wordmongerings

Remember friends!  Elizabeth sometimes emos out a little too much, but she always pulls herself back from the edge!  That last entry was crazysauce, but I still think it was good to write.  You know why I thought of it?  You'd be ashamed, you really would.  Ok, I'll tell you (as if I wouldn't).  It was inspired by Buffy The Vampire Slayer- and a whole Saturday with no human contact.  Sad, yes?  But whatever.

Is there really no life without passion? That supposedly all-encompassing need to connect. A fire that would burn even when it has nothing to sustain it. Is it really worth it? So many say yes. But, oh, how many of us would love to say no. No, we do not want it. We would jump at the right to deny ourselves that pain and joy. But for the fact that we'll never know, and by not ever being able to know we rob ourselves of the validity of wishing for such freedom. For if we can never have a life scoured clean from passion, one that leaves everything cold and pristine like a frozen winter's night, then we can never show we have the guts to actually accept such a fate. We can wish for it all we want, without fear that it will ever come true. Security in misery, unable to take that last step, declare ourselves brave by removing that desire. Others can say that we don't really want it. That we can affort to pretend to want that cold because it is an impossibility.
So, I ask you, what am I to do? I can punish myself for it. I can love only those people I cannot have. I can sink myself into an infatuation that leaves me hollowed out, and when I collapse emotionally I can laugh at everyone who feels and thinks they want to feel.  I can ensure that every little thing I feel is connected to pain so that my heart never forgets how much I hate it.  I will never forgive it. 
Human.  Feeling.  Hedonistic.  Only I'm not going to be.  Masochist.  Sadist.  Pleasure begets pain, often pain begets pleasure, and it's mine for the creating. 
Passion.  This I feel.  But you cannot make me want to feel it.  I will, and I will use it, but I will always allow that windswept area of my being- the one that is cold and empty- do what it pleases.  That passion has to go somewhere.

ACH! I have Ding Dong Merrily on High stuck in my head courtesy of Celtic Women and Horn club. And they're both spastic fast versions so I feel like a lemming with ADHD on caffeine because I've also had three cups of tea. I'm literally bouncing on my bed. Dani (my roomie) gave me that patient look- oops. Ok, new song. I can do this...

In other business- mock trial still killing me, Christmas fest is coming!, and I've joined a plot to take over the world. I'm arms master. Hehehehehe. FEAR ME!!! Oh I am so tweaked...

So, it has been a while, hasn't it?  Erm, all summer, actually.  Oopsie.  But, on the bright side, Halloween is close!  So excited!  My friend Dan and I are going as crazies (although he calls us crack whores... but he's an idiot like that)  He was pimp jeezus today, but the wig was driving him nuts.  ^_^ 
We even wore our costumes for Taiko practice today.  We finished learning Yuubinkyoku today, played Matsuri, but not Raku.  Which is really too bad, because Raku is a lot of fun!  In fact, I think it means fun... or easy... or something like that.  Anyway, there's just something wonderfully satisfying about pounding those drums!
Mock trial scrimmage on Sunday, oh joy.  Fortunately, I've no role on defense, so I am just timekeeper.  Whew.  But, we have a tournament at Macalester College next weekend.  Blurgh! 
That's about all I have for now.  I'm done spazzing.  ^_^

So, I'd been totally stoked last week about the upcoming mock trial party.  We were going bowling and then back to the house for games.  Unfortunately, to everyone in mock trial, that sounds rather corny.  Ok, really corny.  On the cob, even.  But it just isn't like that!  It's not like we were playing board games! 
I just felt the need to express my sulkiness because every time I say "Mock trial party", someone sniggers.  Ah well. 

In other news, 14 days left of class!  (Not counting the days in between when I don't have class, of course)

The Tooth Extraction from Hell

Author: Elizabeth Johnson

Rating: PG-13 or something like that for swearing and graphicish-ness

Summary: Elizabeth’s wisdom tooth removal does NOT go according to plan.

Notes: This is dedicated to my Mommy and Daddy for being awesome when I was whiny and in pain. Love you!

