Sciurus vulgaris: The Tiny, Furrier Taliban

1600, Ramsey, Minnesota. Temperature: 12 degrees

"Whatcha doing Nomers?"

Said my pops as I frantically googled, typed, and plastered the computer monitor with stickies, "head and body up to 24 cm, tail up to 20 cm, weight up to 350 g..." I mumbled. Glasses sliding down my nose, without looking up, I furrowed my brow and with pen in my mouth replied, "researching the the enemy."

"Who's the enemy today?"

"Sciurus vulgaris. In layman's terms, the red squirrel." I replied motioning towards the attic door, "I'm putting together a dossier so we can better understand the enemy and possibly predict the tiny, furrier Taliban's next move."

"Ok, sweetie."

Ah, yes. Those little cheeto-tailed bastards have infiltrated our attic at Rancho De Myrick. Like gray hairs, where you pluck one, three more appear by noon the next day. Either that or the attic is like Marry Poppins handbag on steroids and Pantheism. Dad's attempted eradication of them is detailed in his blog, as well as the Xmas Letter... So I won't go there. Check your mailboxes soon.

Where I will go is to my vexation of people who actually go so far as to label rodents, more specifically squirrels, as "cute." My Dad says that they are cute when they're dead. I'd have to agree. In fact, after live trapping city-squirrels, typically the size of cats, in her flower garden, my Grandma Marge gives them free (and eternal) swimming lessons in her garbage can. Note: Squirrels don't swim well. Especially not in a cage, underwater.

In my research, I have discovered that those cute bushy-tailed friends of every Disney princess spend the majority of their days—up to 7 years, SEVEN years—eating and mating, and when they're not being glutenous, they spend endless time scratching, because they are generally covered in fleas. Bet you think fleas are cute, too. Also, a significant portion of the menu is their offspring. I'm not a cultural relativist, even when it comes to squirrels, so don't say that's, "nature." That is disgusting.

This is nature:

"Until the 1940s the red squirrel was quite widespread. It has now disappeared from large areas of Britain and its place has been taken by the grey squirrel. The larger grey squirrel was introduced to this country in the mid-19th century. Research has shown that grey squirrels put on a lot more body fat than red squirrels which gives them a better chance of surviving. The larger, more robust grey wins in the competition for food and space and it is now widespread in England and Wales. It is more adaptable than the red squirrel and lives happily in hedgerow trees, parks and gardens as well as large woods and forests. Grey squirrels also carry the squirrelpox virus, to which they are immune, but which is deadly to red squirrels." (http://www.ypte.org.uk/animal/squirrel-red-/177).

Ah, yes the grey squirrel. Darwin's little acorn brain-child. This is a great example of survival of the fittest. In my experience, red squirrels are unparalleled in viciousness, but this is mere overcompensation for what they lack in evolutionary engineering. I wonder if the "robustness" in grey squirrels translates into how they taste? Squirrel pot pie, anyone? Red squirrels are inferior and thus nasty. They're like a 12-year-old with a tricycle instead of a mountain bike. They haven't advanced. So what does England do for them? Well, exactly what the well-fare system in America does of course, puts them on the endangered species list. Seriously.

This is the best part, "Grey squirrels also carry the squirrelpox virus, to which they are immune, but which is deadly to red squirrels." Squirrels with bio-weapons. That's awesome. I can just hear them in their tiny English accented voices, probably cockney, "get away from me tree, ye red headed slut or I'll breath on ya!"


So, how many red squirells does it take to make a hat? I'll know by next week. Smile.

"We, uh, tore a roast apart with our bare hands"

I just ate steak and eggs with my hands. And the dishwasher is clean. I guess that makes me an official bachelor? I think I've been spending too much time with my pirate/cowboy friends. Hell, even when I don't spend actual time with them, just by vicinity I seem to absorb their habits. Example: I missed out on Man Day last week because I was typing a 15 pager (got an A, btw). When Tabuchi and Adams dropped by later that night, 2230, I asked how Man Day went.

"We, uh, tore apart and ate an entire roast with our bare hands. Seven course meal and we didn't even dirty a dish."

