It's the Fever Talking

You know you worked yourself too hard this week. That Tuesday night callback put you over the edge, but you did get cast. However, now you have to pay for wearing yourself out. Of course, the weather change didn't help either, but we both know you've been doing too much and not resting enough. It's a good thing you stopped by CVS on your way to work on Thursday to pick up some generic Day-Quil. Otherwise you would have had to go after 2:00, after you were struck down. It's funny, when talking of insects parents have a tendency to say platitudes about how you're bigger than it is. "It's more afraid of you than you are of it." And yet, a microscopic organism can take out a grown man.

Around 2:00 PM on Thursday, as you sat on the makeshift "chair," more commonly known as a cardboard box, staring at the row of files in front of you. You realize something isn't right. You had a bit of a sinus headache, but this is different. It's as if all your energy has been sapped from your body. You finish what you're working on, interrupted occasionally by periods of spacing out. You have a fever and you know it. You get up and have a coworker touch your forehead, and then your arm above your wrist. "You should go home." You haven't even left your workspace before your germaphobe cubicle buddy starts spraying your desk with disinfectant.

Getting home is hell. You have no interest in being around people, yet the EL is packed. Finally home, you take your temperature. 100.2 degrees, yep just as you had feared. Some small "bug" got you. You were almost out of winter illness free, but not anymore. It's 4:00 PM, and you have to be at the theatre at 7:00 PM. You take some pills to break your fever, set your alarm for 6:00 PM, and try to sleep. You wake up at 5:30 PM sweating. Sweating is a good sign; it means the fever is going down. You check, and it's now between 99 and 100 degrees. You eat, and make yourself presentable to go to the show.

It's only a 75-minute show, so you should be able to make it through. You make it almost to the end when it happens. Suddenly, the voices of the other actors along with the music seem to move far away. It sounds as though you're listening to them through a cardboard tube. A wave of . . . something washes over you. You can't focus on the show, on the action, you're mind is focusing on one thing only, not passing out. You will yourself to stay on your feet, and in the back of your mind you know what's just happened. The fever is back. The faint feeling finally passes replaced by the chills. Now you finish the show trying not to visibly shake onstage. Finally, you can go home.

102 degrees is what your body's temperature shot to sometime between leaving home to go to the theatre and returning home from the theatre. No wonder you almost passed out. So, you take some more pills, pile every sheet, blanket, and comforter onto your bed, change into your sweats, and bury yourself determined to beat this fever.

3:00 AM you wake up coughing badly. Your chest is tight, it hurts to breathe. This is nothing new, you've had respiratory problems you're whole life. Tonight though your mind wanders as each painful cough loosens some phlegm. You see yourself in some distant future when you're body is weak and frail, an old man lying in his bed. His lungs begin to fill with fluid from his own body and he no longer has the strength to expel it. He, you drown lying there on your bed. It's funny how being ill makes us face our own mortality. 101 degrees, it looks like your white blood cells are doing their job. They've almost completely driven me from your body, but you should take some more medicine to help things along.

4:00 AM, 100 degrees and falling. You're sweating, that means our time is almost over. You can't sleep can you? But, that's partly because you're feeling better, and your fever is dropping. It seems like you've beaten me. Your body has gotten you through again. But, we'll meet again, you and I. And, one day somewhere in the future, I'll win. Well, provided you don't do anything stupid like getting hit by a bus. I can't stay any longer; your immune system is pushing me out the door. Have a good life my friend, because one day this "bug" will remove you from the world.

Tuesday Night on the Red Line

I leave the theatre a little after 10:00. Fortunately, the Jarvis stop is across the street. I climb up the urine scented stairs to the platform. I look north toward Howard, but there is no sign of the next train. So, I resign myself to the wait. I continue to look up the platform towards Howard, and I notice the woman. She stands near the other set of stairs. She's talking to someone . . . no wait . . . she's not talking to anyone. She's just talking. I continue to look that direction, trying not to stare at the woman. But, she turns and looks my way. I can't make out what she's saying, but it looks as though she's directing whatever it is towards me. I don't move, hoping she'll realize I'm not looking at her, but towards Howard. She begins to walk towards me. I consider turning around, but decide against it. My logic being that if I do that then it might be proof in her mind that I was indeed looking at her. Finally, I begin to make out what she's saying. It's mostly swearing mixed with racial epithets, and the occasional mention of how the wealthy white people always get what they want. She stops ten to fifteen feet away from me, and to my relief no longer appears to be addressing me. I make sure I avoid eye contact just in case. I listen to her continue to have a conversation, yes it is an actual conversation with no one. A thought enters my head, perhaps because I just came from rehearsal, but it sounds like she may actually be reciting lines from a play.

