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This was the least morbid "Jesus' suffering"-picture I could find that still had James Caviezel as Jesus. And I really think that if there is a God his son would truly be as hot as James Caviezel.

1) He died for our sins and all that, so if you are to believe in him it was important for him to die to complete his mission. (This also makes Judas less of a traitor, and the Romans just one of many pawns in God’s everlasting game of chess, or something along those lines.)

2) It doesn’t matter whether he died or not if you don’t believe in him, so really: To you he’s just a crazy guy from some millenia ago who had the misfortune of making some powerfull guys really cross (this is if you believe in him as a real historian person, just not the religion) and dying in a manner that many died in when found in the same situation. Or he never existed. Either way: His death wouldn’t be much to get riled up over today.

3) The Romans planned their killing of Jesus so well that it gives us hardworking students one extra week (or two, or more, depending on what school and country you are in..) of not having to be hardworking students, mid-semester.

I love these! I always torture them. Bahaha! (No, not really. I wouldn't do that... Probably.)

4) The capitalist-franchises realized that blood, crowns of thorns and big nails wouldn’t do well to celebrate, so they created cutesy bunnies that hands out eggs, either made of chocolate or consisting of chocolate and other tasty treats. Sometimes even the bunny is chocolate, just to embrace some of the macabre feeling of this otherwise cheerfull holiday, and their ears taste so good! (Especially those with white-chocolate layers, or fillings of some sort…)

5) His death gives way for some amazing “Dead Messiah”-jokes. I’m telling you: Way better than those boring and slightly less-morbid ones about dead babies.

Yes people, this year I’m a sucker for easter. And I know you’re all wondering why.
Because I’m going home today, that’s why. Currently I’m *cough* packing my bags *cough* *cough* and preparing for the flight that leaves in less than 5 hours. At least I will do that, soon, after writing this. And having a shower. And then it’ll be me and my man-friend on our way to Bodø to visit my friends and family. So I officially love the fact that Jesus died for our sins, because it means I’ll be skiing and… Well, doing basically all the same stuff I do in Tromsø (boardgames, read crime-novels, see some crime-movies and just being awesome…) but at least I haven’t gone skiing in quite some time.

Also: These past days were nice too. I finally met the last part of my man-friends family, and went on a really nice family-outing to this polar-museum where we watched seals being fed and I nearly broke my back on a slide with his niece. (At least that’s what I thought I almost did for some time, untill I realized I’m just too old for that stuff. That’s right, stuff.)

So all in all: I’m good. You now know a bit more about my personal life, as in “Yes, my man-friend has got a family and he’s not actually hiding me away from them.” I’m taking that as a good sign.

My own lovey-doveyness is now making me so sick I think I need a shower… (Just kidding, I needed one anyways. Have to be clean before I sit on a plane and get gross and plane-dirty again…)

I do kind of wish to know how my fellow bloggers and our readers are vacationing for this easter break. And what is your favourite thing about Jesus dying and stuff?

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How some women feel when stepping on the scale...

… is their weight. Some people say it’s their age, but weight is more of a touchy subject to most women as it is one thing that they have somewhat control over through dieting and working out. Age is (contrary to popular beliefs) uncontrollable.

Because women don’t talk about their weight I figured I should talk about weight. My weight, to be more presice. And this brings to mind another question to never, and I mean NEVER, ask one of your female friends…

The big and scary “Are you pregnant?

Roughly a year and some months ago (right around christmas 2009) I was at the college I went to, in the cafeteria. Here I met a friend I hadn’t seen in some months, because he studied in England. We met, we hugged, we chatted, and then he dropped the p-bomb.

Why should you never ask a girl or woman if she’s pregnant?

1) If she is you just ruined her moment of surprising you. She’s the one with the alien in her stomach for 9 months, she gets to tell you about it.

2) If she isn’t pregnant you just told her she’s fat.

If a woman is wearing this shirt, you may ask her if she's pregnant. I think...

1a) While stealing her thunder you are also reminding her that she’s fat. And will continue getting fatter.
2a) You also ruined her day, possibly week, possibly longer, and that delicious dinner she was planning is now ruined.
2b) Important: If she isn’t pregnant this question only leaves for one response (the one I had to my friend’s question…):

No, I’ve just gotten fat.

More than one year later I still have no problem with remembering the comment from my friend. I will have it said that I am not mad at him in any way, because if it hadn’t been for him I’d might never have started working out and dieting, and I wouldn’t have gotten all the health benefits from it. Also, I met him when I visited my sister in London 4 months later, and he made it all better by telling me I looked fabolous.

Why am I writing this?

First off: To brag! Obviously.
Second: To teach all you guys (and possibly girls?) to never ask you female friend if she is pregnant! I can not stress this enough. If you think she might be pregnant, wait for her to tell you herself. And if you think she has gained weight, and are a really good  friend of hers, you can possibly comment on that, but I would advise you not to go there.

There we go, an entire entry about one of the top subjects a woman “never talks about”. And I’m a woman. How ’bout that!

[poll id=”42″]

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I hate studying.

Maybe quitting university and going to work full-time for the rest of my life, without any significant education, wouldn’t be so bad. At least it would save me from having to write an essay on whether “Horrors-among-the-hollyhocks and a sanitized sense of evil” is an agreeable statement about Agatha Christie’s Poirot-novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Hollyhocks are, by the way, a kind of flower, brought to Europe from Asia in the 16th century.

How would life as a proletarian work out for me?