I'm both disgusted as well as proud. Kinda the same attitude I've adopted towards Adreniline Boy who, by the way, is now in my phone as such. Smiley face. I'm really very impressed and a tad bit proud of his ability to maintain a consistently high level of asshole-ishness. Not sure why I've even retained him as a contact.

Ex-roommie is in my phone as "The Ex-Wife," and her jealous-possessive ass boyfriend is in there as "The Ex Wife's Bf." Just about everyone has an alias. This is for fun, I guess, a passive-aggressive categorizing of the people in my life. My alias system also functions as anti-theft protection. I mean, even if a friend usurps my phone, like that one Tuesday night when Shoe had to change it back to english for me... even if that happens again, the usurper will surely be screwed. Good luck figuring out my system! I digress.

I say that a lot, "I digress." But I actually do. Subject change.

I checked my grades last night on a dare. I typically don't check them until the end of the next semester, which drives my more competitive friends absolutely nuts. Smile. Minus that whole failing statistics thing, I did surprisingly well.

Yesterday I had a professor walk up to me and tell me that my final paper was one of the best he's read. This was my Whitman essay entitled, "Antebellum, Postbellum and Cerebellum, Too."

"Whitman’s bad night did not consist of too much fortified wine nor did it consist of sushi from Tijuana, but instead his writing was poisoned by war. Brutality, dividedness and death became noxious to Whitman’s soul and thus his writing. The reason for the misanthropic transformation in Whitman’s antebellum writing was the Civil War and this is depicted in his post-bellum writing."

I actually had to re-read it last night to remind myself how the hell I tied all my ontological questioning and creative vomit together with a neat literary ribbon. Oh, it's good and I'm going to go ahead and thank wine and sleep deprivation.

My First Ex-Wife

SO, I haven't really slept in three days. I'm going to blame stress and the MAN Chili. This morning I "woke" up at the mansion. Yep. Even the mirrors refused to look at me. I lead an interesting and classy life. As you can tell from my previous post, the last 72 hours have been, well, just plain bad. No adrenaline rush for me. Sorry, I had to. Go ahead, chuckle.

Let's re-visit Tuesday morning. It began far too early, 0645, with ex-roomie's boyfriend, let's call him C, showing up from another city because I had a boy on the couch. We'll call him D. C threatened D. D was minding his own business sitting on the ex-couch working on his iBook. Ex-roomie refused to talk to D. As I facebook chatted with D from my bedroom to gather the details, it became painfully obvious that not only is C, an evil possessive tyrant, but my roommate planned on moving out and not telling me.

I must surmise, at least at this point, that my having a house guest, who had a penis, had something to do with this. Let me also say that I have never come home piss drunk or vomited in our toilet. Or anywhere else in the apartment/sidewalk etc. I'm a good roommate. I'm really clean and I smell terrific.

I hate this divorce thing. I have decided that, unlike my usual plan of having three husbands, I'm only going to have one. I don't want to get divorced. She owned the furniture AND the T.V. This sucks. She also left behind the get well card that I got her when she was really sick. That just hurts. How difficult would it have been to say, "hey, I'm moving out."


The really sick thing is that they never spoke a word to me and I was in the same room. The same room! Actually, after Adrenaline Boy ever so gently rejected me, I got home and walked in and most of the stuff had been removed. Then C walked out of the bed room, and smirked at me. Then he walked back into her room. Wow.

All because I let a boy stay on our couch so he wouldn't freeze to death? This must be that superior moral reasoning I hear so much about.

On the upside, I brought my desk and computer to the living room. What up home office.

Well, it'll be dinner time soon and I'm going to eat pizza on the living room floor like my gypsy ancestors. Or something. Thanks roomie, you're making a great ex-wife already.

Adrenaline Made Me Do It

In my 9+ years of dating, I've heard just about everything. I have quite the arsenal of excuses, "I don't like blondes," and "you're not Catholic" as well as "I hate the way your forehead wrinkles," and the classic "I'm too busy," let's not forget, "You voted for Bush," and last but not least, "you don't fit in to my 5 year plan." That last one has become somewhat of an inside joke amongst friends because it's happened to me three times. I must attract really finicky long-term goalers. Whatever.