It was 7:20 AM, and Mum came in to wake me up for the long awaited (but not overly-anticipated) wisdom tooth extraction. I showered, but didn’t worry too much about my hair- the day was going to be pretty much bust after the surgery anyway. Daddy was giving me a ride to Worthington to get the teeth taken out. Why we were going to Worthington is anyone’s guess. 

                In any case, we got on the road in a timely manner, only to be called halfway to Worthington by the nurse at the hospital there saying their x-ray machine was having technical difficulties and we would have to go to a place in Worthington called “Friendly Dental.” 

                “As opposed to what?” my daddy asked. “Openly hostile dentist?”

This provoked a fit of giggles from me, easing some of the nervousness I’d been feeling. Even though I put up a good front of being nonchalant about the whole tooth removal, I was still edgy. 

The x-ray went smoothly, and I hoped that heralded similar outcomes for the actual procedure. Alas, it was not to be. 

After entering the Sanford Hospital and making it passed the reception desk, I realized this hospital was nothing like the gleaming new one we had back in Luverne. The floors and walls looked grimy, as if they washed them with dirty water on purpose. The room where I was to have the teeth removed caused me even more trepidation. It was tiny. My dorm room was larger! There wasn’t even a sink, that I could see. There was a large red tool chest in the middle of the room. Upon closer inspection, I found it to be their method of housing their operating instruments! Obviously, they did things different here.

Settling into the dead dog brown operating chair, I tried to pay attention to the nurse’s attempts at small-talk. She was really very nice. After taking my blood pressure and attaching heart monitors, she began to search for a vein in my right inner elbow for the IV. I was used to being poked by large needles- I give blood as often as I can. She could not, however, find a vein. Nor could she find one on my inner forearm or the back of my hand, though she slapped my arm black and blue like we were heroin addict partners in crime. So, she called in some back-up. Another nurse came in and began to check my left arm. Her efforts proved unsuccessful, so in came the surgeon- as if he could really do anything. None of them could find a vein… anywhere. Apparently, I was dead. I didn’t have veins, they concluded. Right.

My options at that point were pretty stark: be sent up to the O.R. where they may or may not find a vein, or stay and be injected with Novocain and let them operate on me while I was still awake. By this time, I was scared. It was hard to pretend I wasn’t. In fact, I said, “I’m not going to pretend I like the idea of being awake for this surgery, or that I’m not scared, but I guess you do what you have to.” Little did I know…

Without further ado, the excess nurse left, and I was left with Doctor Surgeonpants and Nurse Sympathy.  (I have changed their names for their protection. I could care less about Worthington’s reputation.) My mouth was wrenched open and the Novocain injected. I’d had Novocain before, so I didn’t think it would give me too much trouble. This particular syringe, however, was out for my blood, sweat, and tears. I actually said, “Ow” once, when Mr. Bloodysyringe gouged halfway through my jaw. After finally injecting the Novocain into my gums, they set up shop in my mouth, and within minutes they were getting ready to yank. I was extremely apprehensive about this. You see, what I’d learned from a previous visit to a dentist was that I am slow to react to Novocain. Yep. Just like in the song, he started drilling before I went numb. 

Pain. A deep jolt of cruel agony lanced through my jaw. So, I did what I could and yelled, “Ow!” and my body arched up off the chair in protest of this callous treatment to my previously happy human condition. 

My brilliant surgeon removed his instruments from my mouth and said, “Oh, did that hurt?” Like there was any doubt. All I could think was No, you great stonking git, I regularly shout OW for shits and giggles!  and whimper. And whimper some more when he injected more Novocain and continued.

At this point, I was ready to say screw the world, this isn’t worth it. It was too late, though. I had one tooth out, might as well keep going. Tally fricken ho, I guess. So, I endured the next half hour of yanking, drilling, shattering, cutting, and bleeding. I tried not to focus on the smell of my powdered tooth enamel and blood or the taste of the surgeon’s gloved hands in my mouth or the large rubber object holding my mouth open. Only two more to go. My muscles were so tense I was shaking. My body felt like a well-strung bow. Taut. Only one. God, can’t they suction out some of this saliva and blood? 

