Oh, some genius read it on the internet...

I am tired.  Look, jimmy, quit calling my apartment.  I don't care if one of your pals "looked it up on the internet" and doesn't believe squirrels hibernate. Quit leaving messages, to that effect, on my machine. I AM hibernating.  I feel compelled to remind you that, statistically speaking, half of all you people are even dumber than the average idiot. Leave me alone. Right now I am drinking some warm milk, and TRYING to get back to sleep and ready for Spring. If I need to spell it out for you, that means a little down-time to recharge the XY mojo factory. Unlike Mrs. jimmy, come Spring, my lady friends will not need to become accustomed to disappointment.  Google that, jimbo.

one last thing before i hibernate, and i am looking forward to a little shut-eye...

freedom can tolerate justice,
but freedom cannot endure security.

goodnight jimmy.  see you next spring.

Happy Birthday

There is a faint glimmer of sound and whisper of light.  (See what i did there, with the words and their perceptions? And now - parenthetically letting you get a peek inside my head...this is the kind of moment that just allows me to wish that, in just this one instance, I were you, so that I could enjoy me in a new way.)  Shine on me, autumn breeze.

jimmy accuses squirrel of plagerism...

uh huh, right, headline news.  jimmy is upset, he can't write anything and has sunk to the new low of accusing me of stealing his writings (see comment section of previous post).  Sorry jimmy, no one believes you.  I didn't steal anything from you.  You wish you could write with the style, wit, and tempered genius that I apply to my prose.  Well, enough of entertaining jimmy's delusions.  
I have heard nothing from the wife of maybe-son in months.  I am out of work again...oh, I did notice, sorry, I did say I was done talking about jimmy, but just this one more thing...jimmy, i noticed a lot of empty liquor bottles in your recycling bin.  I know you haven't had any people over.  I know no one else in your family drinks liquor.  So, logic diagram...A + B = jimmy is killing himself slowly...uh huh, right, headline news.  poor rotten jimmy.

Irony is often not irony.

What's up with all of you?  That is rhetorical.  I don't really care. I would be curious if you were interesting, but you're not, so I am not curious.  I have a mole on the side of my head that my doctor told me was nothing to worry about, but I know it is ground zero for the death button God has planted on my noggin.  But that is not the source of my anger.  The source of my anger is petulant pessimism. Ironic. Oh yes, and irony - I hate it too. 

It is, always the way it was, and will be.

It is a squirrel's life,
but it is not a squirrel's world.
I don't fit into your world, your systematization of life,
but I don't remember you asking me to.
So it is up to me.
To be in my world.
Me in my world.

What am I?

I wonder. Not wanting to believe I will never know. Knowing I will not want to believe what is evident. Believing instead, in hope. That is who I am. I am Squirrel. But. What am I?

weasels

i read the comments on my blog a couple of days ago and it made me sad.  I kind of was hoping everyone stopped caring and maybe thought I was dead and you all just would go away because both you and I just don't care anymore.  Lost my zip.  Lost my pizzazz.  I didn't want to write a blog anymore if it wasn't upbeat, and it wasn't.  So I didn't.  But I thought I would let you know that I am okay.  And it is just, that...to sum it all up...

my every breath has become a sigh. 

Pretty weak, I know.  It is the kind of self-indulgent crap you'd expect from jimmywrites - not me, and yet, there it is.  Absolutely nothing, of note, has happened since my last post.  Oh well, there is the job I got fired from. I got hired to work at a parcel delivery service company that wears brown (there may be litigation, so I have to be careful about specifics)...and I show up for the first day and my new boss makes some small talk and then goes right into..."whew! you smell like a brewery!" and I answer,  "whew! thank god, because I should smell like heroin, ecstasy, and a couple hookers!"  That was my first and last day with Uptight Parcel Service.  Screw them.

in the hanger or on the launch pad, does it really matter?

