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Samurai Platypus' Journal
He glided out of the gathering dusk and seated himself at the other end of my bench and gazed absently across the lakes toward the Sherry Netherland. The setting sun had dribbled blood in the sky. Central Park was enjoying its eventide hush: there was only the rustle of leaves and grasses, the cooing of distant and
shadowy couples, the muted toot of a bus way over on Fifth.
When the bench quivered its announcement of company I had glanced along it expecting to find some derelict seeking a flop. The difference between the anticipated and the seen was such that I looked again, long, carefully, out one corner of my eye so that he wouldn’t notice.
Despite the gray half-tones of twilight, what I saw was a study in black and white. He had thin, sensitive features as white as his gloves and his shirt-front. His shoes and suit were not quite as black as his finely curved eyebrows and well-groomed hair. His eyes were blackest of all; that solid, supernatural darkness that can be no deeper or darker. Yet they were alive with an underlying glow.
He had no hat. A slender walking stick of ebony rested against his legs. A black silk-lined cloak hung from his shoulders. If he’d been doing it for the movies he couldn’t have presented a better picture of a distinguished foreigner.
My mind speculated about him the way minds do when momentarily they’ve nothing else to bother them. A European refugee, it decided. A great surgeon, or sculptor, or something like that. Perhaps a writer, or a painter. More likely the latter.
I stole another look at him. In the lowering light his pale profile was hawklike. The glow behind his eyes was strengthening with the dark. His cloak lent him majesty. The trees were stretching their arms toward him as if to give comfort through the long, long night.
No hint of suffering marked his face. It had nothing in common with the worn, lined faces I had seen in New York, features stamped forever with the brand of the Gestapo. On the contrary, it held a mixture of boldness and serenity. Impulsively I decided that he was a musician. I could imagine him conducting a choir of fifty thousand voices.
“I am fond of music,” he said in low, rich tones.
He turned to face me, revealed a pronounced peak in his hair.
“Really?” The unexpectedness of it had me muddled. “What sort?” I asked feebly.
“This.” He used his ebony stick to indicate the world at large. “The sigh of ending day.”
“Yes, it’s soothing,” I agreed.
We were silent awhile. Slowly the horizon soaked up the blood in the sky. A wan moon floated over the towers.
“You’re not a native of New York?” I prompted.
“No.” Resting long, slender hands on his stick, he gazed meditatively forward. “I am a displaced person.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” he said.
I couldn’t sit there and leave him flat like that. The choice was to continue or go. There was no need to go. I continued.
“Care to tell me about it?”
His head came round and he studied me as if only now aware of my presence. That weird light in his orbs could almost be felt. He smiled gradually, tolerantly, showing perfect teeth.
“I would be wasting your time.”
“Not at all. I’m wasting it anyway.”
Smiling again, he used his stick to draw unseeable circles in front of his black shoes.
“In these days it is an all too familiar story,” he said. “A leader became so blinded by his own glory that no longer could he perceive his own blunders. He developed delusions of grandeur, posed as the final arbiter on everything from birth to death, and thereby brought into being a movement for his overthrow. He created the seeds of his own destruction. It was inevitable in the circumstances.”
“You bet!” I supported wholeheartedly. “To hell with dictators!”
***
The stick slipped from his grasp. He picked it up, juggled it idly, resuming his circle drawing.
“The revolt didn’t succeed?” I suggested.
“No.” He looked at the circles as if he could see them. “It proved too weak and too early. It was crushed. Then came the purge.” His glowing eyes surveyed the sentinel trees. “I organized that opposition. I still think it was justified. But I dare not go back.”
“Fat lot you should care about that. You’ll fit in here like apple pie with your proud spirit.”
“I don’t think so. I’m not welcome here either.” His voice was deeper. “Not wanted - anywhere.”
“You don’t look like Trotsky to me,” I cracked. “Besides, he’s dead. Cheer up. Don’t be morbid. You’re in free country now.”
“No man is free until he’s beyond his enemy’s reach.” He glanced at me with an irritating touch of amusement. “When one’s foe has gained control of every channel of propaganda, uses them exclusively to present his own case and utterly suppress mine, and damns the truth in advance as the worst of lies, there is no hope for me.”
“That’s your European way of looking at things. I don’t blame you for it, but you’ve got to snap out of it. You’re in America now. We’ve free speech here. A man can say what he likes, write what he likes.”
“If only that were true.”