I did have to quit one of my previous jobs in a nursing home due to my arms; I have recurring carpal tunnel syndrome in both arms. So working in the health-care-system is basically out of the question. I have recently started working as a waitress at a restaurant, and a bartender at a bar. Both of which I like, but it’s basically only night-time jobs, and that doesn’t work out well with my plans of having a family with 16 kids and a couple of canines. Also: Both of these jobs involve a lot of carrying, pouring and other activities to make my arms hurt.

The biggest problem is this: I know what I want. I want to teach. And that can’t be done without studying. And so I’m stuck writing about the horrors among the hollyhocks, and other terrible tales.

This was brought to you, once again, by the queen of procratination.

(Upon trying to add the tag “University” the bar suggested unicorn. This made me happy, so I kept it.)

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I bet you’ve all been wondering to yourselves “Gee, I wonder why Frida hasn’t bothered us with more stupid anecdotes and feminist propaganda lately????”

I bring to you: The answer to your unasked question!

I’ve been drowning in schoolwork. And political work. And just being too cool to hang around on (Just kidding! You can’t be too cool for, only not cool enough!)

But like I was saying: I’ve been busy having a life. Also, I kind of broke my computer a bit whilst falling (with perfect form, might I add) on the devilish ice, and now it’s a pain to use for writing longer texts. These days, I basically only use it for Criminal Minds, Special Victims Unit and West Wing (my latest obsession, thanks to my “man-friend” [wink-wink, nudge-nudge]).

So why did I choose today to write this blog? To rub your noses in how my terrible day turned into a great day!

So first I deliver to you the story of my last couple of weeks.
I fell on ice and broke both my computer and my dignity. All wounds heal, I have some laught about it, and then it happens again. Only this time there wasn’t a computer there to break my fall.
I pretended to be a doctor and did my diagnosis based on receiving it a couple of times before (last time: Also due to falling on ice. Go figure…) I came to the conclussion that I had a mild concussion. No need to fuss, just some dizziness, constant fatigue and the possibility of throwing up. Also: I shouldn’t really try to read, work out or drink alcohol in a week. Only one problem: I go to university. I have to read! (This week: Truman Capote-In Cold Blood)

Then, after a couple of days mostly spent in bed and sitting down and stuff, I go to work my first shift in this student-bar. And I did hit my head mildly, again, so I didn’t manage to go into work today because standing up made me sick. And I had this meeting, and it was a massive failure, and a lot of things just plain sucked. I drop by my man-friends place to pick up some stuff (he’s in Oslo again, so I’ll have to go to the Wombats-concert alone. And I still can’t drink. Yay!) and I go home. (Doesn’t really sound like this day is getting better, does it?)

Back home I check my mail.

CA-CHING!!!!!!!! (For those of you who can’t read the pixeled [is that a word?] tickets: Me and 4 friends are going to see Foo Fighters! On our way to Roskilde. Yeah, that’s a big festival. In Denmark.)

(Also: I was going to use paper-clips or staples to keep the two sheets of tickets together, but couldn’t find any, so enjoy my sparkling blue hair-clips.)

Oh, and by the way: My hair is red now.

Zooming in and out of focus,
This was Frida.

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This is the second post in two days written by me. Why? Because I am supposed to be writing a paper on not being born a woman and another on linguistics, and read two Raymond Chandler-novels. And as you may know by know: I am the queen of procrastination.

Right now I’m in the library with a friend, and I must say: I love Tromsø! This is the best library I’ve ever been in, and the view is amazing. But do you know what isn’t amazing? Writing essays.

I wish I could write this paper in a more humoristic way. Seeing as it is a paper on philosophy, and I am supposed to show my own opinions and views in the writing of it, I guess I could write it like that, but it is supposed to be in preparation for my exam, and I most certainly can’t do that when writing my exam, so I guess I should just get used to it right away.

My last post did actually get comments, so I guess I should write about radical faminism more often. So now I will write about it some more.

The Simone de Beauvoir quote that I ended last blog-post with is the quote I am writing an essay on. And it is found in her most famous book: The Second Sex. This is actually two books, published as one, with many parts and chapter. It’s huge!

I haven’t read all of it yet, and maybe I never will, but I am reading the chapters on gender vs. sex, and how girls are treated differently than boys, this resulting in the different qualities that are associated with the different genders. It is an evil circle of girls being made submissive by the society, and therefore the society continues to expect girls to be submissive.

I was never brought up to be like that. My mother, being the strong and wonderful woman that she is, thought me to stand up for what I believe in, and she allowed me to dress in the way I wanted to and play with the toys I liked. There was no question of forcing me to wear dresses and pink, I got Legos and toy-cars when that was what I wanted, and I climbed trees and had playfights without anyone telling me that it wasn’t “suitable for a girl”. For this I am thankfull.

This doesn’t seem like a very radical up-bringing, I am sure, but I am also sure that my mother and fathers liberal gender-views were important for me to become the woman I have become. No-one ever told me I couldn’t do something just because of my sex, and so I never believed it to be impossible for me to do anything. And yet many girls and women react to my way of being, and even become biased towards me because of it. Do I view myself as any less of a woman for it? No. I know that I’m a woman, I even want to be a mother someday, I just don’t believe that women are naturally more “soft and fuzzy” than what men are. Men are just as capable of love, wimsiness and care-giving as women, and women are just as capable of entrepeneurship, intelligence and sexuality as men. And yet these qualities are still by many linked to one gender alone.

I say to hell with genders, we are all humans. The only thing different between women and men are reproductive organs, hormone-levels and muscle strength. Doesn’t seem quite as important as the human qualities of feelings, intelligence and sexuality, does it?


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