The excuse as of late (yesterday, which never ended since I never went to bed) is a real dinger, and has already reached inside joke magnitude. Wait for it... "adrenaline made me do it." I mean at least he called me to tell me that he blamed his youthful horny indiscretion on the levels of a certain hormone in his blood. That's like me blaming vodka for dropping that thing in the toilet on 4th of July... never-mind that. My point is, that I chose to have vodka and as a result of my CHOICE, I dropped something in the toilet. He chose to tickle-kiss and then pounce on me. Then he chose to freeze me out after weeks of solid pursuing-type friendship. He made these choices. He led me on. Don't blame an adrenaline rush from watching the game. Your team didn't even win.

I'm really sore on excuses. I'd rather he just said, "you looked hot/smelled good, so I made out with you. Sorry." But, "adrenaline made me do it." Don't lie, bastard. Let me elaborate, adrenaline makes him, "make bad decisions," (making out with me) as well as, "do things I wouldn't normally do," (be a straight man) and, "I've had this problem for a long time," (tool) and change his personality, "that's just not me." It's not like you to make out with a hot blonde? Well, you have got issues. The "problem" that you have is the problem of being a womanizing ASS and a liar. I know, I know, I'm a little proud of him for being so creative, and I will probably use this line later in life, but, how do we go back to being friends when I know he is lying. I don't like people that lie.

Phone call Yesterday, 1500

"So I don't want to lead you on."
"Ok. I see. I should probably call off the Fatwa on your head then."
"What?"
"Nothing. So, that's it, adrenaline?"
"Yup."
"Ok. I'm going to go now."

He could have just said...."look, i don't want to lead you on anymore. the other night was fun, but maybe it's for the best if we don't do it again." That would've been acceptable. I knew the no good night kiss thing was a tip off. I hate being right.

There is a Campfire in My Mouth

Last night, I was invited to "Man Day." Man Day is a night where my guy friends get together to drink, eat and watch man movies. I felt quite honored to be the only girl invited. Then again, maybe this is why I don't have a boyfriend. Oh well. The cuisine was chili—not ordinary chili though, MAGICAL MAN chili.

Let me describe to you the entity that was the chili. This stuff could remove tar from your shoes. The meat to bean ratio was astounding. I had a mind altering experience, and that was befroe the gas. I only had one forkful, yeah all the spoons were dirty. It was like having a campfire in my mouth. And it tasted like it, too. I think I ingested fire. Me and my bowels are still recovering. I think the stuff actually caustically burned my mouth.

The movie was also noteworthy. You're not going to believe this, but we watched, "The Good, the bad and the Weird," which is the * Korean * version of, "The good, the bad and the Ugly." Yeah... As if the chili wasn't enough, I was actually coaxed into taking another forkful at one point, and it was better with rice. Rice made the movie better too. It made it feel more Asian. Whatever. No more Man Day for me, and not during finals week. Although, it was the most relaxed I've been in a while. I think that because it is so cold outside that my blood has turned to (chili) sludge and is slowly creeping through my veins. I digress.

In other news, I'm sick of living with a four-year old and her father/boyfriend figure. I had a house guest last night because he was locked out of a friends' house. And I wasn't going to let him freeze to death, so he slept on the couch. At about 0200 my roommate knocks on my door.

0200 Naomi's Doorway
"Yes?"
"There is a boy in our living room."
"I know I put him there."
"Has he been drinking?"
"Wh-no."
"Oh, ok."
"Good night."

0645 Living room.
ENTER roommates boyfriend—I haven't seen him since Sunday. Wait, today is Tuesday... yep. He lives in Butte, MT. which is a 4 hour drive on a good day. She called him because there is a guy on our couch. I re-iterate, I am sick of living with a four-yr. old. More on this later. I have to finish my play before my final at 1215.

Thumper, Soup and Subjectivism

I'm hungry but I don't want to get something to eat because my roommate and her (jealous-possessive-emotionally abusive) boyfriend are in the living room. I don't want to talk to them. As Thumper once said, "If you can't say anything nice, don't go into the living room and confront the people you can't say anything nice to," or something like that. It occurs to me that I must really not like him if he is getting in between me and, not only my coffee, but my soup. Ass. I think I have some tic-tacs in my purse...