I spend the next ten minutes trying to decide if she's an actor, crazy, or both. I also find it surreal in that her raving sounds like it could be part of a performance, if it is raving. Finally, the train arrives. She's not on my car. I go the three stops to Granville. I walk down the platform towards the stairs. I walk behind an older woman in a tattered coat who's shoulders are so hunched over that only a small tuft of hair is visible from her head. However, her coat has a fur lined hood that is down, and her hair blends in with this. It creates the illusion that she is in fact headless. I follow the headless woman to the stairs. She, however, takes the elevator. I decend the stairs, and walk home.

Declaration

I would like to announce a new phase of phone etiquette.

If I don't recognize your phone number, I will still not pick up. But I would appreciate you leaving a message. Even if it's just to say "Sorry. Wrong number."

Thank you.

Soup "At Hand" My (At) Ass!

To the makers of Campbell's "Soup at Hand"

Dear Sirs:

Holy shit. Are you kidding me?

I have seen your commercials presenting your product as an ideal choice for "Lunchers on the go." Construction workers and commuters alike are shown enjoying the easy portability of this sippable soup. While I'm rarely "on the go," and I own neither car nor backhoe, I was excited about trying your "Creamy Tomato" soup while at work today (I don't own a microwave either).

Turns out I could have used a backhoe. To deal with the huge pile of disappointment.

Following instructions, I carefully peeled the pull-ring metal top from the can. I swear to god I pulled slowly, evenly, and carefully. Only to have it spring off at the last minute, spraying half the soup in a creamy red volcano, drenching my person, the employee toaster, refrigerator and the coffee pot. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get a million tiny dots of tomato soup out of a coffee pot? This is one insidious soup.

Undeterred, I ran a paper towel over my face and proceeded with your careful directions so as to "enjoy a hearty lunch (or at least half of one) in the palm of my hand!" I microwaved it for the suggested 60 seconds and prepared myself, knowing "soup would be very hot."

It wasn't. I stirred it as directed and re-inserted it as "if you wish for a hotter soup, microwave for an additional 15 seconds." I did indeed wish. I did indeed microwave for an additional 15 seconds. Hell, at this point I started suspecting you're all a bunch of filthy liars and I nuked it for 30 seconds.

Despite multiple attempts with varying cooking power and duration to get this fucking soup warmed to an acceptable level, I never achieved anything more than "slightly lukewarm." You suck.

Eventually I gave up, slapped the "convenient sipping lid" on the thing (spraying an additional quarter of the soup back into the coffee pot) and tried to enjoy my soup at hand.

The soup itself was not awful. I prefer creamier tomato soups, and while I found the flavor and consistency of yours identical to the sauce one finds in canned spaghettios, I didn't hate it. But as for convenience? Y'all are full of it. It took me a good 10 minutes to prepare (what should have been) 8oz of soup, not including the 20 minutes of clean up time. Your main selling point is that this is portable soup, easy to take anywhere. I don't know why I would need to take it anywhere because I drank the whole damn thing in less than a minute, standing in front of the microwave.

I really just can't follow the logic behind this one. Technically, yes, I could carry the can of soup around with me, it fits nicely in my grasp. But the amount of preparation required totally defeats the purpose of a lunch that you can allegedly "enjoy anywhere!"

Maybe if you had some sort of rip-cord on it. Pull a string, zzzziiiippp....And the can self-heats. That would be cool. And portable.

But as it is...I'm afraid you won't find Campbell's "Soup at Hand" in my hand anytime soon.

Christ, I'm still trying to get it out of my hair.

Sincerely,
Karla Pacheco

PS. You guys should really talk to the people who make Kraft's "On the Go! Deluxe Single Serve Creamy Cheese and Pasta." Holy shit is that good! Seriously, it's piping hot and perfect in one minute. For real. It's like the really good Velveeta Shells meals we could never afford when I was a kid (we only got the orange powder mix stuff) and it's fucking awesome. It's better than baby Jesus, America and a basket of kittens combined, covered in oozy, delicious cheese. In fact, that's just what it's like...like eating a kitten covered in hot, savory cheese. God, it is soooo good. You should try some. They're 2 for $3 at Walgreen's right now. And they kick the ass out of your fucking pansy soup.