“It is true,” I asserted, my annoyance beginning to climb. “Here, you can call the Pope a hyphenated so-and-so if you want. Nobody can stop you, not even a cop. We’re free, like I told you.”
He stood up, towering amid embracing trees. From my sitting position his height seemed tremendous. The moon lit his face in pale ghastliness.
“Would that I had one-tenth of your comforting faith.”
With that, he turned away. His cape swung behind him, billowing in the night breeze until it resembled mighty wings.
“My name,” he murmured softly, “is Lucifer.”
After that, there was only the whisper of the wind.
Current mood:
creative.Current music: Pantera - Cemetary Gates.
The Jordans never spoke of the exam. Not until their son, Dickie, was twelve years old. It was on his birthday that Mrs. Jordan first mentioned the subject in his presence, and the anxious manner of her speech caused her husband to answer sharply.
“Forget about it,” he said. “He’ll do all right.”
They were at the breakfast table, and the boy looked up from his plate curiously. He was an alert-eyed youngster, with flat blond hair and a quick, nervous manner. He didn’t understand what the sudden tension was about, but he did know that today was his birthday, and he wanted harmony above all. Somewhere in that little apartment there were wrapped and beribboned packages waiting to be opened, and in the tiny wall-kitchen, something warm and sweet was being prepared in the automatic stove. He wanted the day to be happy, and the moistness of his mother’s eyes, the scowl on his father’s face, spoiled the mood of fluttering expectation with which he had greeted the morning.
“What exam?” he asked.
His mother looked at the tablecloth. “It’s just a sort of government intelligence test they give children when they turn twelve. You’ll be getting it next week. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“You mean a test like in school?”
“Something like that,” his father said, getting up from the table. “Go read your comic books, Dickie.”
The boy rose and wandered toward that part of the living room which had been “his” corner since infancy. He fingered the top-most comic of the stack, but seemed uninterested in the colorful squares of fast-paced action. He wandered toward the window, and peered gloomily at the veil of mist that shrouded the glass.
“Why did it have to rain today?” he said. “Why couldn’t it rain tomorrow?”
His father, now slumped into an armchair with the government-approved newspaper, rattled the sheets in vexation. “Because it just did, that’s all. Rain makes the grass grow.”
“Why, Dad?”
“Because it does, that’s all.”
Dickie puckered his brow. “What makes it green, though? The grass?”
“Nobody knows,” his father snapped, then immediately regretted his abruptness.
Later in the day, it was birthday time again. His mother beamed as she handed over the gaily-colored packages, and even his father managed a grin and a rumple-of-the-hair. He kissed his mother and shook hands gravely with his father. Then the birthday cake was brought forth, and the ceremonies concluded.
An hour later, seated by the window, Dickie watched the sun force its way between the clouds.
“Dad,” he said, “how far away is the sun?”
“Five thousand miles,” his father said.
***
Dickie sat at the breakfast table and again saw moisture in his mother’s eyes. He didn’t connect her tears with the exam until his father suddenly brought the subject to light again.
“Well, Dickie,” he said, with a manly frown, “you’ve got an appointment today.”
“I know, Dad. I hope-”
“There’s nothing to worry about. Thousands of children take the test every day. The government wants to know how smart you are, Dickie. That’s all there is to it.”
“I get good grades in school,” he said hesitantly.
“This is different. This is a...special kind of test. They give you this stuff to drink, you see, and then you go into a room where there’s a sort of machine -”
“What stuff to drink?” Dickie asked.
“It’s nothing. It tastes like peppermint. It’s just to make sure you answer the questions truthfully. Not that they think you won’t tell the truth, but this stuff makes sure.”
Dickie’s face showed puzzlement, and a touch of fright. He looked at his mother, and she composed her face into a misty smile.
“Everything will be fine,” she said.
“Of course it will,” his father agreed. “You’re a good boy, Dickie. You’ll make out just fine. Then we’ll come home and celebrate. All right?”
“Yes, sir,” Dickie said.
***
They entered the Government Educational Building fifteen minutes before the appointed hour. They crossed the marble floors of the great pillared lobby, passed beneath an archway and entered an elevator that brought them to the fourth floor.
There was a young man wearing an insignia-less uniform, seated at a polished desk in front of Room 404. He held a clipboard in his hand, and he checked the list down to the Js and permitted the Jordans to enter.
The room was as cold and official as a courtroom, with long benches flanking metal tables. There were several fathers and sons already there, and a thin-lipped woman with cropped black hair was passing out sheets of paper.