It's been snowing all day, which is really odd for Billings, MT. We have about 45 minutes of daylight left, and then I am in for the night because ThundyToes rejects snow/ice. Good MN car. (Sarcasm sign).

I promised an update about my homework. Yesterday during lunch, I finished my Whitman essay. Here in an excerpt:

"If Walt Whitman’s antebellum poetry was some sort of pleasurable climax of prose, then his post-bellum scrawling represents the morning after nausea, confusion & cerebellum trauma. The cerebellum is the part of the brain that controls equilibrium. It is an integral part of the human existence. Whitman’s post-bellum writing is the perpetual hangover. Unfortunately, Whitman never regained his carefree, yet balanced self. Instead Whitman sank into the unstable mindset of suffering."

Literary analysis is not my forte'. I've decided that this is because literature is overwhelmingly subjective. I refuse to draw closure from wide-eyed subjectivism, nor do I relish taking one professor's "interpretation" of literature when lit is, again, more often than not subjective. Perhaps this is the bane of being a Platonist-moral Absolutist.

I often suspect that if I were a liberal, not only would college have been more enjoyable, but it also would have been easier. I guess I don't like things easy. I like the feeling of accomplishment and over coming challenges. Some say this makes me "too tightly wound" or 'difficult." Boo on them. I have fight, and I like it that way.

Experience the joy of quitting! Start smoking now!

Greg-alogue Part Deux

Antebellum, Post-bellum and Cerebellum, Too

SO, I'm taking a break from constructing my American Literature essay about Whitman... the title? "Antebellum, Post-bellum and Cerebellum, Too." I disagree with the last 600 words, but it's creative and praises the "universal ejaculation" of Whitman or... whatever. I don't really listen to professors who go off on illogical, immoral or cultural relativistic tangents. I intend to wear my "I survived college without becoming a liberal" shirt with pride. I digress.

I was in the library earlier, looking up quotes for my essay to juxtapose between creative vomit, when I noticed this guy join a group of what appear to be his female study pals. He asked a lot of questions for someone who is 5 days away from their final... actually he talked a lot. And very loudly, too. I was also listening to my ipod at the time. What, did you regress to kinder-garten? Inside voices, please.

In other news, today I was reminded about how I should focus on the blessings of my life instead of the possibility that I could be in hell. I'm going to try this. Starting with...I'm half-way done with the second to last paper I will ever have to write. OK. I have my basic necessities, loving family, check. Health, check. Car, check. Job, check. iMac, check. Talent, check. I'm fighting the urge to think, what is the usefulness of all of this if I don't have anyone to share it with. Nope. Just typed the thought. I guess, I'm lonely. I'm thankful for the ability to recognize what is wrong with me. Another essay update soon.

(How to) Create Your Own Hell

Once again the world has lulled me into a false sense of security and pulled the rug out from beneath me. It was short-lived, though, my sense of security, too short to forget what falling on my ass was like.

I seriously just considered the possibility that I could be in Hell. This is not just because it is "Dead Week." This morning I was reading Sarte's No Exit, an Existentialist play in which the characters make for an interesting & creepy case study.

They create their own hell, at least that is what I've interpreted thus far after, you know, the first 10 pages. Then I began having creepy thoughts. The characters seemed to demand hell. They ask about torture chambers etc.

But, the tricky thing about Hell is in the anticipation. A slow Hell is far more torturous than the expected. Which is probably why i've grown so accustomed to expecting the worse. No surprises that way. No deceivingly pleasant pink embers inevitably turning red. Like my wine and meat, I say give it to me red!

In the play, the characters torture each other and themselves (Man v. self much?). This is mostly accomplished by fixating on comforts that have been denied such as a toothbrush, mirror, or a means of suicide like the statue on the mantle. One character, Garcin, notices that he cannot blink and is forced to endure daylight at all hours, he never gets a break, though, I think that if he hadn't been so concerned with figuring out his torture, he might not have realized this.

