride.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246738188809263890" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SNAolZVz2xI/AAAAAAAAAU4/BLSBeXuhIfI/s320/bride.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Don't go this far. It's only in your mind. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;THE MIND MARRIED PARADOX&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;During a Mind Marriage, you often imagine your “husband” as an incredible person who is everything you ever dreamed, BUT once you actually get to know your “husband” in real life, you realize they lack either half or all of the personality/qualities you created in your mind. This leads to what &lt;a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0276074/"&gt;Field-Rayner&lt;/a&gt;, refers to as MIND DIVORCE.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;1&lt;/span&gt; mind divorce&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20javascript:popWin(" wav="married')%20%20%20%20%20%20&amp;quot;"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Function: noun&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Date: officially coined in 2008&lt;br /&gt;1. a: The process of divorcing a man you are only married to in your mind, because when you actually got to know him, he’s not who he was in your mind at all! (How dare him.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Great things about Mind Divorces:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;Confrontation free&lt;br /&gt;No lawyer necessary&lt;br /&gt;Get to keep the Mind Children &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246740197079153746" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SNAqaSuqfFI/AAAAAAAAAVA/_8KG0lYL3yc/s320/kids.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You get to keep the village in Africa you imaginary adopted! &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="left"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Bad things about Mind Divorces:&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No multi-million dollar settlement&lt;br /&gt;No one to obsess over&lt;br /&gt;Finding a new Mind Marriage&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Depending on the girl and timing, finding a new Mind Marriage can take years or a day. Personally, I form many mind marriages a month, but certain ones last longer than others.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Q:&lt;/strong&gt; Can you continue a Mind Marriage after you realize you want a Mind Divorce?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;A:&lt;/strong&gt; Absolutely, but it will never be as fulfilling. Sometimes I hold on to a mind marriage after divorce only because the person I created in my mind is worth keeping around.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Q:&lt;/strong&gt; But what if a girl and a guy both consider each other in a mind marriage but don’t know it? Do the Gods come down and create automatic real marriage?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;A:&lt;/strong&gt; Nope. This situation never exists because I don’t think guys have mind marriages. If both people like each other and express that, I think it’s called the beginning stages of dating.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Q:&lt;/strong&gt; Should I try to get to know my Mind Marriage in the real world?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;A:&lt;/strong&gt; Sure. There is a one in a million chance they are great, but be willing to find a new one if you encounter the Mind Marriage paradox. Is it stupid? Who cares? Girls are absurd! &lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/legalsec/50094910/"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/legalsec/50094910/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/brighterorange/331068216/"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/brighterorange/331068216/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-2547945180718553071?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/2547945180718553071/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=2547945180718553071' title='7 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/2547945180718553071'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/2547945180718553071'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/09/are-you-married-in-your-mind.html' title='Are you married... IN YOUR MIND?????'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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/_jxCNq826ZV0/SNAwfBGZDrI/AAAAAAAAAVI/4l8PYxkH5pQ/s72-c/you.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-7044336609909944614</id><published>2008-08-19T15:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-19T15:50:15.715-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Favorite Old-New Quote...</title><content type='html'>When I was cleaning out my desk last week I found a post-it with this quote...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" &gt;"So backless, it's frontless."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know where I heard this, but I think it's hilarious.  Then I found this picture!&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SKtNh6HJIBI/AAAAAAAAATk/oOMUvQsvR9E/s1600-h/backless.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SKtNh6HJIBI/AAAAAAAAATk/oOMUvQsvR9E/s400/backless.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236364236678570002" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you know the origins, please contact me: girlsareabsurd@gmail.com&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;http://www.odgirl.com&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-7044336609909944614?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/7044336609909944614/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=7044336609909944614' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7044336609909944614'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7044336609909944614'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/08/favorite-old-new-quote.html' title='Favorite Old-New Quote...'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SKtNh6HJIBI/AAAAAAAAATk/oOMUvQsvR9E/s72-c/backless.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-6803180535443557339</id><published>2008-08-18T10:58:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-18T11:32:45.931-07:00</updated><title type='text'>T-Shirts: Girls Can Make Anything Slutty</title><content type='html'>In the '90s, rolling up your sleeves was considered cute, but give girls an inch of skin to show and they'll take it a mile.&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SKm7mUUJcHI/AAAAAAAAATc/W5zASA92IKU/s1600-h/t-shirt+pillow.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SKm7mUUJcHI/AAAAAAAAATc/W5zASA92IKU/s400/t-shirt+pillow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235922308757549170" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; This trend quickly transformed into cutting t-shirts in all sorts of slutty ways.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SKm7eONX8oI/AAAAAAAAATU/QTy4tXDYWwU/s1600-h/t-shirt-cut.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SKm7eONX8oI/AAAAAAAAATU/QTy4tXDYWwU/s400/t-shirt-cut.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235922169679573634" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Soon, sorority girls everywhere whipped out their craft scissors, usually reserved for scrap booking, and took them to the t-shirt. Cutting up a t-shirt into your own personal style perfectly says the two things girls want guys to know:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;a) I'm crafty and helpful around the house.&lt;br /&gt;b) I'm slutty and easy around the house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A perfect place to show off your craftiness is at college football games where intoxication blurs the lines of acceptable clothing. Plus, using a school t-shirt adds a c-factor to the mix.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;c) I've got school spirit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While some t-shirt renovations are straight out provocative, a movement among the cute girls did provide a few options for classiness, such as the recently popularized t-shirt dress. Have a picture of your work? Send it to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/brookfieldlibrary/2377092739/&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-6803180535443557339?