Well, I'm almost done with this blog and this job and this apartment and this neighborhood and this city. Through the frustrations of moving and constantly battling hangovers, it's a great feeling-- my mattress is more comfortable when I know it's holding me over the ground for the final morning and the view from my balcony gets warmer and warmer as the end of my lease draws closer.
I don't really know what I'm doing with my life. I never really noticed until I sat on a porch in a backyard in Sauganash and listened to my friends discuss industry jargon for their prospective careers. The knowledge in my head is spread thin and, as a result, doesn't add up to much.
I met this girl who's very smart and witty and funny and pretty and skinny and I'm afraid I might really like her.
This post took the past five shifts to get through. I suppose it's fitting that my writing here should finally fade away.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
No More Problems, Problems With Anything
Amy Winehouse is being mocked for dying, Bill O'Reilly believes that, by definition, no true Christian could commit mass murder, and I'm sick of everybody and their rash judgments and outspoken opinions. I don't think it's a stretch to say that most of these people hold their self-image as one that should be revered by everyone.
On facebook, on the day that Amy Winehouse was found dead, an ex-girlfriend of a very good friend of mine said something along the lines of, "How did Amy Winehouse die? Oh wait, hahaha!" I suppose I could be wrong, but I took this to mean, "Amy Winehouse overdosed? Of course she did, hahaha!" In my mind, that's the equivalent of saying, "Your grandmother died of cancer? Of course she did, she had been battling it for the past five years. hahaha!" I don't know. I mean, as far as I know, people seem to have certain proclivities or predispositions towards addictions. Was this facebookie's offhand comment a general denunciation of addicts as lesser people? Or maybe it's blaming her for using her voice to try to make something of her life (funny, considering the aspirations of this particular person)? More likely, I'd say it's disgust that someone seemingly so irresponsible could be ungrateful in an international spotlight (I'd say this would have to be the most elementary of mindsets as fame and fortune aren't cures for... anything).
Underneath it all, this could simply be a grudge against a person I didn't particularly like in the first place. Pretty petty, I suppose, but it's made me a little more empathetic.
Oh, and Bill O'Reilly's just an asshole. Is he really that stupid and self-righteous?
What's happening to me? Am I really passive-aggressively confronting friends' ex-girlfriends and Bill O'Reilly in the one aspect of my life that's meant to be a refuge from the trivialities of tabloids and news commentators with blinders?
On facebook, on the day that Amy Winehouse was found dead, an ex-girlfriend of a very good friend of mine said something along the lines of, "How did Amy Winehouse die? Oh wait, hahaha!" I suppose I could be wrong, but I took this to mean, "Amy Winehouse overdosed? Of course she did, hahaha!" In my mind, that's the equivalent of saying, "Your grandmother died of cancer? Of course she did, she had been battling it for the past five years. hahaha!" I don't know. I mean, as far as I know, people seem to have certain proclivities or predispositions towards addictions. Was this facebookie's offhand comment a general denunciation of addicts as lesser people? Or maybe it's blaming her for using her voice to try to make something of her life (funny, considering the aspirations of this particular person)? More likely, I'd say it's disgust that someone seemingly so irresponsible could be ungrateful in an international spotlight (I'd say this would have to be the most elementary of mindsets as fame and fortune aren't cures for... anything).
Underneath it all, this could simply be a grudge against a person I didn't particularly like in the first place. Pretty petty, I suppose, but it's made me a little more empathetic.
Oh, and Bill O'Reilly's just an asshole. Is he really that stupid and self-righteous?
What's happening to me? Am I really passive-aggressively confronting friends' ex-girlfriends and Bill O'Reilly in the one aspect of my life that's meant to be a refuge from the trivialities of tabloids and news commentators with blinders?
Monday, July 18, 2011
The End of That Chapter
My sister died in a dream I had during the morning of the previous Saturday. I woke up crying and feeling isolated-- on top of complete inability to handle the death of anyone even vaguely close to me, my plan for Denver became irrelevant.