I think i am going to get a colonoscopy.  Stuff just isn't working right.  I don't know if that is covered by my healthcare insurance, but since I don't have any healthcare insurance, I don't think it is, pretty sure it isn't.  The guy in the underwear ad I posted, you know the one, well, his boyfriend called me and told me that the guy in the underwear ad wanted to re-connect with his daddy and make the family whole again. I said good for him and him, get your hand off my wallet...bloodsuckers.  All of me is shrinking.  How am I going to get that colonoscopy?  I think that is what I need, maybe it is the prostate check thing - I'm not sure, finger or camera, something alien will soon be in area 51.

free

Well, my life is about as public as a life can be, so I decided to publish the photo of my son, that my wife emailed me. So, junior is not just any old type of model. Turns out, if it is all legitimate, and I think it is, my son is an underwear model. This is the ad from his latest ad campaign. His model name is "Tosh". Why do I think this is my son? Well, he is an underwear model, he can thank my genetics for that...and look at him, it is me one year ago - I can see it in the eyes...my, I mean his, whole life ahead of him. Poor bastard.
Bottom line anyway, he and my old lady can still fly a magic turd to Mars for all I care - they still get nothing from me. "Tosh"...what a load. He is looking less and less like me all the time. "Underpants"...what a load. God didn't make me magnificent so it could be hidden. Squirrel is free! All of me.

hang on loosely, please

Well, mrs. squirrel did get back to me about my son. She says she has proof, and photos, and did email them with me. I just don't know that I am ready to share them with you. I don't mean to be a tease. I don't make any money with hits on this blog - so what would be the point? I need to think this through. I need some time, alone. It's really windy tonight and the apartment is really rocking and rolling. I'm strapped in - for safety, not fun - but would it be so bad if I got blown out of this tree? Out of this life? Don't ever say to yourself, things can't get worse. They will. Maybe things get worse just to keep you aware that fate always has his hand on your nuts, and not in a good way, and not his gentle hand either, rather it is the one he exercises with that squeezey spring handle thing, that hand. Although, maybe fate is a woman; that would explain a lot.

I guess I just care too much

Okay, turns out (thanks for the idiotic emails, you know who you are) - no one who reads this blog has a smart phone, or the ability to read a QR code. Wake up people, it is the new millennium - even unemployed squirrels have smart phones with QR code apps. Get one, Jethro. Anyway, I doubt any of you cheapskates will be buying the t-shirt anytime soon either, but in the interest of goodwill - here is what the QR code from the post earlier today decodes to read:

"Help! I am being held against my will by this woman and our children. They require me to spend 40+ hours per week laboring at a soul-devouring job to keep them in food and clothes. Please rescue me; however, understand that if you do liberate me, they become your responsibility."

Couldn't you imagine Dads all over this country displaying this code as a bonding display? I could, at least I could until I realized you all suck.

scan this

This is a QR code. Scan it with your smart phone. It says something clever. I was sitting around (actually hanging around for dear life in this wind) my leaf bundle in the sky, waiting for mrs. pain-in-my-butthole to send me proof of fatherhood and I came up with what I thought would be a catchy little QR code I could print on t-shirts for like-minded men-about-town. You know, it is kind of about my situation, which I am sure a lot you share, but yet not specific to me, so you can wear it too. $20 each. Whatever size you want. Send me some money. Send it to jimmy's house - I check his mail anyway and the post office stopped delivering to my house, because they say I don't have an address, which I think is a federal crime on their part, but anyway, to hell with them, send it to jimmy's house, but make the check out to Squirrelwrites. If you don't get the shirt in a reasonable amount of time, don't worry, it's on the the way.

do i have a kid or don't i?

