<?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-3303120625125628582</id><updated>2011-04-21T16:45:55.220-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Musings for a Renaissance Emo</title><subtitle type='html'>Tip of the hat. &lt;br&gt;Sip of the tea. &lt;br&gt;Toot of the wistle. &lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;Enjoy.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>17</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-6438932347626923537</id><published>2008-03-09T15:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-03-09T15:35:49.507-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Ants Transitive Property</title><content type='html'>"What is toast?" That is how I started out the conversation. He didn't quite get what I was saying, so I moved it onto something else. I asked him, "What if people see colors differently? What if my blue was your green, only you called blue what I would see as green because you were told that that specific color is called blue? What if we all have the same favorite color but we call it different names because of what it was labeled for us?" To this he simply replied, "But we wouldn't be unique."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So there you have it. We cannot all be the same - we are not all toast.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A =/= B&lt;br /&gt;B =/= C&lt;br /&gt;A =/= C&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Otherwise where would our unique-ness lie?&lt;br /&gt;If we were not unique, we would just be ants.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So what would be the point in looking so deeply into these kinds of questions?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-6438932347626923537?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/6438932347626923537/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=6438932347626923537' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/6438932347626923537'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/6438932347626923537'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2008/03/ants-transitive-property.html' title='The Ants Transitive Property'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-7045132718655763145</id><published>2008-02-14T22:04:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-14T23:00:24.482-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Life Within the Fiction</title><content type='html'>They say the best actors are the ones who can become the role they play. So wouldn't that mean an actor is inseparable from his role? If the actor disagrees with the role he plays, he's not going to do a very good job at acting it, so he wouldn't get the part. Therefore I say that there has to be some connection between the actor and his role. It might not be that the actor is in agreement with the lifestyle of the character he plays, but that he promotes the overall message of the film. For there to be films about a serial killer, an actor has to play the part of the criminal. That doesn't mean the actor is a serial killer himself, or that he thinks mass murder is okay, but the opposite. The film would be about the serial killer getting caught and punished for his crime, so the actor would be in agreement with stopping serial killers. Nonetheless, you cannot act objectively in a film because no one is completely objective, and you cannot be a great or successful actor in a role against your own moral values.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-7045132718655763145?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/7045132718655763145/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=7045132718655763145' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/7045132718655763145'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/7045132718655763145'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2008/02/life-within-fiction.html' title='Life Within the Fiction'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-3372569695276511998</id><published>2008-02-12T14:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-12T14:53:59.662-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Peter Pan Syndrome</title><content type='html'>It seems the type of interaction the narrator has with the darkness is an avoidance of it. She (I'm assuming it is a she) isn't in complete darkness because the moon is shining through the window, she doesn't reply to the ink-colored seals, and she's on the edge of darkness. Also, the last line, "Night rests like a ball of fur on my tongue," seems to imply that she hasn't accepted it yet - something is on the edge of your tongue before you eat it. In light of the poem being about adolescence, I would come to the conclusion that the darkness is adulthood (darkness perhaps because it is unknown and intimidating). She's afraid of growing up and becoming an adult so she shies away from it. The thing is, however, that she cannot avoid it. The seals will come back.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-3372569695276511998?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/3372569695276511998/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=3372569695276511998' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/3372569695276511998'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/3372569695276511998'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2008/02/peter-pan-syndrome.html' title='Peter Pan Syndrome'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-5121237828588779235</id><published>2008-02-07T14:38:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-07T14:56:54.321-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Futility</title><content type='html'>The moment a word leaves our lips it is subject to deconstruction and subjective meaning. For example, in &lt;em&gt;Oryx and Crake&lt;/em&gt; by Margaret Atwood, a snowman attempts to put meaning to the word "toast", but ultimately comes to the conclusion that "toast cannot be explained by any rational means." The way we describe what a word, object, or idea is by using other words/objects/ideas. There is no absolute meaning we can boil a word down to other than "thing", which is no description at all. After a failed attempt at describing the word toast, the snowman muses that toast is "a pointless invention from the Dark Ages" or "an implement of torture." The conclusion he reaches is that toast - or any other word for that matter - is exactly what you want it to be. Toast is different for each person according to his/her subjective knowledge of it. We can never know what a word/object/idea truly means because there is no original word/object/idea we can relate it to and derive its meaning from.