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/6803180535443557339/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=6803180535443557339' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/6803180535443557339'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/6803180535443557339'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/08/t-shirts-girls-can-make-anything-slutty.html' title='T-Shirts: Girls Can Make Anything Slutty'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SKm7mUUJcHI/AAAAAAAAATc/W5zASA92IKU/s72-c/t-shirt+pillow.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-5719009136113601150</id><published>2008-07-02T13:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-02T13:49:49.662-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Arm Shavers</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SGviMmhVySI/AAAAAAAAARg/nwZZGYiSKVI/s1600-h/shavenarms.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SGviMmhVySI/AAAAAAAAARg/nwZZGYiSKVI/s400/shavenarms.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218513299365546274" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;In the past few years I've noticed more and more girls shaving their arms. For some it grows back darker and thicker (yuk!) so they have to keep shaving. For others it grows back the same. I have a feeling if I shaved mine it would grow back as thick as pube hair. That's just how cool my body is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I was in high school, a lot of the cool girls started shaving their arms and it became the  thing to do. Suddenly, you saw girls bragging to guys about their smooth arms.  I could look around the lunch room and see at least one guy touching a girls arm. It was such a social pressure. It was kind of substitute for a guy feeling up your legs. Can you imagine the teacher lounge conversations: Feeling a girls legs in the lunch room? Detention. Feeling a girls arm? I guess that's okay...?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can understand why some girls would want to shave their arms: it's &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;seems&lt;/span&gt; noticeable, thick, and ugly. But honestly, no one notices.  What about when it grows back spiky and you don't have time to shave them. It's not like your legs where you can just wear jeans for months at time and never have to shave (not that I do that or anything :-).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Arm Hair Miracle Story&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When my brother was seven, he had really thick blonde arm hair. The rest of his hair was dark brown so it looked out of place. It could be styled it was so long. The kids at school called him the werewolf. One day he took one of my razors and shaved off all his arm hair (at 7!) He got in a lot of trouble but it grew back into normal air hair. For the fun of it, he still had the other kids call him werewolf.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-5719009136113601150?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/5719009136113601150/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=5719009136113601150' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/5719009136113601150'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/5719009136113601150'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/07/arm-shavers.html' title='Arm Shavers'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SGviMmhVySI/AAAAAAAAARg/nwZZGYiSKVI/s72-c/shavenarms.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-677190145020476151</id><published>2008-06-12T11:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-12T17:44:24.074-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Talking About Babies</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SFFlsqP9WEI/AAAAAAAAARA/8GIlfPRc4p4/s1600-h/lydia.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SFFlsqP9WEI/AAAAAAAAARA/8GIlfPRc4p4/s400/lydia.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211058061774248002" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Girls love talking about how cute babies are, but sometimes I find myself going too far. I think other girls do too. Here are some things I've said about babies recently.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I wanna make a face cream out of babies' tears."&lt;br /&gt;"I'm going to start a new diet eating only babies' chunky thighs."&lt;br /&gt;"I wanna line my car with soft baby fat."&lt;br /&gt;"I wanna put candies in a babies neck and gobble them out."&lt;br /&gt;"I wanna float through air surrounded by baby giggles."&lt;br /&gt;"I wanna make baby toes Popsicles and then get the flu."&lt;br /&gt;"I wanna ship a jar of baby smiles to the Queen of England."&lt;br /&gt;"I wanna fill my pockets with baby hands and then hold them all day."&lt;br /&gt;"I wanna make a shirt of soft baby hair."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The thing is, most girls I know don't want a baby right now. They just want to think about one,  myself included, and that's why girls are absurd!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-677190145020476151?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/677190145020476151/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=677190145020476151' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/677190145020476151'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/677190145020476151'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/06/talking-about-babies.html' title='Talking About Babies'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SFFlsqP9WEI/AAAAAAAAARA/8GIlfPRc4p4/s72-c/lydia.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-8735289725532947473</id><published>2008-06-03T11:36:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-03T11:58:46.840-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-8735289725532947473?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/8735289725532947473/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=8735289725532947473' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/8735289725532947473'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/8735289725532947473'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/06/sorority-girls-rude-nerd.html' title=''/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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-8563468938956645654.post-634497543749772982</id><published>2008-05-14T14:40:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-05-14T15:14:04.911-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Tease Kiss Pic</title><content type='html'>Absurd girls love to take pictures like they're going to kiss each other.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SCtiDFcbThI/AAAAAAAAAPU/Ia-2Ompsq8A/s1600-h/teasekiss1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SCtiDFcbThI/AAAAAAAAAPU/Ia-2Ompsq8A/s400/teasekiss1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200357999869906450" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I call it The Tease Kiss Pic for two reasons:&lt;br /&gt;1. It teases guys who think the girls might actually kiss.&lt;br /&gt;2. Girls like to drunkenly giggle afterward and say, "What if we did!?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And you can bet that the next day the whole album will be posted on Facebook. Have fun cleaning that up for potential employers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Girls love to Tease Kiss especially on a night of drunken splendor. I've actually witnessed several straight girls spend the whole night tease kissing for the camera and then later,  escalate into real making out with each other (myself remaining abstinate).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Since I couldn't steal my friends pictures of them Tease Kissing, I took this picture of me Tease Kissing myself  in  Photobooth, because I'm absurd. &lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SCtieVcbTiI/AAAAAAAAAPc/Y5HDNnUbvOQ/s1600-h/MyPicture_2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SCtieVcbTiI/AAAAAAAAAPc/Y5HDNnUbvOQ/s400/MyPicture_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200358468021341730" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/drewgeraets/81116253/" target="_blank"&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos&lt;wbr&gt;/drewgeraets/81116253/&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-634497543749772982?