The following should be spoken in a broken English accent:

Did I miss this stage direction somewhere? What is it about classical English that prompts some actors to affect a modern British accent? Maybe it wouldn't bug me so much if it was a consistant accent, instead of a word here or there. Yes, there are "thee and thous" in the script, but none of us are English. Granted the play is written by an Irish playwright, but it is not set in the UK. It's set in the Middle East around 27 AD. I doubt anyone living in that time or place spoke English, much less had an English accent. Am I saying that we should adopt accents that would fit the setting? Um, no, I'm not. Just speak in YOUR voice. This isn't fucking Pride and Prejudice, people.

Geometry Pt. 1: Third Person Squared (Batter Up)

“…She thinks she might like the boy in the middle. She took a motorbike ride with him once (wherein she squealed appreciatively in a charming manner). She’s had a couple of decent “We’ve got friends in common, we probably have other things in common” conversations with him. She’s battered her eyes at him. She has pretty eyes, she’s heard…”

“Wait a minute…Battered her eyes?”

The author was slightly drunk.

“That can’t be right. It’s not “battered,” for Christ’s sake.”

She was just past the buzzed stage, having had to pinch pennies at the bar tonight and come home early, alone. She’d spent the evening watching two musicians she’d previously slept with play a show (they’re in the same band), sitting behind a friend of theirs that she thinks she might like. When she came home, she decided it’d be a good story. She likes writing rambling little tales of woe she pretends aren’t about her (God, does she love third person), but at least the stories are better than the songs she used to write. She really can’t sing to save her life.

“She thinks she might like the boy in the middle…” Ooh, good beginning. She’d smiled and managed a sip from her plastic cup of cheap screw-top wine without extinguishing her dangling cigarette (she thinks she looks really romantic when she does this, by the way). The words flew out in a dazzling, piquantly drunken manner…Love, longing, self-hate, a piteous but subdued hope…It was all there. She wrapped up her tiny opus with a flip, slightly despondent sentence (her trademark) and brushed a fragment of cigarette ash off her chest. The warm glow of accomplishment and $5 Chablis spread through her as she leaned back to read.

“Battered? That’s not right. What the fuck?”

Sad to say, it took her a good five minutes to recall the proper term was “Batted.” Then she couldn’t decide if the correct present tense was “Batt” or “Bat.”

That night she had nightmares about people dipping their faces in a mixture of eggs, flour, and milk (salt and pepper to taste), followed by the deep frying of eyelashes.

The image is still kind of haunting her.

Geometry Pt. 2 : (Run On) Bermuda Triangle

She thinks she might like the boy in the middle. She took a motorbike ride with him once (wherein she squealed appreciatively in a charming manner). She’s had a couple of decent “We’ve got friends in common, we probably have other things in common” conversations with him. She’s batted her eyes at him. She has pretty eyes, she’s heard.

The boy to the left, she slept with three times. She didn’t quite love him (as she was fond of saying) but she almost did. She’ll admit she came damn near to, though if she was at all honest with herself (which she isn’t, it’s one of the things she loves about herself), she would accept the fact that he made her feel the way she felt that one time. The time she loved this boy that used to love her. When she alternately felt like absolute gold and absolute shit every other minute and second of the day (it was the point where she first decided maybe the joy of love isn’t worth the pain, she still hasn’t decided for sure) but she loved that boy too late and eventually he couldn‘t love her anymore. Though in the case of the boy on the left, she loved too early, if she indeed did love. Anyway, she’s already used the term “love” too many times to describe the situation and you know that can’t be good.