But then it was over, and the stitches all done up and gauze padded in. I could hear the surgeon in the background dictating to a hand-held voice-recorder. Yeah, I hope he remembers this forever.   At this point, I noticed my face was wet. I’d been crying during the whole surgery. 

The nurse looked at me and said, “It’s alright, hun, you did a great job. You were very brave.” In that moment, she was like my aunt, and that small reassurance broke a piece of the dam away and I shook and cried openly. (Literally, my mouth was wide open and everything.) She asked me if I was ok, and I told her, as clearly as one with gauze filling one’s mouth could, that I was fine, it was just scary. That’s all. She rubbed my back, I sucked it up, and left the room.

Out in the waiting room, my dad looked up from his magazine. I expected surprise from him, since I was walking and not in a wheel chair. He was more grim, than surprised, however. That should have tipped me off right there. But he asked me how it went. I’d come prepared for this. I got out my notepad and pen and wrote, “I was awake the whole time.” I showed it to him. He read it, looked at me. I said, through my gauze, “They couldn’t find a vein. No IV. Novocain.” 

That was when something clicked in his mind. “That was you yelling in there?” 

Uh oh. “Maybe.” Impatient look. “Yes. I don’t react to Novocain quickly, and they started before I was numb.” I’m not sure how much of that was intelligible, but he got the gist anyway. We collected my subscriptions for Tylenol-3 and antibiotics and left. Outside the waiting room, I started to cry again. Daddy asked me what was the matter, and the dam crumbled completely. I buried my face in my daddy’s St. Olaf sweatshirt and cried. Daddy did his job well, hugging me tight and rubbing my back and rumbling comforting words like, “At least it’s all over,” and “Shhh, it’s ok, Pumpkin.” I always knew I had a good daddy. 

After that last bout of what might have been hysteria or a perfectly normal reaction, we left. During the car ride home, Daddy explained his lack of shock when I came out of the room without the usual befuddlement of someone who has just come out of a gas-induced sleep.

“I was reading when I heard someone yell ‘Ow!’ and the couple next to me said, ‘Funny, that didn’t sound like Annie.’ And I looked at them and said, ‘No, that was my daughter.’” Oh shite. No wonder he’d looked grim! He’d just had to hear his only daughter crying out in pain, and had been unable to prevent it. I wanted to hug him right then and there for his awesome daddy-ness. I abstained, however, because he was driving and I didn’t want to end up in the O.R… or the E.R. 

My mom was also a little shocked when I walked in the door perfectly upright and cognizant. Until I told her the whole story. Then she was just plain on the warpath. But that’s my mommy, fiercely protecting her babies. She protected me in a different way in the days to follow. She made sure to remind me to take my meds or gargle with salt water, or ice my face. She came in at night and in the morning with my last and first doses of the day. She even made me vast quantities of tapioca pudding. Yes, my mommy mommied me up, and I loved every minute of it. (Not counting the parts with pain or nausea, of course.) 

Yes, this was the tooth extraction from Hell. If I had to go back, I would have been willing to hold that doctor at gunpoint in order to be put under. I would have welcomed the probing and prodding needles over the tense, frightening experience I had. But since I can’t do that, I will warn every person I know who might get their wisdom teeth out. I will serve as a caveat for future potential tooth extraction victims. 

But, dang, that pudding was gooood…

 

*A/N (Author’s Note) There have been embellishments for the sake of literary style and the names of the surgeon and nurse have (obviously) been changed. Not only for their protection, but because I honestly could not remember the nurses name and I wanted to level the playing field. 

I've been inspired by Bethany.  Feel free to roll your eyes at me.  And it's not done yet, so be patient.  I must eat!

1. I've had my fingers slammed in car doors at least five seperate times since I was six.
2. I learned how to make my own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when I was two because I was too picky about how the peanut butter was spread.
3. You think I'm violent now, HA!  You should have seen me in kindergarten!
    