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/634497543749772982/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=634497543749772982' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/634497543749772982'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/634497543749772982'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/05/tease-kiss-pic.html' title='The Tease Kiss Pic'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SCtiDFcbThI/AAAAAAAAAPU/Ia-2Ompsq8A/s72-c/teasekiss1.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-7229316064091993393</id><published>2008-04-28T14:17:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:46:08.999-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Dolls are Absurd</title><content type='html'>Dolls are the most absurd toy in a girl's life. Why?  Because basically it says, "Here little girl, take this plastic version of yourself and pretend you birthed it, even though you were just born yourself... and don't ask any questions."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZHX3FAr-I/AAAAAAAAANQ/RvSOxCzaHvw/s1600-h/molly+et+al.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194417695465975778" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZHX3FAr-I/AAAAAAAAANQ/RvSOxCzaHvw/s400/molly+et+al.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was into American Girl dolls long before they became so commercial. I like to brag about that. I also think I'm &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;not the only one&lt;/span&gt; who learned how to French braid on Samantha, Molly, or Kirsten.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZ6hXFAsCI/AAAAAAAAANw/tdgNTTzEtAU/s1600-h/molly+et+al+006-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194473933767749666" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZ6hXFAsCI/AAAAAAAAANw/tdgNTTzEtAU/s400/molly+et+al+006-1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;"Samantha, you're everyone's favorite."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;There's no need to even mention how absurd Barbies are. I think all of us sat through the rant of a radical feminist professor at one point or another. Sure, they're a terrible representation of women, but who cares! They're fun. Remember playing at "that girl's" house who had hundreds of expensive Barbies? That was always a good time.  It was kind of like, "Wow, she's really spoiled, but this is blowing my mind."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZ9GXFAsEI/AAAAAAAAAOA/kOcoo2rbNO8/s1600-h/newbarbie.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194476768446165058" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZ9GXFAsEI/AAAAAAAAAOA/kOcoo2rbNO8/s400/newbarbie.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Of course there's always that one friend who's BRAGS, "I was never into dolls, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;especially&lt;/span&gt; Barbies. " Well, you missed out, anti-doll girl. Don't let her make you feel stupid for playing with them. She missed "a normal part of being absurd."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the end, a natural part of out-growing dolls is when you claim to only "change their outfits" and not actually "play" with them anymore. You find yourself &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;bragging&lt;/span&gt; to several friends on the fifth grade play ground, I don't really play with my dolls anymore, I just change &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;their&lt;/span&gt; outfits." It's hard, but it has to happen. Notice the double standard: Girls give up dolls, but boys don't have to give up video games!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For your enjoyment, below is a photo-shoot I did of my dolls in second grade: &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZ6FnFAsBI/AAAAAAAAANo/L5DdZsa1MDk/s1600-h/molly+et+al+002.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194473457026379794" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZ6FnFAsBI/AAAAAAAAANo/L5DdZsa1MDk/s400/molly+et+al+002.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZ9YnFAsFI/AAAAAAAAAOI/ri9hJp-kahc/s1600-h/molly+et+al+003.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194477081978777682" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZ9YnFAsFI/AAAAAAAAAOI/ri9hJp-kahc/s400/molly+et+al+003.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZ6EnFAsAI/AAAAAAAAANg/m6ovwHaaFns/s1600-h/molly+et+al+004.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194473439846510594" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZ6EnFAsAI/AAAAAAAAANg/m6ovwHaaFns/s400/molly+et+al+004.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Notice how I hung pictures at their eye level in my room.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/maguisso/450480061/&lt;br /&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/nakedcharlton/573748521/&lt;br /&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/dplanet/332538524/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-7229316064091993393?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/7229316064091993393/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=7229316064091993393' title='8 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7229316064091993393'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7229316064091993393'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/04/dolls-are-absurd.html' title='Dolls are Absurd'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SBZHX3FAr-I/AAAAAAAAANQ/RvSOxCzaHvw/s72-c/molly+et+al.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>8</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-2115562699955772165</id><published>2008-04-21T11:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:47:13.514-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Realtionship Status: Absurd</title><content type='html'>My heart always warms when Facebook informs me two of my non-les girl friends are either "in a relationship", "married", or what's more, "complicated".&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Having your best friend officially presented as your Facebook relationship partner is a  big step these days. It's pretty much the "best friends heart necklace" of the 21st century.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SA5kZ3FAr5I/AAAAAAAAAMg/UAUzwjSNSIs/s1600-h/facebook.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192197815849234322" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SA5kZ3FAr5I/AAAAAAAAAMg/UAUzwjSNSIs/s400/facebook.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;In addition, it's a subtle brag to the rest of the "face world" that a girl considers you good enough to date/marry/complicate things with, and if you had the choice, would be "frusbands" friend-husbands.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Never mind the subtle subtext sent to your other "good friend" that you are not as close as she thought.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SA5ka3FAr6I/AAAAAAAAAMo/0BjB3UDqe0Y/s1600-h/sadgirl.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192197833029103522" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SA5ka3FAr6I/AAAAAAAAAMo/0BjB3UDqe0Y/s400/sadgirl.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Still, I can't decide which is worse: two girls in a relationship, or a girl's profile picture as a happy snap shot of her and her boyfriend. If that's not a brag, I don't know what is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Personal Disclaimer: not bitter, just pointing out the obvious. But if I did have a boyfriend, I would definitely put a picture of us as my profile pic. Did I just admit that?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In conclusion, adding a friend as your love interest is a gag me situation, but who cares? That's why girls are absurd. DO IT NOW!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: 0pt;"&gt; http://farm1.static.flickr.com/135/383319586_7c824be6e9.jpg?v=0 &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-2115562699955772165?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/2115562699955772165/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=2115562699955772165' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/2115562699955772165'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/2115562699955772165'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/04/realtionship-status-absurd.html' title='Realtionship Status: Absurd'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SA5kZ3FAr5I/AAAAAAAAAMg/UAUzwjSNSIs/s72-c/facebook.