The boy on the right she slept with twice. He’s best friends with the boy on the left. She nearly didn’t have sex with the boy on the right (that first time) because he knew that she liked the boy on the left, and (as he informed her in a moment where her heart actually cracked, just a little) he knew the boy on the left liked her. The boy on the right admitted in the same moment that he liked her too, just a little. And if the boy on the left had never been involved, she totally would have gone for the boy on the right. But at the time, the boy on the left was so very there (even though he wasn’t really there, for a million convoluted, fucked up reasons). So they left it at that, after a million, fucked up convoluted moments. Months later, after any possibility with the boy on the left (through no fault of her own, she’s pretty sure) was dead and gone…She slept with the boy on her right again. He had a girl on HIS left this time. A girl that was probably right for all the right reasons. And coincidentally, a girl that was good friends with the boy on the left. But for all of that…The boy on the right knew exactly what she wanted. Just like before, he did everything right, he was rough and brutal and un-asking…A talent for hurting in all the best ways. She still melts a little, when she thinks of it. She still has to fight to be (somewhat) good when he looks at her.

So now she sits, with a boy on each side. Guilt tints one memory. Self-hate colors the other. She feels better about the ‘guilty” one (in her mind, it’s a lesser evil), than the one she still (if she’d admit it to herself) aches for (it‘s probably not the one you think…or maybe it is). She tries to position her mind towards the boy in the middle. Like a compass. Baser urges and something else (that she can’t quite admit to) pull her in other directions. But she focuses. Batts her eyes. Asks insightful and practiced questions…The type that make the questioned feel like they’re the most important person in the world…She tries to make the boy in the middle feel like he’s amazing. She hopes he likes her.

She hopes she likes him.

Things I've said I'm gonna blog about (but probably won't)

(Thanks to Dave, Abbie, George)

*That one girl at the Aragon who was totally rocking out, fist in the air, singing along amid a sea of nonplussed concert goers waiting for the opening band to end.

*"The lady at the container store totally blew my mind."

*Calendars and buffet until 2am!

*Macaroni salad

*The Algonquin Kid's Table (Okay, this one is just too good to resist...)

The cartoonist carefully traced it out...Lil' Dottie Parker with a martini glass of milk tossed off a bon mot about naptime, Jimmy Thurber colored with crayons and Bobby Benchly was tweaking the braids of a wee Edna Ferber. As the cartoonist leaned back to examine his handiwork, he smiled confidently. If "The Algonquin Kid's Table" didn't get him into The New Yorker, nothing would.

(Dave or George, I would like this cartoon. Please get on it. Thank You.)

Inexplicable items found in the office refrigerator

Item: A single bell pepper

Item: Full jar of garlic-dill pickle spears, prominently labeled with co-worker's name in metallic pen (three spears later unrepentantly consumed by author)

Item: Two pound bag of very tiny limes (contents of fridge scoured for presence of something that would necessitate limes, i.e., gin, vodka, or similar to no avail.)

Item: 214 packets of Hellman's mayonnaise

Item: 5 bottles of pancake syrup

Item: Ziplock bag of diced tomatoes

Item: Two bunches of celery (per their sharpie scribbled initials, celery and tomatoes did not belong to the same co-worker, eliminating author's original theories of "salad making")

Item: One and one half juice bottles stripped of their original labels (and minus any other identifying marks), containing something "brown"

Item: One unopened jar cocktail olives (Author scours fridge for possible cocktails...Turns up nothing. Checks to see if olives are pimento stuffed. They aren't. Author eats entire damn bottle anyway.)

A Very Trivial (Pursuit) Dialogue 12-22-04

(Or: Jokes so inside that they're almost outside!)

"Okay, here's a clue...He looks like Zim, but with Stinton's blackness."
"What?"
"Like Zim with Stinton's blackness."
"Uh...Wow. It's a TV actor?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. I have no idea, though the mental image is amusing me. Um...Christ, I don't fucking know...Bernie Mac?"
"How the hell did you come up with Bernie Mac???"
"You said Stinton's blackness.."
"I said Stinton's glasses. It was Drew Carey."
"You totally said 'blackness'."

"Wait a minute...Why do you think I look like Drew Carey?"



Bonus comment:

"Zim, you will so be the mack of WNEP if you tell everybody that you got to watch Abbie mount Karla."

The Last Meeting

The ambient noise of the subway station became a steady roar in his ears. He’s used to it by now. He concentrates on her. Looking down the tracks, he sees her looking at him out of the corner of his eye. She’s thinking something, but as usual he has no idea what it is. She waits for him to look at her again then says,

“He thinks you moved here because of me.”

