The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

I’m getting really sick of people at work popping into my office and exclaiming, "Oh my God, another sandwich?" or acting as if they’ve never eaten ever in their life and coming into the work kitchen cooing, "Mmmmmmmmmm!  That smells so good!"  These people act like they’ve been incarcerated for the better part of their adult lives and have never had a good meal.  And they make me feel like some colossal hog for having several small meals throughout the day–which, by the by, you’re supposed to– instead of traumatizing your system with three heavy meals a day.  Relax already, folks.

I wish I could’ve had a ho phase.  You know, have been a playa at one time in my life.  I suppose there’s still time yet, but I’m not nearly that forward, nor do I have the goods to back up any such forwardness.  It just might’ve been cool to have had any random number of hotties to mack up on at one time or another in my life.  But then there is the attendant fear of contracting STDs.

Nevermind.  I guess there’s always been good cause for me to be a no-ho.  Merry Christmas, y’all.

I reached back to scratch my ass just yesterday and noticed I had a bit more junk in the trunk than usual.  Not cause for alarm seeing as how I have the smallest, cutest tush this side of the western hemisphere, but of note.  I kinda feel like Deelishis from "Flavor of Love 2" now.  Well, not by a longshot, no, but that’s who I immediately thought of.

"Dave Chappelle and I are soulmates."
–fast deteriorating former poet laureate Maya Angelou

Highly-energy conscious and economical homo that I am, I’d abstained from using the heater all last winter, and instead simply donned my favorite cotton blue sweater jacket, pulled the hood over my head, and kept warm using my own body heat.  Admirable.  But laughably ineffective compared to the wonders of the wall heater.  Y’all, I couldn’t take it on Saturday, and turned the thing on, and it was aaaaabsolute heaven.  Here comes the gas bill!

I’m so upset that my musician prince John Mayer is dating dolt of the land Jessica Simpson.

I love the two spotlights you can see in an actor’s pupils when you watch a movie.

There was once this woman wearing dangly apple earrings outside the administration building on my college campus.  I told her I liked her earrings.  I don’t know if I’d feel quite the same way today.

Today is my good friend Hillary’s last day of work.  I’m going to miss her muchissimo since she’s been my confidante and source of gossip since her life is vastly more interesting and intriguing than mine.  I’ll also have no one with whom to talk about Perez Hilton, sing "Ciega Sorodomunda", take power walks in the Marina, window shop on Fillmore, etc.  In fact, it’s all very sad, but I’m happy she’s moving on to bigger and better things, and will be closer by my house in the event we decide on an after-work happy hour some random day soon.

Why does your face always feel hot after you turn off the fan?

Do we work to live or live to work?  Exactly.

I just keep reminding myself that this is a three-day week and I can get through it.  Just a month before my Vegas trip and a whole new year.

It’s very disturbing to see all these militant video games out that are really just transparent recruitment tools for our armed forces.  Who knew the army and the video game makers of the world were in cahoots?

Jack Black: Why?

See "The Corporation".  Unsettling, yet riveting, like any piece of revolutionary art should be.

No matter how careful I am, I always end up getting self-tanner on parts of my body I didn’t intend to tan.  Case in point: the in-betweens of my fingers and the length of my wrist.  Looks like I have a giant birthmark running up the underside of my arm.  I guess it would help if I didn’t tan while tipsy, but hey.

Why is it when you suddenly have a coughing fit that someone insists on asking you, "Are you alright?" when you’re just trying to get enough oxygen to breathe and clearly can’t engage in conversation. When I turn beet red and start knocking things over in an effort to reach the nearest person, then you’ll know I’m not alright.

I once spent the night over at a friend’s house in fifth grade, and the next morning we were having breakfast with his dad. He did something to piss his dad off, and the dad said, "Christopher, you’ve got a wild hair up your ass this morning, and I suggest you pull it out." I started laughing through my cereal and tried to pull it off as a coughing fit, but it was literally one of the funniest fucking things I’d ever heard. And still is to this day.

Ccccelos!
!

I need to remind myself to make sure I have money the next time I take a four-day weekend off.  Also that it doesn’t rain.

I only eat sandwiches that are cut diagonally so as better to attack the sandwich.

Why do books come out in hardback at all when paperbacks are vastly more convenient?

I wholeheartedly submit my vote against the wearing of sleeveless shirts.  So very, very few guys actually look good in them.  The rest of us just shouldn’t try.

When the movie credits roll and it says the story was by one person and the screenplay was by another, what’s the difference?  Do you mean to tell me that the person who came up with the idea gets any credit or profit from the movie just because they busted out with a basic plot outline?

I want to go to Miami.

Rumsfield resigned! Hurrah, sweetie!

Everyone should see "Breakfast at Tiffany’s" at least once before they die. It unfurls the red carpet of carefree aplomb you should walk at least once in your life on the path to discovering yourself.

Why do you puke or feel like puking after a strenuous workout?

I love the smell of a freshly-vacuumed room.

At what point did we go from calling them "singers" to "recording artists"?

I’m getting fat.  Should I do Atkins or just go TrimSpa?

I’d been feeding Chloe (our cat not some destitute French girl) moist cat food on top of the dry cat food she normally receives.  It was, admittedly, a gastronomical bribe to win her affections on my part, and it worked.  Perhaps too well.  She meows rabidly when she’s hungry now and plants herself outside my door at watch for when I’m awake and able to feed her.  But the 24-packet box I bought recently ran dry, and she’s had to go cold turkey for the past week or so.

So the other day, I went into the kitchen and she thought I was going to feed her.  I filled up the bowl with her dry food and she came scampering down the hall trilling purrs and alive with excitement.  She went to the bowl, examined the pile of dry brown bits therein, and looked up at me and said, "Nigga, please!  You could ’spect me to eat this crap?  Tha’s some boolshit!  Where da chronic at, nigga?  You can’t be messin’ wit people’s minds, givin’ ‘em the good shit, then takin’ it back when you feels like it!  That ain’t right, man!"