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-4925929274544958172</id><published>2008-04-14T12:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:48:40.648-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Whistle-tutes: absurdly perpetuating street hollas for all of us</title><content type='html'>My favorite part of walking down a street is when a dirty guy in something like a late model Taurus slows down to check me out, manually cranks down his window, and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;hollas&lt;/span&gt; at me to get in his car. Nothing could make could make me feel more safe and valued to know that out of anyone on the street, I was his top choice. Especially if I am in my car, I am always more than eager to pull into the nearest Burger King parking lot and grab a milk shake together...or more.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SAO1nupnw2I/AAAAAAAAALo/JuttpaOfVl4/s1600-h/434696952_7d1296a9b2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189190889803072354" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SAO1nupnw2I/AAAAAAAAALo/JuttpaOfVl4/s320/434696952_7d1296a9b2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Honestly though, haven't these creepy guys been rejected enough? Don't they know how shady and annoying they are? I'm sure they do, but still persist due to  a low percentage of girls who do respond.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, who are these girls and what are they thinking? Don't they know they're absurd if not pathetic? &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;Apparently&lt;/span&gt; not. Luckily, in 2004, Gwen &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Stefani&lt;/span&gt; made a slight case against girls who respond to booty calls, terming them, "&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;holla&lt;/span&gt; back girls". This term, although over-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;arching-ly&lt;/span&gt; appropriate, is not strong enough for the offense at hand. Instead, I believe girls who respond to a street whistle should be termed, "whistle-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;tutes&lt;/span&gt;". For instance, if your friend waves at a guy who slows down to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;holla&lt;/span&gt;, you should stop all immediate conversation and say, "What are you, some whistle-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;tute&lt;/span&gt; or something?" &lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SAU-kepnw3I/AAAAAAAAALw/Bw5yavvYg5o/s1600-h/509789891_ccf77814d2_m.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189622942038213490" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SAU-kepnw3I/AAAAAAAAALw/Bw5yavvYg5o/s320/509789891_ccf77814d2_m.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Personal story: One time I was walking into an interview when a guy in a shady &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;Cadillac&lt;/span&gt; rolled to a stop and asked me if I had a job. I told him I was going on an interview. He said to forget the interview and that he could get me a job dancing in his car. While I thanked him for the offer, I told him I had other promising &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;prospects&lt;/span&gt; and continued into the building. I didn't end up getting the real job, but I wrote them a thank you note for the interview and informed them of my other dancing offer. I'm just kidding. I didn't do that, but I should have.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a font="" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SAO1nupnw2I/AAAAAAAAALo/JuttpaOfVl4/s1600-h/434696952_7d1296a9b2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" size=".5"&gt;http://www.flickr.com/photos/39907732@N00/434696952/in/photostream/&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;http://farm1.static.flickr.com/201/509789891_ccf77814d2.jpg?v=0&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-4925929274544958172?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/4925929274544958172/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=4925929274544958172' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/4925929274544958172'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/4925929274544958172'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/04/whistle-tutes-absurdly-perpetuating.html' title='Whistle-tutes: absurdly perpetuating street hollas for all of us'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/SAO1nupnw2I/AAAAAAAAALo/JuttpaOfVl4/s72-c/434696952_7d1296a9b2.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-1937199768252908017</id><published>2008-04-07T11:36:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:50:50.099-07:00</updated><title type='text'>National Epidemic: Low Rise Jean - High Rise Butt Crack</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;In 2000, several expensive designer jean companies gathered in the core of the earth for a beginning of the century summit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;GOAL: Test the level of &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;absurdity&lt;/span&gt; among girls.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;HYPOTHESIS&lt;/span&gt;: For the sake of fashion, girls will wear low rise jeans that show their butt crack.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;TEST: Release millions of low rise jeans that reveal the butt  crack and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;underwear&lt;/span&gt; of the wearer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_pp2XCxKgI/AAAAAAAAAKw/z_lCgL9ibnE/s1600-h/lowrise.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186574303490025986" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_pp2XCxKgI/AAAAAAAAAKw/z_lCgL9ibnE/s400/lowrise.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; margin: 0px auto; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_pp2XCxKgI/AAAAAAAAAKw/z_lCgL9ibnE/s1600-h/lowrise.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;RESULTS: Yes, girls bought them in droves and are still buying today. Absurdly, the butt crack  became a sign of wealth and luxury.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_pxpXCxKhI/AAAAAAAAAK4/5BCCTwkAaXY/s1600-h/upperclass.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186582876244748818" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_pxpXCxKhI/AAAAAAAAAK4/5BCCTwkAaXY/s400/upperclass.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Girls across the nation, maybe Canada, Central and South America, and urban sections of Europe now feature young girl's butt cracks.  Asia's strict government luckily prevented the trend, but I'm sure some girls added low rise jeans to their definition of the American dream. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;Predictably&lt;/span&gt;, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;plumbers&lt;/span&gt; across the US have remained in the lower class, despite attempts to cross caste lines.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thankfully, most girls now realize the side effects and make a strong attempt to pull up their jeans when they sit down. Sometimes this still creates &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;ridicule&lt;/span&gt; because girls are always pulling up their jeans (especially when they annoyingly stretch out a whole lot).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"So what's the deal? Do girls not realize everyone can see down their pants? Is that what they want? Do they not feel a slight but &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;uncomfortable&lt;/span&gt; draft?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;These are all comments and questions asked by every girl's &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;one &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;snobby&lt;/span&gt; friend&lt;/span&gt; who refuses to buy a pair of Sevens, etc. Secretly, she wishes she had a pair, but has alienated herself so much, buying the jeans would cause incessant &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;ridicule&lt;/span&gt; of her hypocrisy. If you hear her throwing in subtle comments like, "I mean if you wear them every day, they're worth the money, I guess." it's a sign she's caving. Don't let her get away with this. Ridicule. Ridicule. Ridicule.