4. I've always been a Daddy's girl- from day one.  We have the same personality, interests, and he's the only one I can brown nose because Mum's impervious to my subversive tactics. 
5. My mom swears I was talking by the tender age of nine months but no one could hear me because I spoke too softly.
6. My little brother, Ethan, and I get mistaken for each other a lot, especially when he grows his hair out.  Hopefully his voice changing will eliminate that problem.
7. I am completely abstract random and would not be able to get organized if I wanted to.  I don't.
8. I stopped wearing girl's clothes in third grade and didn't start again until seventh grade...
9. I played baseball in elementary school instead of softball because "Softball was for girls." I was a tomboy, you see.  ^_^
10. Despite the fact that I am STILL a tomboy, I love shopping and shoes which kinda freaks out some of my guy friends.
11. I cannot stop reading.  I love it , I live for it, it is my refuge.  My genre of choice is fantasy.
12. I love baking and cooking  and totally rock at it (if I'm allowed to brag).
13. I am without a doubt, one on the most forgetful people you will ever know.  I've forgotten to go to work once.  I often forget assignments until the last minute.  I have to write everything down on calendars, sticky-notes, and even the back of my hands so that I don't forget.  I even put a sticky-note on my alarm clock so I remember why I'm waking up in the morning. 
14.  Since fifth grade I had always planned on becoming a lawyer when I grew up.  A month after arriving at St. Olaf, I was pretty sure I wanted to be a history professor. 
15.  I hunt and fish, and have a marked fascination with guns and kives.
16. I used to beat up the boys on the playground when I was little.
17. I'm kind of a goody-two-shoes. (Hehe, kind of...)
18. I can speak fluent Pig Latin thanks to Amber.
19. In my lofty opintion, Tom Cruise is a pinheaded facsimile of a sham and should be put in traction.
20. Cats are infinitely better than dogs because they're self-sufficient.
21. I would be a horrible pet owner.
22. I shared a room with two brothers for fourteen years of my life.
23. Hates shows and movies like The Land Before Time and Winnie the Pooh because of the horrible grammar.
24. I'm easily entertained.
25. I love my solitude.  If I am around people constantly for too long I get reeeeeally crabby.

Did I do it correctly?  I can hardly tell...  This was waaay tougher than I thought it would be.  URG.

They're changing the Doctor AGAIN??? Arg.  I liked David.  Honestly, I don't know, but this Matt Smith bloke better  be good.

I am sad because I cannot find my Dragonsinger book!  I read it last Wednesday in my pantry when I was making waffles and now I don't know where it is!  I really like that book!  Wish me luck on finding it!

Weeell, not really.  Maybe if we're conscious of the full moon we might alter our own behavior to reflect it.  I think it's more of a choice than a natural reaction to the full moon.  I didn't even know it was the full moon until checkng LJ.  If Remus Lupin were real, he would totally disagree ^_^ but as I am not him, thank goodness, I would have to say that the moon does not affect me. It would be kinda cool if it did in some way, though... Oops, there I go again.
It's funny that this came up, though, because I just got done watching a YouTube vid called Once Upon a Full Moon Night with Remus and Sirius.  (yes, it's a problem I have, but admitting it is the first step, right?)

We have two major Christmas traditions in the Johnson household. 
The first being the decorating of the Christmas tree.  It used to be that we would just stick every available ornament on the tree.  Now we put in Christmas music (Harry Belafonte's Traditions of Christmas), drink egg nog, and decorate.  We now get a flocked tree (all our trees have been, are, and always will be REAL!!), and we put all blue lights and bulbs on it.  When the lights are off it's this unearthly glow that puts you into this other state of being.  It's beautiful.
Then our other Christmas tradition has to do with opening preasents.  We always have two or three Christmas parties because of all our relatives.  So we open our gifts and stockings on Christmas Eve.  First Seth, Ethan, and I all go to our rooms so that Mom and Dad can bring out our stockings and stuff them.  Then we pour the egg nog and start opening.  First the gifts under the tree, then the stockings.  All in all, both are traditions I think I'll keep!