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Oryx and Crake&lt;/em&gt; by Margaret Atwood&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-5121237828588779235?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/5121237828588779235/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=5121237828588779235' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/5121237828588779235'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/5121237828588779235'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2008/02/futility.html' title='Futility'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-3155206677307239831</id><published>2008-01-29T22:30:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-29T23:05:31.779-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Danger of IF</title><content type='html'>Hyperreality is everywhere; the clothes we wear, the food we eat, and the air we breathe. "Hyperreality no longer exists just in our heads; it is being force-fed to us nearly every time we leave our homes." Fantasy and reality has become so meshed that it is exceedingly difficult to distinguish between them. The signifiers gave the signified, but the signifiers were never real to begin with. Now the signifiers are taken away and we are left with the signified - but it isn't reality. It is this that has society "cocooned in hyperreality." We are stuck with false signifieds about what normal is. With a false sense of reality we live in expectation of fantasy, only to be disappointed. That is the danger of hyperreality.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-hyperreality.htm&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;EXPANSION&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;IFs are a dangerous subject. It is with IFs that I dig myself into a hole of hyperreality. I start fantasizing about possible situations, wondering how things would be IF this were that or IF that were this. The problem is that the most significant part, the word "IF", gets forgotten and the possibility becomes my reality. I can no longer see the difference between the fantasy or the reality.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-3155206677307239831?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/3155206677307239831/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=3155206677307239831' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/3155206677307239831'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/3155206677307239831'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2008/01/danger-of-if.html' title='The Danger of IF'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-1324900847068854321</id><published>2008-01-27T21:24:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-27T21:49:14.831-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Boxed Within an Eighth-Grade Paragraph</title><content type='html'>Relationships in this age of media are run by a sense of hyperreality. "The term hyperreality characterizes the inability of consciousness to distinguish reality from fantasy, especially in technologically advanced postmodern cultures." The media, such as movies, music, celebrities, etc., give a false sense of reality and deceive viewers/listeners into believing it's fantasy. When faced with the real world, Americans are at a loss because what they bought into as reality was in fact very different from what is actually real. Also, "hyperreality tricks consciousness into detaching from any real emotional engagement, instead opting for artificial simulation, and endless reproductions of fundamentally empty appearance." It is a lot like picturing the world like an ant colony, where humans walk around repeating the same tendencies and habits over and over, never breaking away from what the media shows you to do. In hyperreality we lose sight of what is real, sort of reliving the romantic era rather than the realist. The world does not end happily ever after as Disney movies would lead us to believe.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;http://www.reference.com/browse/wiki/Hyperreality&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-1324900847068854321?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/1324900847068854321/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=1324900847068854321' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/1324900847068854321'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/1324900847068854321'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2008/01/boxed-within-eighth-grade-paragraph.html' title='Boxed Within an Eighth-Grade Paragraph'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-8248591801811647030</id><published>2008-01-21T12:26:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-21T12:40:48.382-08:00</updated><title type='text'>1 Cross + 3 Nails = 4 Given</title><content type='html'>As Christians we don't celebrate disorder. We are aware of man's depravity and our stomachs churn at the thought of it. We see the downfall of humanity. We see sin in every aspect of the world. We don't celebrate the disorder. We do the opposite.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sin is disgusting. Why should we celebrate it? We want to get as far away from it as possible. But sin is rooted so deeply within us, so how can we do this? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;God has already done it for us. As Christians we celebrate not disorder, but the order that comes from God. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;We celebrate &lt;strong&gt;life&lt;/strong&gt;.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;God has given us life and that is what we praise Him for.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So what do we do with that? In this world that celebrates disorder Christians must be a light to shine amongst the sinners. We must show them the saving grace of Christ and the joy we find in His life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The only difference between the rest of the world and ourselves is that we are forgiven. Let's live joy filled lives as a testimony to Christ. Let's make them wonder what it is we have that they don't. Let's share with them what &lt;em&gt;life&lt;/em&gt; is like.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Let's make a difference in this world.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-8248591801811647030?