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href=""&gt; &lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3043/2300586056_503ff2e828_m.jpg&lt;br /&gt;http://farm1.static.flickr.com/25/97763648_79ff947cf7.jpg?v=0&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-1937199768252908017?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/1937199768252908017/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=1937199768252908017' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/1937199768252908017'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/1937199768252908017'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/04/national-epidemic-low-rise-jean-high.html' title='National Epidemic: Low Rise Jean - High Rise Butt Crack'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_pp2XCxKgI/AAAAAAAAAKw/z_lCgL9ibnE/s72-c/lowrise.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-6969071722357548514</id><published>2008-04-02T22:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:53:10.997-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Uggs in July</title><content type='html'>For some reason, girls around the nation feel called to purchase for $150.00 the appropriately named "Ugg-ly" boots, Uggs.  I have no problem with this. Girls have worn ugly clothes for years... centuries. &lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_RzuHCxKfI/AAAAAAAAAKo/GlnP9Bo94rE/s1600-h/Eboli,_Prinzessin_von.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184896307012119026" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_RzuHCxKfI/AAAAAAAAAKo/GlnP9Bo94rE/s400/Eboli,_Prinzessin_von.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Tragedy? About 50% of the girls who purchase Uggs live in warm climate states and truthfully have no need for such a wintery boot. In effect, the mild winter leaves prime Ugg wearing time at about two weeks to two months , creating a low show off ratio for the average $150.00 price.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What that means: Girls must use every slight drop in temperature to wear their Uggs. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_RxtnCxKeI/AAAAAAAAAKg/Uzu5PpMNQF4/s1600-h/IMG_0537.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184894099398928866" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_RxtnCxKeI/AAAAAAAAAKg/Uzu5PpMNQF4/s400/IMG_0537.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Girls at the Grove in "randomly chilly" 75 degree weather in April.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For Example, say a it's been a warmer than usual 80 degree March in LA, but suddenly it drops to 70! "Get out those UGGS!" Or a toasty 90 degree April in Texas, but one fateful day drops to 85 degrees. "Get out those UGGS!" Or a sweltering 115 degree July in Tulsa with a sudden drop to 95 degrees! "Get out those UGGS!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_RwhHCxKdI/AAAAAAAAAKY/fVwvgpUUQMc/s1600-h/uggmap.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184892785138936274" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_RwhHCxKdI/AAAAAAAAAKY/fVwvgpUUQMc/s400/uggmap.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Yes, Uggs must be vainly shown off at every slight decrease in temperature, but that's why girls are absurd.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-6969071722357548514?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/6969071722357548514/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=6969071722357548514' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/6969071722357548514'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/6969071722357548514'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/04/uggs-in-july.html' title='Uggs in July'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R_RzuHCxKfI/AAAAAAAAAKo/GlnP9Bo94rE/s72-c/Eboli,_Prinzessin_von.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-7877837837524221867</id><published>2008-03-18T10:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-02T23:46:00.570-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='girl code'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='pony tails'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='hair'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='friends'/><title type='text'>Worst Nightmares: No Ponytail Holder?!?</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R-AEZ5p9Q0I/AAAAAAAAAJQ/iiNnnmXIRyE/s1600-h/rubberband.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R-AEZ5p9Q0I/AAAAAAAAAJQ/iiNnnmXIRyE/s320/rubberband.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179144414496113474" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Girls across America, and even maybe the world, have one thing in common: ponytail holder on the wrist. If my hair is down, and I don't have a rubber band, I feel naked. I keep reaching for it over an over again. It's the same terrible feeling as when a stray hair gets stuck on my arm, and I can feel it but can't find it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the morning when I wash my hair, I test to see how long I can go without pulling my hair back. So far, test results have been poor to extremely poor. As soon as something gets stressful, I automatically reach for my ponytail holder. It's pretty much the girl version of Pavlov's dog experiment. "Stress" Bell = Reach for Pony Tail Holder.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For many years, I strictly used only thin black metal-less ponytail holders. I believed that other ponytail holders (thicker, colorful, glitter threaded) were tacky and sloppy looking. I even secretly looked down on my friends who didn't wear thin black ponytail holders, although I had never expressed to them my standards. I considered it a silent test of class. I’m over that because it's absurd, but still only use thin ones.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In addition, I have increased my longevity with one ponytail holder and can keep track of one single rubber band for months at a time. I consider this a great accomplishment in my organization skills, even though my desk is a mess.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What's absurd? Giving away a pony tail holder (if it's your only one) is comparable to   the only piece of food in a desolate nation. It's the ultimate sacrafice and a secret code among girls that says, "I'm a true friend."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-7877837837524221867?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/7877837837524221867/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=7877837837524221867' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7877837837524221867'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/7877837837524221867'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/03/worst-nightmares-no-pants-on-vs-no.html' title='Worst Nightmares: No Ponytail Holder?!?'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R-AEZ5p9Q0I/AAAAAAAAAJQ/iiNnnmXIRyE/s72-c/rubberband.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-2988524466299838539</id><published>2008-03-14T15:36:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:51:53.102-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Fake Bling</title><content type='html'>A long time ago in a far off land when plastic was invented, some girl decided that fake plastic diamonds looked just as classy as real diamonds. For a while she wore them secretly and everyone assumed they were authentic, but then she let it slip to a few of her friends. Soon fake diamonds and rubies covered every flat surface and then in the 80's we're stapled on jean jackets around the nation. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9r-i5p9QzI/AAAAAAAAAJI/BFz7lUVAFPE/s1600-h/mail.jpg"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177730597161616178" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9r-i5p9QzI/AAAAAAAAAJI/BFz7lUVAFPE/s400/mail.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The tragedy? No one believes the diamonds and rubies are real anymore. The absurdity? Girls Don't Care! Especially older women who waited all their lives to be rich, but now in their fifties, realize they're forever stuck in the middle class. Bling it up!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-2988524466299838539?