After leaving the Redline Tap last night, Erica, Emma, Matsuo and I went on a little joy ride, and ended up at Nick's in Wicker Park. They're really fun, despite my slight confusion over why Emma thinks Erica and I should be, uh, "matched up".
But I know that road. I know where it goes.
I accept what I see and wait to wake up.
After leaving the Redline Tap last night, Erica, Emma, Matsuo and I went on a little joy ride, and ended up at Nick's in Wicker Park. They're really fun, despite my slight confusion over why Emma thinks Erica and I should be, uh, "matched up".
But I know that road. I know where it goes.
I accept what I see and wait to wake up.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday
I put a vague description of my record collection on craigslist and some guy says he's interested in all of them. I don't know if he's serious, or if he has any idea of the size of my collection. Tonight I should make a complete itemization so there's no confusion.
It's nearly 8 o'clock, the sun is shining bright, and nothing really matters. Maybe I'll have an extra beer at the bar tonight, and maybe it will hurt tomorrow. It's very sobering to be disconnected from some kind of project that builds on itself and has some aim or goal, yet to be in that sort of arrangement is just a distraction from the notion that it's all trivial. I'll die, hopefully in a ton of debt, and I'll be free from people running their mouths about trials they read incomplete coverage of in biased newspapers, or people who invoke some Abrahamic God into every occurrence.
Is this more real than I was feeling two weeks ago, or are they equally real but from different planes? When I spend my days biking and reading instead of drinking and smoking, my outlook is significantly more positive. Alcohol's a downer and there's nothing comforting about feeling like a dog on a leash that needs to be let outside every two hours. Cigarettes offer an interesting dichotomy that I'm sure I've mentioned before: when I'm not smoking they become the chains that hold me down, and when I haven't been smoking they represent the perfect companion in a car I'm driving far over the speed limit to prove to myself that I can do whatever I want whenever I want.
And now I've got this moral compass that's full of bad wiring. I've nothing to blame, not even myself.
There's a man in Papau New Guinea, a member of one of the few remaining tribal communities in the world, and he's being sought to stand trial for shooting a tourist full of arrows.
It's nearly 8 o'clock, the sun is shining bright, and nothing really matters. Maybe I'll have an extra beer at the bar tonight, and maybe it will hurt tomorrow. It's very sobering to be disconnected from some kind of project that builds on itself and has some aim or goal, yet to be in that sort of arrangement is just a distraction from the notion that it's all trivial. I'll die, hopefully in a ton of debt, and I'll be free from people running their mouths about trials they read incomplete coverage of in biased newspapers, or people who invoke some Abrahamic God into every occurrence.
Is this more real than I was feeling two weeks ago, or are they equally real but from different planes? When I spend my days biking and reading instead of drinking and smoking, my outlook is significantly more positive. Alcohol's a downer and there's nothing comforting about feeling like a dog on a leash that needs to be let outside every two hours. Cigarettes offer an interesting dichotomy that I'm sure I've mentioned before: when I'm not smoking they become the chains that hold me down, and when I haven't been smoking they represent the perfect companion in a car I'm driving far over the speed limit to prove to myself that I can do whatever I want whenever I want.
And now I've got this moral compass that's full of bad wiring. I've nothing to blame, not even myself.
There's a man in Papau New Guinea, a member of one of the few remaining tribal communities in the world, and he's being sought to stand trial for shooting a tourist full of arrows.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
We Are Not Perfect But We Should Try
Keeping my fingers crossed to sell my motorcycle this evening. Some guy's coming over with a bunch of cash and, presumably, a pick-up truck. He said he'd buy it if it's the way I described it on Craigslist. Selling that thing would be a huge step in the right direction-- slightly less credit card debt and a temporary allotment of cash in my wallet. Sweet.
On to yesterday...