So, the conversation has moved back to her boyfriend. He’s tried to be friendly with the guy, but the boyfriend won’t have anything to do with him. “What? That’s silly. You did tell him that I decided to move here long before you did.” Which is true. Chicago was on his mind before he got emotionally involved with her, before he fell in love with her. Fate brought them to the same city at the same time, not that it makes any difference.

“Yes, but he stills thinks you moved here because of me. He thinks you still have feelings for me."

How perceptive of him. “Really . . .”

“Yeah, and he doesn’t like it when I spend time with you.”

A sudden rush of frustration races up his spine. He does not understand why she puts up with the guy. He can remember a time when she was as stubborn as he is, but now she’s been tamed. Tamed by someone who’s unwilling to even be at the same place at the same time with a perceived threat. At least she came this time, and without a curfew for once. “Do you two ever fight?”

“Of course we do.”

“Ok, it just seems like he likes to stay in control. I don’t know why he’s worried about me. I see you, what, once every six months?” Another pang of frustration hits his chest this time. Every time he thinks he's over her, he sees her dark hair and piercing green eyes, and feels everything all over again.

“I know, but he thinks you still have feelings for me.”

“ . . .” He looked away too quickly on that last comment. He’s pretty sure she caught it. He’s been very careful to keep the walls up. He decided a long time ago not to ever let her see what he really feels. He knows it would be better for all if she remains under the impression that he is over her. But, now he's worried he gave something away just then. The roar of the approaching train breaks his concentration. “Thank god.” He says masked by the noise.

Mr. Blackwell's Worst Decorated, 2004

Well darlings, I’ve made my list and checked it twice, and I’ve found far more houses that were naughty than nice…Here is this year’s list of Christmust-nots!

2245 N. Sheffield is nothing more than an O’ holy nightmare! Poorly strung lights, giant illuminated teddy bears, and 5 Santas that bark carols…If this ho-ho-horror was MY only option, I would have slept in the stable, too.

Little drummer boring is all I have to say about the Anderson house on Western. A single strand of white lights around the window and a wilting wreath on the door? “Blah-Humbug!”

We go dashing throughh the “NO!” at the corner of Cornelia and Damen…This Jingle Hell left me cold with mismatched lights that barely went half way up the trees they were supposed to cover. Oh TannenBLECH! Either deck the halls to the wall or don’t bother.

These grinches have certainly confirmed that 2004 "'Tis the season to be tacky..."



And as for the Rosenbaums in Lakeview…All I can say is you’ve turned this Festival of Lights into a HanuKAN’T!

Unfuckingbelievable

Jay couldn’t believe his luck. His friends couldn’t believe his luck.

“She’s really gonna go for it?” “Dude! How’d you set that up?”

Jay demurred with the modestly smug grin of a man who is suddenly the coffee room Alpha male. When pressed though, he had to admit he was just as surprised as the rest of them.

“Well, I really can’t even remember how it came up. I mean, I know I’ve always thought about it and shit…Who hasn’t? But when we started talking about it I remembered all that shit that they always tell you to say to a girl in that situation . You know, that shit in Maxim and stuff. Be all intrigued and curious and everything, but if you act too interested it’ll creep her out.

“Man. I can’t fucking believe this, dude. Unfuckingbelievable.”

“Right? I mean, I had no idea that that shit would actually work.”

“So who’s it gonna be?”

“Well in the magazines they always said you have to let the girl pick. So when it started looking like Becky was really gonna go for it, I kinda joked about whether she would rather have a friend in it or someone we don’t know. At first she thought someone new would be better, but eventually she decided that she wouldn’t be as comfortable. So she asked her friend Sandra. You know, the tall one with the really long hair.”

“God, Jay. This is the coolest thing ever. You’re the man, man. I mean, I can’t believe you got your girlfriend to agree to…"

What? What did Becky agree to? Choose your own ending from the following:

A) Ironic Twist Ending:

“…agree to buy a three person canoe and take a rafting trip down the Colorado river. That is sooooo sweet.”

“I know. It’s gonna be awesome. Why’d you say “agree to” twice?”


B) Cruelly Ironic Twist Ending:

“…agree to a threesome. That is sooooo sweet.”

“I know. It’s gonna be awesome. Why’d you say “agree to” twice?”

“I have a stutter.”