Mr. Jordan filled out the form and returned it to the clerk. Then he told Dickie: “It won’t be long now. When they call your name, you just go through the doorway at the end of the room.” He indicated the portal with his finger.
A concealed loudspeaker crackled and called off the first name. Dickie saw a boy leave his father’s side reluctantly and walk slowly toward the door.
At five minutes of eleven, they called the name of Jordan.
“Good luck, son,” his father said, without looking at him. “I’ll call for you when the test is over.”
Dickie walked to the door and turned the knob. The room inside was dim, and he could barely make out the features of the gray-suited man who greeted him.
“Sit down,” the man said softly. He indicated a high-stool beside his desk. “Your name is Richard Jordan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your classification number is 600-115. Drink this, Richard.”
He lifted a plastic cup from the desk and handed it to the boy. The liquid inside had the consistency of buttermilk, and tasted only vaguely of the promised peppermint. Dickie downed it, and handed the man the empty cup.
He sat in silence, feeling drowsy, while the man wrote busily on a sheet of paper. Then the attendant looked at his watch, and rose to stand only inches from Dickie’s face. He unclipped a pen-like object from the pocket of his suit, and flashed a tiny light into the boy’s eyes.
“All right,” he said. “Come with me, Richard.”
He led Dickie to the end of the room, where a single wooden armchair faced a multi-dialed computing machine. There was a microphone on the left arm of the chair, and when the boy sat down, he found its pinpoint head conveniently at his mouth.
“Now just relax, Richard. You’ll be asked some questions, and you think them over carefully. Then give your answers into the microphone. The machine will take care of the rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll leave you alone now. Whenever you want to start, just say ‘ready’ into the microphone.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man squeezed his shoulder, and left.
Dickie said: “Ready.”
Lights appeared on the machine, and a mechanism on the inside whirred. A voice said:
“Complete this sequence: one, four, seven, ten...”
***
Mr. and Mrs. Jordan were in the living room, not speaking. Not even speculating.
It was almost four o’ clock when the telephone rang. The woman tried to reach it first, but her husband was quicker.
“Mr. Jordan?”
The voice was clipped; a brisk, official voice.
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is the Government Educational Service. Your son, Richard M. Jordan, Classification 600-115, has completed the government examination. We regret to inform you that his intelligence quotient has exceeded the government regulation, according to Rule 84, Section 5, of the New Code.”
Across the room, the woman cried out, knowing nothing except the emotion she read on her husband’s face.
“You may specify by telephone,” the voice droned on, “whether you wish his body interred by the government, or would you prefer a private burial place? The fee for government burial is ten dollars.”
Current mood:
bored.Current music: Pink Floyd - Echoes.
I know I sound like a total idiot-fuck when I say this, but...
...I got my first full tank of gas today.
Bwahahahahaha!
I own you all.
Bwahahahahaha!
I almost hit a school bus.
Bwahahahahahaohhhhhh...
Yeah. Um...I'll stop now. Heh. Later!
Current mood:
happy.Current music: "Full Tank o' Unleaded" - some guy.
Soooo...to get insured on my car is going to cost something like $350 a month. That is, IF the idiots find me at fault at the accident. Since this can't possibly happen, because there's no way I was at fault (the guy ran a stop sign...duuuuh...), I can only wonder why they gave us that quote. If I'm NOT at fault, it'll be about $275. Because it's considered a sports car. Bastards.
I'm still gonna get it though. Fuck 'em.
Current mood:
intimidated.
Well, perhaps I should explain myself. Mostly for those that are upset when I say I'm an atheist. I'm not doing this to offend, just...to explain.
I would go so far to say I am a "radical atheist", but I use the term 'radical' very loosely. Just for emphasis. You use the term atheist by itself, and people will say, "don't you mean agnostic?" I have to reply that I really do mean atheist. I really do not believe that there is a god - in fact, I am convinced that there is not a god (a subtle difference). I see not one shred of evidence that there is one. It's easier to say that I am a radical atheist, just to signal that I mean it, have thought about it a great deal, and that it is an opinion I hold seriously.
Some people will then often say, "but surely it's better to remain agnostic, just in case?" This, to me, suggests such a level of silliness that I usually edge out of the conversation rather than get sucked into it. (If it turns out that I've been wrong all along, and there is in fact a god, and if it further turned out that this kind of legalistic, cross-your-fingers, hair splitting worship impressed him, I think I would chose not to worship him anyway.)