The Kevins and I got back to my place from the bar around 5:30. The sky was gorgeous, but it was time to go to bed without setting an alarm. Oh, and Sarges was tending the bar, so he charged me $5 for two shots of Jameson and two beers.
I woke up around three, shaved my face and cleaned my apartment in some pathetic attempt to salvage any remaining scraps of dignity that may not have gone rotten with my guts that put up with that monsoon of bad beer and malt liquor, then sat outside with a smoke and some coffee.
Aaron stepped out and joined me on the porch as my gaze was transfixed on some distant high rise and we sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke,
"Wanna drive to Alaska?"
"Yeah, I do."
So that's the plan. It's in the most rudimentary of stages and most of it is based on hope.
Aaron left and I went inside, read for a while. then watched the Sox game.
I was looking forward to the party that night-- I don't often go to parties and the girl who invited me is cute and fun to talk with. Somehow, though, despite sleeping so late into the day, my will to go became begrudging.
After over-thinking some awkward intervals between responding text messages, I got in my car, went to the liquor store, left because I didn't want to exceed the $10 credit card minimum, drove to Hahn liquors to find it closed, drove back to the first store and added a Red Bull and a lighter to my purchase of six Rolling Rocks, bringing the total to $10,25, then drove to Wayne St. and found parking. Still hesitating, I stopped a few buildings away from my intended destination and slowly smoked a cigarette.
The first five minutes of awkwardly standing in the kitchen and bearing witness to people trying to break into the bathroom to free a girl who locked herself in was intimidating as I thought the rest of the night would involve me being checked on by the two people I half-know. This was not the case, though. See, when I used to go to parties, they often happened to be DePaul or Loyola students. The first few times it seemed like a good idea, then I picked up on something unsettling: what at first I attributed to THC-induced paranoia, I soon decided was happening in reality-- the cold shoulders, disapproving glares, and general iciness towards me because I was obviously out of place. I still didn't quite understand why, though. I mean, I was white and not terribly dressed, just like the majority of the people there. I don't know. It must've been that they already knew each other and, recognizing that no one else seemed to know me, were not willing to make conversation with people who existed outside the safety of being a fellow student. Regardless, last night's party was not the case at all. One girl took it upon herself to interrogate me in a friendly manner. I wasn't made to feel like a spectacle, but I also wasn't cast off as some kind of passing villain.
I talked to her friend the whole night. She's living in Denver now, but she's back for the summer. It was strange, talking to this girl; she's smart and witty and funny and pretty and skinny. And tall. But the thing that really got me was how many things we had in common. I got her bad That 70s show reference, but then she told me about David Lynch movies I haven't yet watched. And she likes dogs, not cats, and thinks that, though the Beatles are great and experimental and cool, it's much better to listen to the Rolling Stones on repeat. And we laughed at the irrelevance of some drunk socialist burning an American flag, and how riled up it got one girl. And she's kind of passive anti-religious and thinks smoking's ridiculous, but chain smokes when life gets boring. And she wants me to teach her to drive stick, and said she'd buy my Pet Sounds album.
On to yesterday...
The Kevins and I got back to my place from the bar around 5:30. The sky was gorgeous, but it was time to go to bed without setting an alarm. Oh, and Sarges was tending the bar, so he charged me $5 for two shots of Jameson and two beers.
I woke up around three, shaved my face and cleaned my apartment in some pathetic attempt to salvage any remaining scraps of dignity that may not have gone rotten with my guts that put up with that monsoon of bad beer and malt liquor, then sat outside with a smoke and some coffee.
Aaron stepped out and joined me on the porch as my gaze was transfixed on some distant high rise and we sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke,
"Wanna drive to Alaska?"
"Yeah, I do."
So that's the plan. It's in the most rudimentary of stages and most of it is based on hope.
Aaron left and I went inside, read for a while. then watched the Sox game.
I was looking forward to the party that night-- I don't often go to parties and the girl who invited me is cute and fun to talk with. Somehow, though, despite sleeping so late into the day, my will to go became begrudging.