Wow, finally a writer's block I can really relate to.  I actually am a SB/RL shipper.  That means that I think Sirius and Remus were meant for eatch other.  JK was kind of an idiot to miss that one.  My favorite fic is the Drawing Down series by Ailei and Khirsah.  They're amazing.  Thanks to a recent crisis when Azkaban's Lair closed, I went through a whole hellish month thinking that I'd never read those again.  Fortunately, my SB/RL group on LJ helped me find them.  Love you guys!

Whew!  Now I truly know what it's like to eat, sleep, and breathe mock trial.  We left for the University of Iowa tournament at 1:30 on Friday, practiced/slept on the bus for five hourse.  Practiced for an hour when we got to the motel.  Then bed.  Up at six, eat, then go to the first trial.  Two trials every day.  It was INSANE.  Even lunch was spent planning our strategy for our next trial.  I really had fun but I haven't been this exhausted in a long time.  High school mock trial is  CAKE compared to this.  I kinda want to go back now and teach them things! 
I am listening to O Magnum Mysterium and tearing up a little.  I miss Mr. Nelson!  WAAAA!  *sigh*  Those were the days, ya know?

We had this amazing group project for our writing class.  I am rather excited for it because it is awesome beyond all reason.  I am going to publish it here just because it makes me laugh so much.  Try to guess which one I am!  (Trust me, it won't be hard.)
LOOOVE this class!  This was based on the following prompt.

"It seems that the appetite for pictures showing bodies in pain is as keen, almost, as the desire for showing bodies naked." (Sontag 41)

Snow was falling cheerfully on St. Olaf campus. Four friends lounge in the Lion’s Cave. They’re the picture of indolence. Althea was google-ing random things, as her homework was already done. CurlyQ was completing a paper for Spanish. Gunther Macdufe was composing a short piece for his composition class and would, at random intervals, jump up and battle imaginary foes with his sword. Rambohobbit was researching military knives; she had her eye on one with a skull crusher on the pommel. 

            All of a sudden, Althea gasps in shock, “Oh my God! What is this…?” All look up in curiosity, puzzled looks on their faces. 

            CurlyQ ventures, “What is it?”

            Althea says, “It’s a picture called ‘The Death of a Hundred Cuts.’”

            “What were you looking for that something like THAT came up?” Gunther asks.

            “This picture is so disturbing,” Althea murmurs. 

            “I don’t want to see it,” CurlyQ declares.

            “I do; I’m curious,” says Rambohobbit.

            “Why would you be curious about something like that? You might as well be looking at porn!” replies CurlyQ with distaste. 

            “Indeed, let us ponder: Why do people look at pornographic images?” Gunther asks.

            Althea whips out a slim book from her bag. “I’m reading this book for a class; it’s called Regarding the Pain of Others by Susan Sontag. She writes about our fascination with gruesome images.”

            “What does that have to do with it?” Rambohobbit asks.

            “Sontag says in her book that ‘All images that display the violation of an attractive body are, to a certain degree, pornographic. But images of the repulsive can also allure.’” Althea quotes.

            “So she’s saying that grotesque images are the same as porn?” CurlyQ asks.

            “So you’re equating people who look at violent images to people who look at porn?” Rambohobbit asks.

            Althea is overwhelmed with questions and twitches violently in her chair just as Gunther cries most emphatically, “Are you saying that people who look at porn are bad or that people who look at violent images are bad?”  The melodramatic swordsman brandishes his blade at invisible foes to reinforce his accusation. The group rolls its collective eyes and goes back to the conversation at hand.

            “Could they be the same? Because Sontag writes about the appetite or desire of human beings to see these images of pornography or violence,” Althea speculates.

            “They’re both responses to stimulus. I think that we have the same level of interest, they’re just different types of interest,” Rambohobbit asserts.

            “It’s like if you’re in a movie theater. Your initial reaction to a man about to get shot is going to be different than that of a sex scene,” says Gunther.

            “Really? Don’t you think people look forward to both?” asks CurlyQ

            “Sort of. In different ways. You know how in action thrillers they talk about that ‘edge of your seat’ reaction? Well, right before a sex scene, I can guarantee that no one is on the edge of their seat. They’re probably squirming a little, unsure of how to react in public,” Gunther explains.