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/2988524466299838539/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=2988524466299838539' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/2988524466299838539'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/2988524466299838539'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/03/long-time-ago-in-far-off-time-when.html' title='Fake Bling'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9r-i5p9QzI/AAAAAAAAAJI/BFz7lUVAFPE/s72-c/mail.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-3545311898444787504</id><published>2008-03-10T00:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:54:56.747-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='torso'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='girls'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='squats'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='photos'/><title type='text'>The Girl Squat!</title><content type='html'>This one goes out to Holly Fish from Waco, Texas. What can we say? The girl squat is notorious around America, and I'm sure in some other countries. Honestly, there is no solution for it. Sometimes a good girl squat is necessary to squeeze everyone's face in the pic. Other times it's just plain absurd.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Your average Girl Squat can come in three absurd manners:&lt;br /&gt;1. The First Row Squat&lt;br /&gt;2. The No Need Second Row Squat&lt;br /&gt;3. And the Absolutely Ridiculous Single Line Squat.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"&gt;First Row Squat&lt;/span&gt; is the least of these offenses. Truthfully, sometimes a little squattage is necessary to get everyone in the picture. This picture is borderline.  The girls in the front  needed to squat so the girls in the back could be seen.  On the other hand, I think there are few enough people to form one straight line across the photo.  &lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9hs95p9QwI/AAAAAAAAAIw/trJFLSmkm4c/s1600-h/DSC02840+copy.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177007582367007490" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9hs95p9QwI/AAAAAAAAAIw/trJFLSmkm4c/s400/DSC02840+copy.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"&gt;The No Need Second Row Squat &lt;/span&gt;is definitely blame worthy. In this scenario, the second row feels the need to squat over the people in the front row, even though there is no one behind them. Quite absurd! Still, many girls commit this crime everyday. The source: Deep inside every girl wants to be included, but more importantly, wants it documented. So, when it's photo time, the split second of a frenzy often results in severe irrationality, creating the No Need Second Row Squat!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9T44Zp9QqI/AAAAAAAAAHY/4yBzbLhwyFA/s1600-h/bendover.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176035519598772898" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9T44Zp9QqI/AAAAAAAAAHY/4yBzbLhwyFA/s400/bendover.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;This photo is ridiculous! 100% Second Row Squatters. The best part? I'm smack dab middle pulling two other girls down!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;The Absolutely Ridiculous&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt; Single Line Squat &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is the most rare form of the girl squat, but is by far the most absurd. It magically includes girls in one single line squatting for no apparent reason. This squat is merely a form of habit for some girls and is truly unpardonable. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9T11pp9QpI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/38TKZhFamIg/s1600-h/Noyoudidntsquat.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176032173819249298" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9T11pp9QpI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/38TKZhFamIg/s320/Noyoudidntsquat.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 182px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 273px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;In this photo I am definitely guilty. I'm probably at a 45 degree angle which is definite squattage territory. On the other hand, the girl next to me is really short and I'm 5'9.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the true winner of this award goes to my friend Leah, who one time posed for a single line picture like this. It was so ridiculous, I made her take a photo just by herself. That's one long torso!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9T5vZp9QrI/AAAAAAAAAHg/dLt_GWF6QV4/s1600-h/Superlongtorso.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176036464491578034" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9T5vZp9QrI/AAAAAAAAAHg/dLt_GWF6QV4/s320/Superlongtorso.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-3545311898444787504?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/3545311898444787504/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=3545311898444787504' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/3545311898444787504'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/3545311898444787504'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/03/girl-squat.html' title='The Girl Squat!'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9hs95p9QwI/AAAAAAAAAIw/trJFLSmkm4c/s72-c/DSC02840+copy.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-1382569331270268338</id><published>2008-03-08T15:42:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-03-20T22:57:39.385-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='I&apos;m a princess'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='absurdity'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='princess'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='girls'/><title type='text'>I'm a Princess!</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9MuLpp9QVI/AAAAAAAAAEo/8wGGutpPYXI/s1600-h/little+princess.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 126px; height: 191px;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9MuLpp9QVI/AAAAAAAAAEo/8wGGutpPYXI/s400/little+princess.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175531174474105170" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;All parents love to tell their little girls that they are princesses. The little girls live in dress up clothes, crowns, and plastic jewels.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And this is cute, until the little girls actually learns that she is in fact, not a real princess.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9MuMJp9QWI/AAAAAAAAAEw/HYN0KRMRWQg/s1600-h/notaprincess.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 228px; height: 151px;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9MuMJp9QWI/AAAAAAAAAEw/HYN0KRMRWQg/s400/notaprincess.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175531183064039778" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;"What do you mean, I'm not a real princess?!?"&lt;br /&gt;At this point in her life she can either forget about it and start acting like a normal girl/serf, or she can deny America's political system and insist, that in fact, she is a princess.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How? She buys tons of manufactured cheap princess memorabilia, and hopes people get the memo.&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9Mx25p9QZI/AAAAAAAAAFI/wAJFQ57r8A8/s1600-h/photo%2855%29.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 177px;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9Mx25p9QZI/AAAAAAAAAFI/wAJFQ57r8A8/s400/photo%2855%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175535216038330770" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You know her as the girl who put this sign up at work and &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;really expected you not to park there&lt;/span&gt;, and when you did, she made the light joke, "Bob, you know that spots is for 'princesses' only". You laughed it off together, so you thought, but the next time you parked there, you received an anonymous nasty note on your windshield wipers that said, "Seriously, only for princesses. Park here again, and I'll key your car."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9MuCZp9QUI/AAAAAAAAAEg/GiZZgyX1t6c/s1600-h/catprincess.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 161px; height: 171px;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9MuCZp9QUI/AAAAAAAAAEg/GiZZgyX1t6c/s400/catprincess.