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/8248591801811647030/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=8248591801811647030' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/8248591801811647030'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/8248591801811647030'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2008/01/1-cross-3-nails-4-given.html' title='1 Cross + 3 Nails = 4 Given'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-6377615393447348476</id><published>2008-01-12T20:14:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-13T15:18:47.875-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Shipmates, Shipless, Shipmateless?</title><content type='html'>I liked the comment that Rosencranz and Gildenstern had no destination. It seems so fitting for characters who have no purpose to die without getting anywhere.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;They have no destination.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They are given a purpose, but they die without ever fulfilling it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Their existence is meaningless. They accomplished &lt;em&gt;nothing&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They got nowhere, they did nothing, they were nobody.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Another thing: Rosencranz/Gildenstern said "we went wrong by getting on a boat", but they had no choice - they were suddenly on the boat, put there without any say in the matter. It's like their existence; they didn't get to choose when or why they existed, they were just put into existence. Then, they die without reaching their destination.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The movie is called &lt;em&gt;Rosencranz and Gildenstern are Dead&lt;/em&gt;. However, it's only true at the end of the movie (that they are physically dead). So why not call it "Rosencranz and Gildenstern Die", as in it's something that the rest of the movie leads up to?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Does that mean they were dead throughout the entire movie? They never lived at all? Life without purpose is no life at all?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Rosencranz and Gildenstern &lt;strong&gt;are Dead&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-6377615393447348476?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/6377615393447348476/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=6377615393447348476' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/6377615393447348476'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/6377615393447348476'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2008/01/i-liked-comment-that-rosencranz-and.html' title='Shipmates, Shipless, Shipmateless?'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-5289593503737563425</id><published>2008-01-11T22:13:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-11T22:29:21.492-08:00</updated><title type='text'>De-antified</title><content type='html'>You know those times when you're walking around in the store and you see someone you know, but instead of greeting them you pretend like you don't see them? And it's not necessarily because you don't like that person or anything, you're just not used to seeing them outside of the normal context you've always known them in. It's almost like you are afraid to let them see you in a different light, like you're a completely different person.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I never greet people that I happen across unless I am particular friends with them. It probably has to do with my shyness, but also just a fear of the unexpected and foreign. If by chance they notice me and call out to me, I'll of course stop and go through the pleasantries before we part ways again, but it always seems so unreal plastic, trapped inside of a little box labeled formality.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I ventured out yesterday. I went the store to buy a few groceries, and on my way in I noticed that one of the employees was someone I knew from youth group. At fist I did was I normally did: pretend I didn't see him and kept on walking. But then, perhaps merely prompted by this very assignment, I took the next opportunity I had to greet him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It wasn't awkward like I thought it would be. We asked each other the same sort of questions you would anytime you ran into someone randomly, but this time it wasn't just for the sake of being polite. It was a genuine conversation, not one that ran just skin-deep.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We still aren't that great of friends and we don't see each other often, but now I feel like there's more of a potential friendship than there was before. Perhaps this will encourage me to do the same with anyone else I come across in the future.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-5289593503737563425?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/5289593503737563425/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=5289593503737563425' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/5289593503737563425'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/5289593503737563425'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2008/01/de-antified.html' title='De-antified'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-8187359595300094907</id><published>2008-01-08T22:24:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-08T22:29:23.214-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Counter-repoductiveness</title><content type='html'>Questions want answers.&lt;br /&gt;Questions require thinking.&lt;br /&gt;Questions grow intelligence.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But all Rosencranz and Gildenstern do is answer a question with another question.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is no answer.&lt;br /&gt;There is no thinking?&lt;br /&gt;There is no intelligence??&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;They are simply sponges?&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The only existed because they have a purpose.&lt;br /&gt;Is their purpose now lost?&lt;br /&gt;Do they still exist?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Does this even make any sense???&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-8187359595300094907?