            “How different do you think people react in public versus private? I think it’s like the dilemma of how to react to a certain image. Most people are afraid they’ll do or say something taboo and make an idiot of themselves,” says Althea.

            Looking a bit put out, Gunther says, “You still haven’t answered my question. Why do people like looking at those images? What does this genius Sontag have to say about that?”

            “Well, Sontag says that “’One should feel obliged to think about what it means to look at those pictures and about the capacity actually to assimilate what they show,” supplies Althea.

            “Let me see that smut!” exclaims Gunther, hand going to his sword again. Althea, seeing this warning, hands it over quickly. He starts flipping through the pages, frowning at the lackluster vocabulary on the pages before him. “Hey, look at this! This old guy, Edmund Burke, says that people look at images of suffering with ‘a degree of delight…’ I disagree. I don’t think people take pleasure in it exactly. It’s like when people watch movies with lots of action, and they get an adrenaline rush. But they’re not getting the entire experience of what’s being portrayed. They’re not feeling the pain of what is happening. That’s what Hollywood does through cinematography, music, and other effects;   they take advantage of our need for adrenaline. Just look at 300.”

            “I love that movie!” Althea screams.

            “Yes, but why do we love it?” CurlyQ asks, exasperated.

            “I think we, as humans, are so fascinated by these images partly because they are so removed from us. It is the unknown. Would countries torn apart by war and violence react the same to these images?” Althea wonders.

            “I honestly don’t know. I think you’d have to be from that country.” Rambohobbit says. “What I want to know is whether or not this fascination is inherent in everyone, or if it’s something that is learned. Basically, Nurture versus Nature.”

            “I think that it is something inherent.  I immediately think of the story of Cain and Abel. Abel killed Cain because of jealousy, something that came to him inherently. Obviously this is an example of the act of killing, not an example of a fascination. But since he did think about death, it seems to me that he had a sort of fascination with it.”

            “Jealousy is inherent and so is violence. This could definitely tie in to other things like the sex drive. They’re similar, but not the same. They’re co-related, but do not necessarily influence each other,” says Gunther.

            “What about sadists? In their case, they do influence each other. For a sadist, pain triggers the sex drive,” Rambohobbit shoots back.

            “I think sadists are the exception to the rule, not the norm. At least, I hope not everyone is a sadist,” says Althea.

            “What about emo people who cut themselves? Biologically, pain is pleasure,” offers Gunther.

“But this is all physical stimuli. What about images? Here Sontag starts writing about voyeurs. What makes someone a voyeur? Is it a bad thing?” asks Rambohobbit.

            “Voyeurs are people who look at an image, say ‘Oh, that’s horrible,’ and move on,” says CurlyQ.

            “Really, it comes down to two things: whether we respond with apathy or sympathy; and why we feel those things. It's an ugly fact, but it's simply impossible for everyone to respond to one event, no matter how horrible with overwhelming sympathy and direct action. Remember 9/11, the horror and awe that engulfed the entire nation. There was a gratuitous amount of sympathy from Americans (as well as other world powers) for the victims of 9/11. But people could only help in varying degrees. Look at us. It was the first national catastrophe of our lifetime, but the most we could do was small charity work.  And that's not a bad thing. We did everything we could do. Just because we didn't throw gigantic fundraisers for the families of 9/11, doesn't mean we didn't support them or feel for them,” says Gunther.

            “Indubitably,” says CurlyQ

            “That makes me wonder, how easy is it for some people to respond with sympathy since we are so desensitized to these images?” poses Althea.

            “I think that our society has a lot to do with that. On one hand, we play violent video games, we watch violent television programs, and even the news is violent. However, if just seeing violence makes one violent, crimes would be much more prevalent. All of urban society would be lost,” says CurlyQ.

            “It would be like Gotham City! ‘This city…just showed you…that it’s full of people…READY TO BELIEVE IN GOOD AGAIN!!!!’” rasped Gunther in his best Batman impersonation. 