Once the characters realize that all they can do is interact and endure their self-torture, the become stagnant. They are void of Hope. The absence of Hope is despair. By this, I suspect at least, that one cannot find Hope in Hell.

Fortunately, I still have Hope, though it is fading. The world—perpetually—lulls me into a false sense of security. I grow comfortable and hopeful. I walk through a peaceful field only to realize that as I stop to inhale the sweet air, that I stand not on grass, but on snakes. What an unstable surface! Nasty, too.

Then again, maybe this is my Hell after all.

Back in my St. Thomas days, I had a delightful Psych 101 professor interject "you can't trust anyone or anything in life. You must go on thinking that your heart will be broken," during his lecture about emotion.

The scariest realization of the day is that I've grown so used to Hell and torture that the goodness, happiness and joy in the world are now my new torture. Mostly because they can be stripped from me. And I'd rather expect their removal, than fear it. So my soul remains cold.

Gee, that's not supremacy

"I thought the point was to hate white women, like ourselves?" Said Anne, after we analyzed yet another black supremacy play in our 400 level Studies in Drama class.

After 30 minutes of discussing, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf is a 1975, which is a, in my mind beyond controversial, stage play/series of poems by Ntozake Shange, we began taking notes on Ms. Shanges' colorful (wait, is that racist?) people who "influenced" her writings. Included in this list are such famous black supremacists/marxists as Toussaint L'ouverture.

"That's all I'm taking away from this class. After all, only African American sympathetic plays can use the isms effectively, because they were oppressed..." I snarkily replied.

"And in my African American Literature class, we'll study more of Ntozake Shange... and her cohort who once said, 'culture is a weapon used to make ourselves stronger and keep the white man down... " Began the professor.

"I though this WAS African American literature. This class should be cross-listed under, "how to hate yo white-self." I mumbled. And then it happened. In my mind I saw the las straw sink into murky blue and something snapped. That's when I said, all too loudly, "gee that's not supremacy." This was followed by an uncomfortably long moment of awkward silence in which I died a little as knew I was about to embark in a one-man debate with a professor about the evils of considering a black supremacist as a role model.

"We all choose our role models, Naomi."

"Right. Sure. But choosing a 'role model' who advocates for more violence and the oppression of a culture is reprehensible."
"Some people find inspiration in different things."

"Right, but the essence of a role model is someone to whom one looks for guidance and considers an ethical entity in one's life. Black supremacy is just as dangerous as White supremacy the racism of the 1960s or slavery. I do not consider people like this to be good examples, or any examples of role models."

Anne mouthed "I agree." And the proff changed the subject. My analysis, which will be reflected in my essay portion of the final, is that this play can be summed up as the snaky author offering you a drink saying, "I'm a thrice suicidal black supremacist, but you can trust me. Indulge in my teachings."

No, thank you.

From the Bull's Ass to Legal Realism

Yesterday, I did some grade AA Large bullshitting about a play that I never read. I even helped a friend bullshit during the discussion—and she'd actually read the damn thing! Moments like these make me cocky, and my mentor Luke Skywalker warns against this in Return of the Jedi, "your overconfidence is your weakness," he says to the Emperor. Random thought: 'Jedi' is not in spell check. C'mon Microsoft, it's a cultural thing. But, thats how our country is now in the age of ethnic fetishization.

Though I may have bullshitted my way through an hour long discussion, I've read so many minority sympathetic literature lately, that it didn't take me or my zippo lighter very long to brighten up and grasp the concept of "social justice." In fact, I find myself coming to the same conclusions wether or not I do read the blasphemous Surrealism of Adrienne Kennedy, or simply listen to the liberal sponge classmates discuss it and observe their somber saunter out of the room. The conclusion to which I reach is that: there is a sickening gloomy glorification of minority struggles and it needs to effing stop.

Society teaches us that to be ethnic, is to be cool. Even if some of the"ethnic" sit on their bums smoking weed, collecting our tax money. I've known a few successful stoners in my life, but that's not the point. I've also known many successful ethnic people, but, to whom, I felt an unfair advantage was granted. What I mean is that the epitome of self-hate and reverse discrimination has been manifesting itself in media & entertainment for the last century and has now come full about.