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175531015560315202" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Not only does princess girl like to believe that she's a princess, she insists that her cat or dog is in fact, by blood, a princess too. She forces her pets to wear princess crowns and sit through long photo shoots. Then she emails you all the photos or gives you a framed one for your desk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9MuMZp9QXI/AAAAAAAAAE4/iC6IJOC8HOY/s1600-h/princessgirl.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 339px;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9MuMZp9QXI/AAAAAAAAAE4/iC6IJOC8HOY/s400/princessgirl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175531187359007090" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Princess girl can live in self denial for years, and every time someone says to her, "Give me a break, you're a thirty five year old woman working as a dry cleaners assistant." ...&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9M0pJp9QbI/AAAAAAAAAFY/DayzHRxHSA0/s1600-h/photo%2856%29.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 96px; height: 106px;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9M0pJp9QbI/AAAAAAAAAFY/DayzHRxHSA0/s400/photo%2856%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175538278350012850" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;...she marches to the store and buys a new princess mug. "There, all better."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9M2O5p9QcI/AAAAAAAAAFg/qfKaUfQ7uYs/s1600-h/princesslady.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 445px; height: 366px;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9M2O5p9QcI/AAAAAAAAAFg/qfKaUfQ7uYs/s400/princesslady.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175540026401702338" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&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;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By age sixty, this girl, now a lady, has a pretty extensive collection of princess crap all over her house. It's the secret talk of the town, and in fact, when an out of state friend visits, you call up princess lady and insist on stopping by to see her, just so your friend can see the absurdity you've told her about all these years.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;font size=1&gt;http://farm1.static.flickr.com/7/6559162_3a5018e8c8.jpg?v=0&lt;br /&gt;http://farm1.static.flickr.com/211/474968611_b1c2819c6d.jpg?v=0&lt;br /&gt;http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2209/2271461879_557014686b.jpg?v=0&lt;br /&gt;http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2388/1812797376_5107e2ea5e.jpg?v=0&lt;/font&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-1382569331270268338?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/1382569331270268338/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=1382569331270268338' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/1382569331270268338'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/1382569331270268338'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/03/im-princess.html' title='I&apos;m a Princess!'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R9MuLpp9QVI/AAAAAAAAAEo/8wGGutpPYXI/s72-c/little+princess.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-3702093384605819434</id><published>2008-03-05T11:26:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:56:01.981-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Cheap Manufactured Crap? I'll take it!</title><content type='html'>For some absurd reason, girls go crazy for cute cheap manufactured crap, usually from Mexico or Asia.  Lucky for everyone, capitalism exists and for every &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;High School Musical &lt;/span&gt;jewelry set that is bought, ten thousand more are imported and stuffed into junky stores.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R88ADzBD5QI/AAAAAAAAAEI/fow8pEvM8Wc/s1600-h/girlbuyingcrap.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174354562106254594" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R88ADzBD5QI/AAAAAAAAAEI/fow8pEvM8Wc/s400/girlbuyingcrap.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /&gt;&lt;/a&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;span style="font-style: italic;"&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;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Hello Kitty&lt;/span&gt; assault riffle!!! I can shoot someone cutely. I'll take it!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://craphound.com/images/hellokittyak47.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" src="http://craphound.com/images/hellokittyak47.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&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;Usually girls grow out of this phase but some women never do.  Instead of claiming to buy junk for themselves, though, they just holler out in the store real loud, "Oh, I have got to get this for Stacey! This is so her." Then they purchase the Sponge Bob Square Pants Glitter Mug  and quickly run home to use it. If you hear an elderly woman exclaiming this, do not be fooled. Look closely and you'll see her tattoos are &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Hanna Montana.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="text-decoration: underline;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R88gbTBD5SI/AAAAAAAAAEY/pbl-MhAdPqw/s1600-h/tinkerbell1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174390150205269282" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R88gbTBD5SI/AAAAAAAAAEY/pbl-MhAdPqw/s400/tinkerbell1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-3702093384605819434?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/3702093384605819434/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=3702093384605819434' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/3702093384605819434'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/3702093384605819434'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/03/cheap-manufactured-crap-ill-take-it.html' title='Cheap Manufactured Crap? I&apos;ll take it!'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R88ADzBD5QI/AAAAAAAAAEI/fow8pEvM8Wc/s72-c/girlbuyingcrap.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-6948912054093713212</id><published>2008-03-02T19:08:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-03-02T19:24:51.378-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Ultra-Flirt T-shirts</title><content type='html'>Absurd girls consider themselves the cutest/hottest/sassiest girls around town. Most importantly, they love to tell others about themselves with &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;over the top flirty, in your face&lt;/span&gt; t-shirts, signs, and bumper stickers from Gadzooks or other various cheap t-shirt stores like &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Ahhhs. &lt;/span&gt;Ironically,  over 90% of the girls wearing ultra flirt shirts shouldn't wear them, if you catch my drift.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8tq1oIksGI/AAAAAAAAADg/2_0XZDhaT4s/s1600-h/photo%2849%29.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8tq1oIksGI/AAAAAAAAADg/2_0XZDhaT4s/s320/photo%2849%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173346066504134754" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&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;Note to the person who buys the sign below:  You don't need this sign - we can tell.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8trl4IksHI/AAAAAAAAADo/aJNtUzmxvnA/s1600-h/photo%2850%29.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8trl4IksHI/AAAAAAAAADo/aJNtUzmxvnA/s200/photo%2850%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173346895432822898" 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/8563468938956645654-6948912054093713212?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/6948912054093713212/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=6948912054093713212' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/6948912054093713212'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/6948912054093713212'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/03/ultra-flirt-t-shirts.html' title='Ultra-Flirt T-shirts'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp3.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8tq1oIksGI/AAAAAAAAADg/2_0XZDhaT4s/s72-c/photo%2849%29.