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/8187359595300094907/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=8187359595300094907' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/8187359595300094907'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/8187359595300094907'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2008/01/counter-repoductiveness.html' title='Counter-repoductiveness'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-6199417725206455199</id><published>2008-01-03T16:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-03T16:08:42.198-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Subject to the Will of the Service</title><content type='html'>I can certainly say Hamlet is not sorry to see Rosencranz and Gildenstern sent to their deaths. Horatio, on the other hand, does seem a bit surprised at Hamlet's dismissal of their significance, leading me to believe that Horatio is in fact sad to see Rosencranz and Gildenstern killed by their idiocy and sponge-ness. Perhaps he feels sorry for them, or maybe he's simply a genuinely caring person. But I do believe he is sad about their fate. Hamlet's need to excuse himself from his cruelty proves Horatio's disapproval. But Hamlet is in charge, so what he says goes. Horatio can't do anything about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-6199417725206455199?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/6199417725206455199/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=6199417725206455199' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/6199417725206455199'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/6199417725206455199'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2008/01/i-can-certainly-say-hamlet-is-not-sorry.html' title='Subject to the Will of the Service'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-7208045145026876080</id><published>2007-12-10T12:56:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-10T13:09:26.274-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Fear</title><content type='html'>I'm going out on a whim here, but this is how I interpreted &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's about the gossips, the unoriginal, the box, the drab, the same ole same ole. He sees this society where we worry about day to day things that don't matter. He sees the uniformity. The lack of adventure. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He wants to break free.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He wants to speak out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But he's afraid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Slowly, a random line sticks out. More and more: it becomes more frequent. It loses structure. He experiments.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's afraid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He returns to structure. He pokes at breaking it here and there. He goes back.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's afraid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A journey through life, afraid. He grows old. He follows the structure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;He dies.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;It's the end.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-7208045145026876080?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/7208045145026876080/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=7208045145026876080' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/7208045145026876080'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/7208045145026876080'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2007/12/fear.html' title='Fear'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-3770787451291787858</id><published>2007-12-05T15:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-05T15:39:34.481-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Identity Crisis</title><content type='html'>First off, Ophelia is mad. Anything she says could just be insane ravings. That said, I'm not quite sure what she means. It's kind of like Hamlet's "I loved you once; I loved you not" thing. It's just a contradiction of a madman (madwoman).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then again, she could be saying a sort of "We know we are human, but we know not what human is" kind of thing. It could be a jab at immorality, lies, murder, etc.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or she could just be mad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm biased, I know =P&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-3770787451291787858?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/3770787451291787858/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=3770787451291787858' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/3770787451291787858'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/3770787451291787858'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2007/12/identity-crisis.html' title='Identity Crisis'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-8586720472196240136</id><published>2007-12-03T14:38:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-03T19:25:23.204-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Screen or Paper?</title><content type='html'>I personally perfer the book, but that's only because my attention span for the movie is severely limited. The movie, however, puts an image to the book, so it helps in understanding the book better. Yet, I can't stand it when movies deviate from the book they are based off of, and the movie is starting to do that. That aside, the movie does a pretty good job at displaying emotion, but I'm wondering if it's only the way the director sees it. If that is the case, it might not be the way Shakespeare intended it. So overall, I generally perfer the book over the movie because then while I am reading I am fully aware the way I interpret it could be completely wrong.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As far as comparing how the movie captures the characters to how I see them, the movie is pretty different. But then both views could be VERY different from how Shakespeare wanted it to be. So I guess the only way to know which way is right is to go back in time and see the play for myself. Now THAT would be cool.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If only we could. Oh well.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-8586720472196240136?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/8586720472196240136/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=8586720472196240136' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/8586720472196240136'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/8586720472196240136'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2007/12/screen-or-paper.html' title='Screen or Paper?'