Other people will ask how I can possibly claim to know. Isn't belief-that-there-is-not-a-god as irrational, arrogant, etc, as belief-that-there-is-a-god? To which I say no for several reasons. First of all, I don't really think that belief has anything to do with it. I believe or don't believe my thirteen-year old sister when she tells me that she did the dishes. I believe in justice and fair play (though I don't know how to acheive them...). I believe that England should enter the Euro. I am not remotely enough of an economist to to argue the issue vigorously with someone who is, but what little I do know, reinforced with a hefty dollop of gut feeling, tells me that it's the right course. I could easily turn out to be wrong, and I know that. But anyways, these seem to be legitimate uses of the word believe. As a carapce for the preotection of irrational notions from legitimate questions, however, I think that word has a lot of mischief to answer for. So, I do not believe-that-there-is-no-god. I am, however, convinced that there is no god, which is totally different and takes me to point number two.
I do not accept the currently fashionable assertaion that any view is automatically as worthy of respect as any equal and opposite view. My view is that the moon is made of rock. If someone says to me, "well, you haven't been there, have you? You haven't seen it for yourself, so my view that it is made of cheese is equally valid" - then I can't even be bothered to argue. There is such a thing as the burden of proof. In the case of god and the composition of the moon, this has shifted radically. God used to be the best explanation we'd got, and we've now got vastly better ones. God is no longer an explanation of anything, but has instead become something that would itself need an insurmountable amont of explaining. SO I don't think that being convinced there is a god is as irrational or arrogant a point of view as belief that there is. I don't think the matter calls for evenhandedness at all.
Hope that explains it.
Current mood:
calm.Current music: "Gunsmoke" in the background. Dad's got the TV. ::groan::.
Chickens. Awkward, bedraggled, and jerky. When it comes to being legitimately considered a bird they just barely make the cut. Our good friend Mr. Dictionary tells us that a 'bird' is any warm blooded, egg-laying, feathered animal. There's no argument that chickens have feathers and lay eggs... but how can they possibly be labeled as warm-blooded? Have the writers of these definitions ever watched chickens interact? No my friends, chickens are cold-blooded and emotionless.
Indeed, cannibalistic in nature, these beady-eyed bullies have a hateful and vicious attitude to life. Perhaps they feel that by lunging and diving at one another so spitefully they will somehow punish the gods for creating them a chicken. Maybe violence is their way of coping, or maybe they are oblivious to the fact that this behavior is no way to make friends.
The ritual "Nipping-of-the-New-Guy" ceremony is a survival mechanism used by the chickens to break the spirit and will of any new arrivals to the chicken community. By repeatedly attacking the young new-comers, the older and stronger chickens ban together, thus establishing their leadership. This boosts the self-esteem of the Head Hens and makes them feel better (temporarily) about being so very stupid, ugly and useless. Unfortunately, these habits gradually desensitize them, and the chickens become jaded and emotionally stumped.
You might argue that it's just natural behavior for a creature with a brain smaller than a walnut. What else can you expect from an animal whose only use is excreting high-protein breakfast goods, which also make decorative Faberge ornaments. (Eggs also provide a lovely alternative to T.P. during delinquencies and hooligan expeditions). Back to the chickens. many believe they are just simple-minded and have no ulterior motives behind such actions. Well, I'll give you that... they are stupid. Ridiculously stupid, and yet, perversely shrew when it comes to perplexing the human mind.
After all, one simple-minded chicken was observed by two farmers crossing a road for absolutely no reason. "Hey, why'd that chicken cross the road?", asked one to the other. Coming upon no conclusion, they parted and went home to ask the family. His children, now curious as well, take the question to school and his wife brings to query to work the next day. Soon enough the entire human race is asking, "Why DID the chicken cross the road?". It became theological "if a tree falls..." type-question, echoing throughout centuries but remaining unanswered.
Knowing they were the ones holding the answer to the ultimate question, their bodies experienced a rise in endorphin production. The egos of the chickens became grossly inflated. Being a chicken was no longer considered a curse among the species. With this new found psychological freedom, the chickens also found amusement. There was blatant mockery of human beings and their fixation of chicken activities. It became humorous - even sportesque, to tease humans even in death by running around in a headless state. As expected, we humans played into their claws; we were horrified and amused, and once again, curiously troubled.