After over-thinking some awkward intervals between responding text messages, I got in my car, went to the liquor store, left because I didn't want to exceed the $10 credit card minimum, drove to Hahn liquors to find it closed, drove back to the first store and added a Red Bull and a lighter to my purchase of six Rolling Rocks, bringing the total to $10,25, then drove to Wayne St. and found parking. Still hesitating, I stopped a few buildings away from my intended destination and slowly smoked a cigarette.
The first five minutes of awkwardly standing in the kitchen and bearing witness to people trying to break into the bathroom to free a girl who locked herself in was intimidating as I thought the rest of the night would involve me being checked on by the two people I half-know. This was not the case, though. See, when I used to go to parties, they often happened to be DePaul or Loyola students. The first few times it seemed like a good idea, then I picked up on something unsettling: what at first I attributed to THC-induced paranoia, I soon decided was happening in reality-- the cold shoulders, disapproving glares, and general iciness towards me because I was obviously out of place. I still didn't quite understand why, though. I mean, I was white and not terribly dressed, just like the majority of the people there. I don't know. It must've been that they already knew each other and, recognizing that no one else seemed to know me, were not willing to make conversation with people who existed outside the safety of being a fellow student. Regardless, last night's party was not the case at all. One girl took it upon herself to interrogate me in a friendly manner. I wasn't made to feel like a spectacle, but I also wasn't cast off as some kind of passing villain.
I talked to her friend the whole night. She's living in Denver now, but she's back for the summer. It was strange, talking to this girl; she's smart and witty and funny and pretty and skinny. And tall. But the thing that really got me was how many things we had in common. I got her bad That 70s show reference, but then she told me about David Lynch movies I haven't yet watched. And she likes dogs, not cats, and thinks that, though the Beatles are great and experimental and cool, it's much better to listen to the Rolling Stones on repeat. And we laughed at the irrelevance of some drunk socialist burning an American flag, and how riled up it got one girl. And she's kind of passive anti-religious and thinks smoking's ridiculous, but chain smokes when life gets boring. And she wants me to teach her to drive stick, and said she'd buy my Pet Sounds album.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
I Drank And Watched Her Laugh
Dez is a hero of mine. I used to have a little crush on her, but now I see that tying her down would defeat the purpose. She's couch-surfing in Ukranian Village, which sounds pretty sweet (in a "free" kind of way). It's people like her that make me want to sell all my things and start living my life-- no more keeping my records in pristine condition
A guy just stepped in the dog bowl outside the coffee shop. I love when that happens.
Anyways, I won't be alive for very long. Not that I'm a special case, but no one will. It's only tragic when this mindset actualizes itself too far, becoming a seemingly mindless, completely depressed and rundown waitress at Golden Apple. I feel awful for her and can only hope she had fun along the way.
Fuck. Yesterday I fixed my car and it cost twice what I had anticipated. Also, last night I was kind of drunk and pretty tired, so I had to park it on the street instead of in the seminary. I'll be surprised if there isn't a ticket waiting for me because of my refusal to purchase a city sticker on time. Speaking of which, who's the asshole who came up with the idea of a "city sticker"? I'll be glad when I've left you, Chicago.
A guy just stepped in the dog bowl outside the coffee shop. I love when that happens.
Anyways, I won't be alive for very long. Not that I'm a special case, but no one will. It's only tragic when this mindset actualizes itself too far, becoming a seemingly mindless, completely depressed and rundown waitress at Golden Apple. I feel awful for her and can only hope she had fun along the way.
Fuck. Yesterday I fixed my car and it cost twice what I had anticipated. Also, last night I was kind of drunk and pretty tired, so I had to park it on the street instead of in the seminary. I'll be surprised if there isn't a ticket waiting for me because of my refusal to purchase a city sticker on time. Speaking of which, who's the asshole who came up with the idea of a "city sticker"? I'll be glad when I've left you, Chicago.
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