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-4096438619743220725</id><published>2007-11-29T21:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-29T21:23:22.814-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Facade</title><content type='html'>Art is a form of expression. It comes from your response to the things around you, whether it from be ideas, nature, people, etc. So what better way to describe art as a mirror you hold up to society? When you look in a mirror, you see things the way you want to see them - you see yourself based off of your preconceived ideas about who you are, not as others view you. It's the same with art. When a person creates art, he/she are expressing the way they see the world. Holding a mirror to society is the perfect analogy for it. If a person sees something wrong with society, he/she will focus on it, either to simply expose it for what it is, or perhaps to show how the world would be a "better place" without the problem. It goes hand in hand with the artist's worldview. No person can be completely subjective: bias always weasels its in way and manifests itself in any art form, be it paintings, plays, movies, newspaper articles, writing in general, &lt;em&gt;everything&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So yes, I agree with Hamlet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-4096438619743220725?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/4096438619743220725/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=4096438619743220725' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/4096438619743220725'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/4096438619743220725'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2007/11/art-is-form-of-expression.html' title='Facade'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-440244319545752174</id><published>2007-11-28T19:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-28T19:49:34.717-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Conspiracy Theory?</title><content type='html'>As far as Claudius is concerned, Hamlet is catching onto &lt;em&gt;something&lt;/em&gt;. He's a little too &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;antsy&lt;/span&gt; about Hamlet's madness and doesn't accept an answer so simple a Gertrude's "It's just his father's death and our over hasty marriage." If I was a usurper hiding a murder I &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;committed&lt;/span&gt;, I would be very very paranoid about anyone catching any sort of remote idea that I killed someone. Therefore, If I saw the son of that person going mad I would naturally be &lt;em&gt;just a little&lt;/em&gt; concerned. Claudius is acting just like a kid who knows he's done something wrong and tries to hide it, but is so bouncy and obvious about it's easy to see they are hiding something. The fact that he's so occupied with Hamlet's madness shows he's worried about it, and I don't think it's because he's genuinely concerned for his nephew. So yes, Claudius is starting to think Hamlet is figuring it out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-440244319545752174?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/440244319545752174/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=440244319545752174' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/440244319545752174'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/440244319545752174'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2007/11/as-far-as-claudius-is-concerned-hamlet.html' title='Conspiracy Theory?'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3303120625125628582.post-7351215670297445744</id><published>2007-11-27T20:22:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-28T19:50:20.543-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Is It All Just an Act?</title><content type='html'>I believe that if Hamlet did love Ophelia, he &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;doesn't&lt;/span&gt; anymore. He's manipulating &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Polonius&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; (possibly just for fun out of his &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;madness&lt;/span&gt;) by taunting him with showing affection for Ophelia, but doesn't really care for her. He thinks she is frail, as all women are, and basically calls her a whore ("Get thee to a nunnery."). He calls &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;Polonius&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; a "fishmonger", alluding to him as a "pimp" selling away his daughter. He then tells &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Polonius&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; that if he lets his daughter out of his sight she will conceive. At first I saw this as Hamlet hinting that would be the one to make her conceive (whether or not that is what we intended, I don't really know). I don't believe this would be out of love, but just as a taunt to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;Polonius&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;. I think Hamlet knows that &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Polonius&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; believes Hamlet is mad out of love for Ophelia, and so Hamlet is toying with &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;Polonius&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;. Again, this could be just for fun, not actually part of his revenge plan. So at this point, I do not think Hamlet loves Ophelia.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;~Scribbles&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3303120625125628582-7351215670297445744?l=jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/feeds/7351215670297445744/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3303120625125628582&amp;postID=7351215670297445744' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/7351215670297445744'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3303120625125628582/posts/default/7351215670297445744'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://jillianscshamlet.blogspot.com/2007/11/to-love-or-not-to-love.html' title='Is It All Just an Act?'/><author><name>Scribbles</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10498841403478081277</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='22' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_fUtMF3VeSQE/SXq7imajALI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Q2dkJg8CgF0/s1600-R/i_stock_white_umbrella.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