The idea that an ethnic minority person can slide by and still receive credit in life—albeit undue—simply because of their ancestry, is sickening. In The American Crises, Thomas Paine wrote, "Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom, must, like men, undergo the fatigues of supporting it." We need to start supporting each other, not taking from each other. And no, in my mind, support does not equal well-fare. Paine also wrote that, "what we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly."

I know this topic has been blogged to death by now, but let's get to why I, Naomi Joy, am blogging about it. It all goes back to the play that I didn't read. Most of the recent readings in all of my English courses have had to do with blacks or indians. And if one presents a differing world view about these historical atrocities, they are shunned. (SHUUUNNED).

This is not to say that I'd argue in favor of slavery, or usurping the Black Hills for gold, but rather it is to say that perpetually punishing ourselves about it now, and giving into that seedy-noxious-Satan distributed guilt, isn't doing much for the complexion of America. To think, that the same evil which once aided in the justification of these historical atrocities, still holds water now, but in a different and more psychologically tiring way.

I once wrote that, "we must replace the divots of our lives," in a psychological prose piece about Golf and sanity. I wholeheartedly—vehemently—believe this to be true. I believe that we must keep fighting the good fight, because there are things worth fighting for, and NOT because we need to mend everything that has been done in the past. Would you, for example, mend the tattered gown your great grandmother was buried in? How? Or more importantly why? Why dig up these things we cannot now mend? I consider my self a legal-realist, that is to say, that the law is the law, but must be applied on a case by case basis. Tell me, in what case, where grievances must be doled out, would monetary compensation replace the life of, say, your brother? Unless he was a robot, none. Grievances do not mend. Money won't replace a loved one.

But stop, don't even go there, I'm not proposing that we "bury the past" either. This metaphor is concerned with grieving, or in so far as this social justice is concerned, grievances. We need to stop mourning, and start living.

The focus should be shifted to the celebration of cultures, not the slaughter of them. That being said, if I have to read one more isms play about the trials and tribulations of blacks or indians, I am going to start bringing whisky to class. New drinking game! Every-time a minority is oppressed or a surrealist author mocks Christianity, take a shot. I'm an empathetic and sympathetic person, but the gloomy glorification of minority/ethnic struggle has embittered me.

I Have A Theory

OK. I have a theory that in the next decade all of the men my age will be somehow involved and probably breed with the ever popular, perky, passive, moronic women, thus throwing the world as we know it into total tumult.


Don’t worry though, strong, ambitious, intelligent, Godly women like myself will be very well off and still control most of the civilized world. Though, let’s face it, those touristy-spring-break spots will be overrun with overly-tan-fake-blonde multiple divorcee reject soccer moms and their bastard children. We’ll let them have Vail, too. Inbreeding will ensue, then a plague, then World War... no, wait, I think the plague will be enough. Besides Syphilis makes people go blind, and sharks live in the ocean... I digress.


Why will me and my—albeit limited—kind be well off, you ask? Well, we’ll marry men twice or thrice our age. They’ll teach us investing skills, and leave us their estates, vineyards, orchards etc. In recent experiences, older men out-class and out-charm any guy my own age. Example: tonight at Jazz two kindly older gentlemen asked my friend and I if we would be, “obliged to let them buy us an after dinner drink.” We accepted. Then they asked us to join them. A Glenlivet and soda for me, and an Absolute cranberry for my friend and we were well into conversation.


This interaction was eons more civilized and productive than the creeper who ambled up to me at * insert dive bar here * last night.


EXIT FRIEND TO POWDER ROOM. ENTER CREEPER IN BARET’.

“So, umm, can I ask you how much you purses cost? Cause you know, like, some women will pay $1,000 for a purse.”

“No. I wouldn’t spend that much money on a purse.”

“That’s really all I have to say.”

“Ok.”

EXIT CREEPER.


Not only did he not offer to buy me a drink, but he also had nothing to say. It’s really difficult to tell someone off, and/or be witty when the guy can’t even formulate a conversational topic. Thus, I have a new policy, if a guy wants to talk to me, he can at least buy me a freaking well drink first. C’mon at least TRY to be charming, Neanderthal.