Of course just because the chickens found a new pastime - pitting themselves against human dignity - does not mean they stopped the rituals of the old days. They still devour each other with hate-filled vengeance. Still froth with bitterness at their mediocre calling and degrading liveliness. That is why I wrote this, as a warning. When the fittest of the species have naturally risen up and trampled the lesser farm birds, when they have fought and toiled their way to become 300 lb., fire-breathing and scaly, they WILL come after us.
US: that includes YOU.
Never trust a chicken. Never make direct eye contact. Never turn your back in an area with a high chicken population. Always travel with a buddy, and carry an axe. Tell someone where you are going and when you'll be back. But remember: if a chicken traps you, corners you, pounces on you.....fight. Fight to the bitter end, fight to the death. With your last breath, spit at that stupid cannibalistic chicken. They can take our lives, but they can't take our freedom!
Current mood:
thoughtful.Current music: Fish Heads.
Yaaaaaaaaaawn.
So I awoke this morning to the sounds of someone knocking at the door. The mail lady had a package for us today. Yaaaaaaaaay...so anyway, I came out into the kitchen (near the office, for those of you not familiar with the layout of my house...) and my mom, horribly addicted to computerized Mah Jongg, told me to get directions to the cruel and evil oral surgeon who would be ripping out my four sideways, impacted wisdom teeth on Christmas Eve. It was then and then ALONE that I remembered the very odd dream I was having. Listen, and I shall tell you a tale...
Ashleigh, Sam, Jeff from the Spooky House and I were all wearing...very odd jumpsuit thingies, and people were calling us captains. Then the mayor of the munchkin town from Wizard of Oz came out of a door in the wall and told us that our spaceship was ready for take-off.
So we got to the spaceship and were walking down this long catwalk to the door and we saw this bald guy with his back to us wearing an orange jumpsuit leaning against a railing. Ashleigh groaned, and we asked her what was up, and she just said, "this security guard. I've flown with him before. He's a creep and an asshole."
The security guard was that bald, lizard alien guy from The Last Starfighter, but in this mov-...er...dream, he was an asshole, and didn't like humans. And there were four of them on security. So we went into the spaceship with the security guy barking at us about being stupid, and when we got inside, we suddenly realized we were all a bunch of eighteen year olds ('cept Jeff, who just realized he was LIKE an eighteen year old) and really didn't know how to fly the spaceship.
So this little girl came out of one door (I think it was Ashleigh's little cousin London, maybe...she was missing her two front teeth.) and told us to use the manual. So Jeff pulled out the manual under the counter and figured out how to turn on the ship.
Then all these people started to come up to watch us fly, including Scott Bakula. I don't know why Scott Bakula (y'know, Quantum Leap? Lord of Illusions?)...I have some vague memory that he's on TV somewhere as a spaceship pilot. Maybe that's it. So he's there, and he's teaching Jeff how to fly, and the door closes and we start moving. So this woman says, "hey, can we open the door? It's hot in here."
I turn to her and say, "this spaceship is pressurized, ma'am. We can't open a door without being sucked out into space and dying cruel, horrible, sweet sweet deaths of fire."
Then people start laughing at her because she's stupid for wanting to open a door in outerspace until one guy points out that the door isn't a very good fit for the doorway anyway, because frankly, it doesn't quite close all the way and he can see light around the sides. Sam credits the problem to bad set design, and then something starts knocking loudly on the side of the ship. We're all scared for a minute...
...then I wake up and realize it's the mail person.
Of course, it wasn't until about ten minutes later that I realize I'VE HAD THIS DREAM BEFORE! Golly. How ka-RAZY!
Current mood:
peaceful.Current music: The microwave warming me up a mug fo' tea..
I got an interesting piece of email today from a girl who I went to Granada with...she was in eleventh when I graduated, so I assume by her email that she’s in twelfth now. It would appear that she found out my dark secret. Read on and find out for yourself.
----------------------------------------
me and my friend at Granada started on our senior project last week.(They’re doing it on vampires, so you readers know what they’re talking about.) we came across a list that we found was pretty much the same for physiological, physical, and mental attributes that occur in vampires in most of the research materials we were using (thanks for lending us your one book...my friend calls it the Big Book O Vampires because its huge, lol). so for fun, we started to compare people to this list. the list is about 22 characteristics long. we got to you, and were amazed that so many applied to you, we thought we send you a list to see what you thought. if you really are a vampire, could you come in to my class and use you as an example? thanks.
- kim
ps: please don’t drain me of my blood and make me your undead slave for all eternity because I found out your secret. thanks a mil. Later.