            This broke the air of intense intellectual discussion that had been accumulating over the past two hours. Gunther needed cookies and so they all retired to the cage.

*EPILOGUE*

            What started out as an innocent night of hanging out turned into a heated debate that waxed philosophical at times and became downright ridiculous at others. What is it about violent images and pornography that draws the eye? Is it really such an aberration of human behavior? It’s so hard to know exactly why people are voyeurs or why they aren’t. Using Sontag as a departure point, the group explored several different themes of basic human instincts, reactions, and interactions. Discussing society’s reactions to these images, they found that far from resolving the issue, it could only be complicated further. Perhaps people can only speculate as to why people are voyeurs.

 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Guess where I went today/tonight?  To our long abandoned blog Each of These Colors.  It's really been a busy two years since we wrote in it.  I think it's fun to read our entries, writings, and profiles and comparing them to where we are now.  How have we changed?  Where it counts, are we still fundamentally the same?  I can't speak for the rest of you, but I know I have become more accepting of different things.  It's odd to think we are a whole two years older than what we were in that blog. 
I also like to think of it as our two-years-younger-selves being preserved in time.  We can look back on who we were at our leisure. 
Heavy sigh.

Well, I HAD my favorite fanfic site, but it CLOSED.  So now I am left desperately trying to find the stories archived somewhere...

My favorite fanfic site has closed!  My world is ending!  What am I going to do???? I hadn't saved ANYTHING!  Why'd they close??? I think I'm going to rant, sulk, and moan for a few weeks about this one.  *grumpgrumpgrumpgrumblegrrrrr!*

Hello, all.  I am happy to announce that St. Olaf does indeed have a mock trial team.  I was, however, disappointed at the poor errors in the case.  I'm not just talking simple he got confused with she, or anything like that.  The ENTIRE CASE hinges on this error, if in fact it was an error. 
Our case summary I have copy and pasted here, provided you guys don't share my discovery with anyone.  Just in case, I want the upper hand, and when I say I, I mean our team.  
Walton   
v.

   Blitz News Network

SUMMARY OF THE CASE

On September 24, 2006, Midlands gubernatorial candidate Drew Walton participated in a

gun control debate against Professor Lane Hamilton at the Midlands Civic Center. After the

debate, the two became embroiled in an argument in the Civic Center parking lot. Shots were

fired and Lane Hamilton was found dead in the parking lot, the victim of an apparent gunshot

wound to the head. Within an hour, Blitz News Network (“BNN”) reporter Reagan Thomas—

present to cover the debate—gave a live broadcast that implicated Walton in Hamilton’s death.

Walton maintains that Hamilton committed suicide.

Walton has now brought a claim for defamation, arguing that BNN’s statements during

the September 24, 2006 broadcast falsely accused Walton of shooting Hamilton. BNN denies

the allegations, asserting that its statements were truthful and its broadcast was proper.

The thing is, the gun used is a Colt Python, the rounds ("bullets") it shoots is .357 magnums.  The rounds found in the gun found at the scene and in the victim were 9mm.  I know, what does that mean, Elizabeth?  The Colt Python was never made to fire a 9mm round, only .44, and .357 magnums.  A 9mm round is too small for the Python.  The round would fall out of the firing chamber and the firing pin would not be able to reach the primer to make a reaction to fire the bullet. 
So either we have another gun out there and the bullets were switched (in under 30 seconds, I might add) or whoever wrote this case is NOT doing their homework and didn't realize that Elizabeth would read the case. 
HAHAHA!! 

So, I have been at Olaf three days, no four.  So I am anxious for classes to start tomorrow.  I registered today and bought my books, needless to say, yikes!!  Whew, scary.  Everything else here is pretty awesome, though.  The people are great, the campus is beautiful, the food is great... speaking of food, I am hungry.  It's lunch time.  I'll talk to you later!

 I am Elibeth because my friend gave me that nickname.  I like it because it is lyrical and creative.  Liz is ok, but sometimes it seems a bit common.  Hobbit because I am short-ish.  And I love hobbits.  I used to be obsessed with one in particular...