I’ve always liked old people and that is because of the stories and experiences they have, thus making them good, well-rounded and interesting people. They also still retain the class of the (gulp) 1940s. So what? Men my age think that they don’t have to try with women, much less charm them. They even go so far as to not get married, because of the commitment. Wouldn’t a childless marriage be less of a commitment than having several beach-bum-bastard children swarming around, pleading from their hick-toothed gins for another Shasta?


By the way, my successful female friends and I will control the alcohol flow in this country, well at least the beer and wine flow—vineyards and breweries. So remember that all of you 20 something jerks, when you roll over in the morning and tell your strange Chlamydia infested lover to get movin’ cause your second wife is on her way home from the tanning salon. Because wouldn't a beer be nice about now?


So 20 something guys, please take note and give more than your usual minimal effort to improve yourselves: 60 yr old men are more apt and able to have a conversation with me than any of you. This might be because I drink premium scotch and like jazz, but I also believe it’s because I have the mentality of the 1940s woman; to work hard and look good while doing it and above all to be strong. I wear my class in my eyes and keep my chin up. So look me in the eyes and keep YOUR chin up.

The End.

Damn you Judging preference

Well I had a good weekend but yet another weekend of this dialogue:

"I want to go dancing, but I'm effing tired." FF

"Well, effing go to bed and stop saying you wan to go out." Me

"Yeah we'll go tomorrow." FF

TOMORROW NIGHT at random dive bar.

Enter Naomi and non-flakey friend.

"Why doesn't anyone want to hang out with us, Naomi?" NFF

"I don't know. I just don't know." Me

I really don't know, actually. I think some people have an innate ineptness for planning and or follow through. My brother has encountered this with his friends, too. Maybe it's in the genes? Or the jeans? He was known as "Fancy Pants" in high school.

I digress.

I'm the designated planner in the group, yet no one seems to abide by the plans. I blame my Judging preference, INFJ. (MBTI). I like order and structure and predictability. Yes, I'm boring, but at least I get things done. No one seems to appreciate this, though. So, why continue to plan? I've decided that I'm going to try being spontaneous this week! Yeah! Lets see what INFP is like! Well, there goes logic. So what if I'm 3 hours late to the club and wonder why my friends are leaving. I mean, jeez, planning is so, like, um, adult and boring and restrictive. * SARCASM SIGN *

No more calling friends either. You want me, you can come GET me.

Disney Channel, scotch & friendship batter

My friends were invited to a lot of Halloween parties last night. I was not. Not a single one. I did receive one text invite which simply included an address and the word "come." By that time, (around 10:45 pm) I was well into a Disney channel movie and scotch and soda #2.

Around 11pm I received a string of texts from the happy-party-goers asking me if I was "out already." Let me see. Yes, I'm out! I'm sitting at Brew Pub alone, because that's safe and fun. (Sarcasm sign).

Refraining from a snarky retort, I waited half an hour to reply with the word, "No." Sometimes, being passive-aggressive is fun.

In my experience at Rocky Mountain Colle—Sanitarium, the idea of friendship has become more and more complicated for me. Since when is it acceptable for friends to be so Fascistic?"I'm inviting you and you, but not you, not to THIS party. But you should come over more often." Graduate from the 7th grade already. And why the hell do I want to be friends with these people? Because the pickings are slim out here.

I've also out grown being taken for granted and being a "marginal utility." I said that friendship has become complicated for me. I will also admit that I don't know which ingredients blend into solid friendship batter. I've just plain lost the recipe. I do, however, know that shit has no place in the mixing bowl. I am certain that friends are not employees and friendship should not be treated as a business. Now, I require more coffee and an epic Vikings game.

Graduation

I want this shirt.

Comfort /= Beauty

Um, I found this in my stats notes.

Reasons NOT to wear jammies/sweats to class (even if it is at 7:45 am).