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-27032840831605541</id><published>2008-03-01T02:40:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:56:59.128-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='comb overs'/><title type='text'>The Southern Swoop Comb Over</title><content type='html'>About five years ago, a popular hairstyle hit the United States of America, or at least Texas where I lived at the time. It's called the Southern Swoop. Suddenly, girls felt it necessary to cut long bangs and swoop them over to one side of their head.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On some girls, it looks charming and fabulous, but on others, a difficult callick creates a comb-over that can never be overcome. Tragically, hair dressers around the nation chopped bangs on all sorts of girls who had terrible callicks. They claimed if you would only learn how to used a round brush and blow dryer, the hair could be trained to swoop softly. Falsity. Everyone knows that round brushes are impossible to style with and are a magic skill possessed only by hair dressers.  Nonetheless, girls believed the lie, resulting in awkward bangs jetting every which way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8k2hoIksFI/AAAAAAAAADY/zpcjoDfAx64/s1600-h/DSC03233.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172725598348685394" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8k2hoIksFI/AAAAAAAAADY/zpcjoDfAx64/s400/DSC03233.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /&gt;&lt;/a&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;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me with a bad comb over.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-27032840831605541?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/27032840831605541/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=27032840831605541' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/27032840831605541'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/27032840831605541'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/03/southern-swoop-comb-over.html' title='The Southern Swoop Comb Over'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8k2hoIksFI/AAAAAAAAADY/zpcjoDfAx64/s72-c/DSC03233.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-2395935951150075413</id><published>2008-02-29T19:00:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:58:38.257-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Wearing Workout Shorts...Everywhere</title><content type='html'>Girls feel that it's always appropriate to wear workout shorts, anywhere and anytime - even if they have no intention of ever working out during the day... or year. The most popular brand is Soffee, which girls wear in as many different colors as possible and roll up at least three times for extra gag reflux of surrounding persons. But if  a girl wants to be really high class, she'll wear Nike women's work out shorts for that extra emphasis of class. Girls feel that athletic shorts are appropriate  in every circumstance, because what the hell ,  "I'm just a girl."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;These circumstances include:&lt;br /&gt;a) all college campuses&lt;br /&gt;b) foreign countries where the natives are conservatively dressier.&lt;br /&gt;c) basically everywhere (youth group, meetings, service or charity work)&lt;br /&gt;d) out to nice dinners with the fam.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8j2bIIksBI/AAAAAAAAAC0/TGgaLMffaAw/s1600-h/CHINA+089_1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172655117935357970" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8j2bIIksBI/AAAAAAAAAC0/TGgaLMffaAw/s200/CHINA+089_1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /&gt;&lt;/a&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;Me in  Asia when our teacher (pictured right) took us on a field trip to a Buddhist Temple.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8j9ioIksEI/AAAAAAAAADM/1I3_tkmk4A0/s1600-h/shorts.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172662943365771330" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8j9ioIksEI/AAAAAAAAADM/1I3_tkmk4A0/s200/shorts.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /&gt;&lt;/a&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;Los Angeles? - of course I'll wear shorts.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8j9RoIksDI/AAAAAAAAADE/aZTBCqpPs_0/s1600-h/jeansorshorts.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172662651307995186" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8j9RoIksDI/AAAAAAAAADE/aZTBCqpPs_0/s200/jeansorshorts.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /&gt;&lt;/a&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;Sorority girls in Soffees and Nikes, if they match the shirt, it's way cuter!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-2395935951150075413?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/2395935951150075413/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=2395935951150075413' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/2395935951150075413'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/2395935951150075413'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/02/wearing-workout-shortseverywhere.html' title='Wearing Workout Shorts...Everywhere'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp2.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8j2bIIksBI/AAAAAAAAAC0/TGgaLMffaAw/s72-c/CHINA+089_1.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8563468938956645654.post-1367318200957848771</id><published>2008-02-29T18:19:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2011-06-15T16:59:35.722-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Girls Love Self Help Books</title><content type='html'>Nothing feels better than buying a new self help book. Just reading the back cover can make a girl feel like she's on her way to being the person she's always wanted to be... the next Rachel McAdams.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Often after reading the back cover of a self help book I feel like I..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;a) am about to meet the man of my dreams.&lt;br /&gt;b) already lost the fifteen pounds from thinking about the new diet.&lt;br /&gt;c) will be a bazillionaire.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8i9e4Ikr-I/AAAAAAAAACc/QmzovibMLPA/s1600-h/photo%2848%29.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"&gt;&lt;img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172592510197084130" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8i9e4Ikr-I/AAAAAAAAACc/QmzovibMLPA/s320/photo%2848%29.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /&gt;&lt;/a&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;&lt;br /&gt;But right after I buy the book and rip open the first chapter in the nearest Starbucks, I discover the same old same old: workout, only eat water and flax seed, or meet more men to get more dates.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Once the "duh" factor hits, I slam the book closed and return home to watch reruns of &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Friends &lt;/span&gt;or &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Sex in the City&lt;/span&gt;, the people I hoped the book would make me. The book is then thrown on my shelf so that when friends come over they say, "Wow, this girl is really incredible, look at all the books she's read."  And they usually do, so I guess the book helps me after all.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8563468938956645654-1367318200957848771?l=girlabsurdity.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/feeds/1367318200957848771/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8563468938956645654&amp;postID=1367318200957848771' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/1367318200957848771'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8563468938956645654/posts/default/1367318200957848771'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://girlabsurdity.blogspot.com/2008/02/girls-love-self-help-books.html' title='Girls Love Self Help Books'/><author><name>Karolyn McKenzie</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17374250180193655647</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://bp1.blogger.com/_jxCNq826ZV0/R8i9e4Ikr-I/AAAAAAAAACc/QmzovibMLPA/s72-c/photo%2848%29.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>