That is the question my unemployment check needs to answer.  The last few days, I have been sending emails back and forth with mrs. squirrel.  She claims that she and "junior" moved out to California.  She needs the money because although "junior" (she won't tell me his name, because she doesn't think I should contact him) has a part-time job as a model - it isn't paying all the bills.  I know this isn't much information for a post, nor particularly entertaining - but I want to stay in touch with you my REAL friends, loyal blog readers, and this situation with mrs. squirrel is occupying all my energy, and isn't progressing very fast. Why isn't SHE working? But oh no, I can't ask that, god forbid she gets her lazy @$$ off the...nevermind, I am not going to start that again...where I have left it with her is - I have told mrs. squirrel that I need PROOF that "junior" exists, is alive, and then we can continue this discussion, until then - she and he don't exist.  I need a nap.  Cali-F-ing-ornia.  Unbelievable.  My Miss-is Squirrel...I wonder what she is wearing right now, or not wearing, or partially wearing, kind of barely on, but mostly off, and she's tired, but not too tired, and she looks at me and I know.      Okay, now I need a nap.

it's bigger on the inside, baby

Dear mrs. squirrel,
I see you commented on my last post.  Oh, and I am so relieved to read that you are alive...Read: sarcasm.  This is my house now (re: the clump of leaves held together with bird-spit in the middle of this photo).  When you left me, we were in a 3.5 million dollar home with signed masterpieces of French Impressionism hanging on the walls.  Now, I usually wake up to a god-damn crow standing over me with his eye on my pinkie ring. Child support?  Where is my child?  Come on over and let's talk about it.  Let's not sort this out on the internet.  Let's do it squirrel to squirrel, in the language I taught you to speak; the language of love. There's a five-pack in the fridge right now, a four-pack in the fridge right now...just hurry - i'm waiting...and i'm in the mood to "talk" all night l-o-n-g.
-sw

knowing more about nothing, is knowing less about something

Okay, I feel like addressing all of you who are sending me hate email about accepting unemployment.  Most of the emails talk about me having a lack of pride.  From this squirrel's perspective, all you people with jobs are domesticated corporate house pets.  There is neither direct nor implicit honor in a job - making or selling crap nobody should believe they need - even if your were trained to believe otherwise.  There is honor in feeding and providing for yourself and your family (I would if I knew who they were), and a work-for-pay job may be the best means to accomplish that, but only an idiot would be happy about a situation where he or she had to labor for the incrementally, or exponentially, greater monetary benefit of another person or corporation in the business of providing, Stuff.  Better Stuff, cheaper Stuff, new Stuff, or more Stuff, in the end, it's still all just Stuff.  Please, if you must, justify any pride you take in your new, improved Stuff without asking me to thank you for your arrogance, greed and ignorance.
 I will admit that, as a model, capitalism is a lot like nature - and not necessarily unfair.  Like nature, capitalism does mimic the "fairness" of a random-luck sorting filter and then apply survival of the fittest.  But is that really the best we can come up with?  Birthright followed up with a cage-match for the leftovers?  Gosh, what kind of self-respecting squirrel wouldn't want to galvanize his self-esteem in that current? This kind right here, me. I don't want your system, I don't like your system, screw your system.
But hey, all you hard workers, keep it up - I'm counting on you; and, by-golly, I'm proud of you...does that help? 

So, it has been awhile since I posted my status. To catch you up... I took a job as a school teacher over the summer break.  School started.  I Got fired.  Good.  Idiots.  And I have been collecting unemployment ever since.  Good.  Since then, I have gotten more than a few emails (and the photo attached) from folks who seem to think I am taking government handouts and should be ashamed.  First of all, that is not me in the photo.  If it was a photo of a squirrel attached to the face of some a-hole handing out stale pretzels, with me putting a bad-ass beat-down on him, maybe me, but this is definitely NOT me.  
I need a nap.  I'll complain about you morons who think I should get a job, tomorrow.  If I feel like it.  

I had given up on this blog.  More about that in tomorrow's post.  You all disgust me.  And I was going to be happy forever in my own hatred of you, quiet and unshared.  But then I got an email, from jimmy the wanker, of course.  He says he was worried about me and that there were pictures circulating on the internet.  Pictures that indicated I died in North Korea.  Granted, this is how I should be remembered when that fateful day arrives, but this is photoshopped crap.  I really am handsome though, big, and hard to deny.  Anyway, prepare to get smarter, tomorrow I address ignorance and stupidity.  jimmy... yoohoo... knock, knock.