1. Quite simply, unless you're sporting Juicy Couture, you look like shit. Please make your gender distinguishable.

2. By midterms, we ALL know who is in athletics, and who is not—no one likes a braggart. Let it go.*

3. You probably don't smell, but your sweats do,

4. You're going to gain weight, and there are enough fat people in America.

5. Sweatpants: the gateway lack of fashion drug.

6. "It's college!" Is not NOT an excuse. "Velociraptors ate my jeans, " or, "my dorm burned down last night thus leaving me in my jammies," are appropriate reasons to wear or attend class in sweatpants.

7. Wearing sweats to class is like wearing a shirt that says, "I'm lazy and care nothing of my professional future." Maybe that's so? If it is, quit taking up space in class.

8. Trying to prove that you're "comfortable" with your body? Prove it in jeans. Dress the bod appropriately.

9. Comfort/=beauty. More often than not, Pain=beauty.

10. You give our college a bad image and inadvertently raise tuition.


* You're on the college soccer team? Whoopdi-doo. What are you going to do when you're 40? You're not Bret Favre.

Life UPDATE

I can't get to the TV to watch the Vikings game because my roommate and her boyfriend are loosely watching some stupid ghost show while they do the dishes. Does he really have to visit EVERY other weekend?? :/ Co-dependent much?

I really really really need a journal. I thought it'd be "easier" to keep track of my life on a blog, but eh, I had xanga for 6 years and it fizzled out. Anywho, I'm kinda scared shitless at the moment because I just realized that I graduate from college in less than two months. I've also been enduring crushing waves of nostalgia. Thinking about the old days consumed much of my 5 hour library study plans yesterday. Damn. I know this is all normal, but I still don't like it.

You shampoo your arms, too?

Hello. My name is Naomi, and I have arm hair. Oh sure, it's blonde, and as soft as the underbelly of a goose, but it's still hair—and if I made that argument for my leg hair, you'd think I was nuts. Or German. I heard I was a little German, just not when it comes to my leg hair. Mostly it's the stubble I can't handle. It itches and hurts and sometimes I jolt awake in the middle of the night way too concerned that I've turned into Sandpaper-Woman or a dragon like in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I mean, I really thought God and I had already been through the "let me peel off your skin, " thing. But maybe I was wrong. Ok. So, I'm considering shaving my arm hair. I know. That's weird. And I shouldn't be blogging about it. It's just that I could save money on shampoo if I only had to wash my head hair.

Just sayin'.

Stick Person Caption Contest! #1

Please comment with captions.

Smoking Rant

This will probably piss some of you off. I don't care. I like smoking photographs, I find them sexy. And I like the smell of most tobacco products. Pipe tobacco is one of my favorite smells. That's right, I'm not on the "i hate people who smoke" bandwagon.
Imagine if you applied that attitude towards gay people or the like. You can't hate them for what—or who—they do and be PC so why hate people who smoke, if it's the activity you disagree with.
"I hate smoking, it is so gross!" Really. hmm. Have you tried it? Do you really think it's that gross if so many people do it? Sometimes it's nice to puff on something. (And no that wasn't a Puff the Magic Dragon reference. For those of you who know what I'm telling you I'm not insinuating).
And this whole public ban on smoking thing is one step closer to fascism* (thanks for the correction Chief Hunts in Robe). Let the people smoke if they want to! And don't give me that "but, Naomi, second hand smoke..." I don't care. No. Stop. Right now. That hasn't been proven.

The End.

Naomi's Very First Blog... after 6 years of Xanga that is...

Topics to be discussed this month:

All of the medication I have taken since November

Bunnies

"Group" work in college

Producing the College's literary journal

Paranoia, or prophecy?

Plato

Play-dough

Writing

How to creatively spell 

What does and does not constitute dinner

The art of veiled threats; modern subtly 

Aircraft

my boyfriend

Random (and stupid) things that I do or which happen to me during any given week

What ifs?

"Would you rather" questions

Minority groups; Natural Blondes

Complaint box—without explanations

Caption contest for my finger paintings/sketches/stick people 

Politics

The weather in south-central Montana

Why I hate Eastern Montana.

"Anywhere but here" ideas

Any random thoughts I have at 12:00-3:00 am