Out of 23 characteristics, we pulled these 20 that we thought applies to you:
You are strongly stimulated by blood. (we’ve heard stories about you, Brandon...)
Light in general hurts your eyes, but you can go out in it nonetheless
You tend to be a night person by nature
You've had a strong interest in vampires since puberty-time (you said you liked ‘em since jr. high)
It grew stronger with your traumatic experience
You don't get sick often, but if you do, the maladies are often strange and/or severe (that blood clot...)
You are a fast healer
You don’t seem to eat as much as a normal human should, but seem to always be thirsty
Electrical appliances and you don't' generally tend to get along well (you and your stupid printer...and computer...and the computers at school...and your TV...and the TVs at school...and everything else. we watched you TA for olenick, lol.)
You prefer rich fabrics, tastes, scents, etc.
You are very sensitive to the feeling of touch (your ear, from the sound of it.)
You sometimes feel your don't belong in this century, or maybe even this world
When you dream, they are often extremely vivid
You are highly intuitive in general
People often find you very empathetic to how they feel
People often trust you completely
You look older than you are (I disagree, but my friend said you do)
You can sense how others feel
Animals tend to get along well with you
When you want things to happen, they usually do
The other 3 were these; see if you disagree or agree:
People find you to be slightly different in an odd, alluring way (I don’t. can’t vouch for anyone else.)
You find yourself to often feel alone amidst a group, unless that one person you can connect with is there </i>(i‘m not you, so I don‘t know)</i>
Sex leaves you feeling refreshed and revitalized (lol. we’ve never had sex, so I wouldn’t know.)
----------------------------------------
Well, there you have it. You've all found out my dark secret - I have a really big book about vampires. Be afraid. Be very afraid...
Current mood:
amused.
OK...this has got to stop, you old people.
As some of you know, I am...FEARLESS LEADER. I'm a scoutmaster for a Boy Scout troop I used to be in. The old scoutmaster died, and then me n' my compadre Nick came and started to run the troop while we employed a few people to sign paperwork. There's Mr. Knotts, who actually does a lot of the scout stuff with us, there's MY dad, who's the chair...person...thingy, and some other people who mostly take up space like Mr. Duran, Mrs. Duchan, Mrs. Thomspon, Mr. O' Dwyer, Mr. Baur, etc.
Now, I have absolutely nothing wrong with Boy Scouts of America. I don't really think it's dorky that a bunch of guys like to go do dangerous stuff like hang off of rocks or white-water raft. Some people do; well, go to hell.
What I DO have a problem with is the fact that the stupid adult dolts in our troop are now essentially fighting for power over one another, feeling that because they have a combination of years experience, commanding good presence with other leaders, and various skills, THEY should become the Grand High Pooba of our troop. And in doing so, they are severly making it a pain in the butt to actually get out and DO anything as a troop, and it's just stressing out Nick and I, and making a lot of the scouts ready to head out.
Well, how's this...
I'VE been in the Boy Scouts of America infrastructure for eight years as an actual Boy Scout, one year as an Eagle, one year as a Webelo, and three years as a Cub Scout rounding out for a grand total of 13 years, which beats out my own DAD'S yearly lead of 12 as an adult leader.
I have good standing with every leader in the valley including Brian Eget, Joe Kinney, and the highest person in the WLACC offices, Jonathan McGea.
I've got certifications for snorkeling, scuba diving, rock climbing, white water rafting, HANG GLIDING, cross country skiing, animal husbandry, pioneering, orienteering, first aid, emergency preparedness, and MORE.
I am hereby laying claim to ALL of you adults. I am making you ALL bitches to do my bidding. If you don't like it, do us all a favor and take a hike. I can give you maps to some of best trails out there for enacting this procedure. That said, GO AWAY.
Current mood:
pissed off.Current music: Gayla Peevey - I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.
Well, this is going to be short (and possibly badly written) due to the fact that my hands are not in one hundred percent working order. See, as FEARLESS LEADER, we took some kids out repelling up at Stoney Point, and due to a very FAST moving rope that was in my hands...
...grumble grumble...
...I have very large rope burns and blisters on all my fingers and my palms. The biggest blister of which is Nick Jr, named by Lisa's boyfriend, Nick Viola, my lieutenant commander of sorts (until Sunday when he turns eighteen and becomes full-fledged scout leader. wootyness.). So...yeah.
I'm not updating again 'til it don't hurt to write, so...later.
Current mood:
grumpy.