That night, Jay got off work early. He picked up some scented candles, a nice bottle of wine, and a new pair of boxer shorts. Becky and Sandra worked at the same downtown boutique, and had agreed to come straight home after their shift. When they arrived, there was a good deal of giggling and tentative flirting. Halfway through the bottle of wine, Sandra leaned over and kissed Jay. He looked up quickly, to check on Becky. She was smiling approvingly and stroking Sandra’s thigh.

They moved into the bedroom, and Jay mentally prepared himself for what was sure to be the most memorable night ever. He tried to freeze every moment into his brain for the story he’d have to tell for the rest of his life. The girls began slowly undressing. Jay reached for his belt buckle.

“What are you doing?” Sandra asked. “Well, I’m…” “Oh no, honey,” said Becky, “We don’t want you here.” “What?” “No, babe…we want you to leave. Go into the living room or something.”

Jay thought for a moment. “Are you a lesbian?”

“Of course not!” Becky laughed, “It’s just that neither Sandra nor I find you sexually attractive.” “Yeah,” piped Sandra, “From all accounts, you’re a great boyfriend and provider. But neither of us wants to fuck you.”

“Oh.” Jay stood for a moment, holding his hands awkwardly by his belt. “If that’s the way you want it…” The girls had already turned away from him, caught up in each other, passionately touching and kissing. He coughed nervously. “Can I at least watch?” Becky shot him a quick look of pity and disgust, her tongue rammed down Sandra‘s throat. “Okay, well. Um. I guess I’ll just…yeah.”

Jay returned to the living room and picked up the wine glasses. He rinsed them before carefully putting them away and returning to the couch. He spent the night watching a Green Acres” marathon on Nick-at-Nite.

(note: This was the original ending of the story before I realized it resembled a plot twist on “Friends.”)


C) Completely Un-Ironic Ending:

“…agree to a threesome. That is sooooo sweet.”

“I know. It’s gonna be awesome. Why’d you say …?” And at that, Jay pulled out a large machete and slashed his co-worker to death.

Upon returning home, he fucked the living hell out of two sweet ladies and their beautiful vaginas. It was the best night of his life.

Writing in third person means you can pretend it's not about you

Liberation Day

“Thank you very much. You’re all set up. Have a nice day.”

With those words, she was finally free. The ATM card for the new account gripped firmly in hand (a “temporary” card, the official one would arrive in the mail in 6-10 days), she walked into the street a liberated woman.

The new bank was less than a block from her apartment. Her old bank was in the same building as her office, convenient, but not quite as handy as the new one would be. She proceeded briskly down the street, past the grocery store, the movie theater, the quaint and cozy coffee shop (for curling up with a sandwich, hot tea and a magazine) and the 24 hour corporate coffee place (all night high speed internet access!). She smiled regally at the performing arts center, the 24 hour Walgreen’s, two floral shops, the bar where the hot young 20somethings go (she qualifies as a hot young 20something for a few more years) and the quiet pub where she likes to grab a pint on a slow afternoon.

With this last step she had finally accomplished it. Living in one of the largest cities in the world, surrounded by myriad cultures and flavors, drowning in exotic restaurants, fantastic theaters, verdant parks and concert halls both rock and symphonic…She had finally managed to limit her entire world to a two-block stretch of city life. Everything she could possibly need or want…Right. There.

Sure, she’ll still have to go to work, but she moved to this neighborhood because she’s only a $5 cab ride away.

Other than that, she’ll never leave home again.

Here are some funny pictures

Since my last post turned into an after school special, I have lost interest in continuing my story. So instead, here are some funny pictures. Enjoy!!!

On disdaining your audience: A study in disillusionment

The EL is a bit creepy at 6 in the morning.

That's when I'm coming home from the overnight shift at the radio station. The train alternates completely empty cars (my ultimate prize) with seats full of the silent and vacant eyed. They're mostly hispanic immigrants or blacks, on their way home from third shift janitorial or security jobs. Or on their way to the early morning janitorial or security shift. I'm not being racist. I recognize the uniforms. And I recognize the quiet resignation of someone who does the job that nobody else wants.

Honest moment: I have frequently fought the urge to stand up in the middle of a car full of fellow hispanics and yell "I'm not like you. I'm a professional! I may look like you, I may work the same hours as you, but I have a job that people respect...I'm not like you." It's an ugly impulse.

This morning my early morning compatriots and I sat in our usual mute contemplations. Oblivious to everything except our own thoughts and private views of a darkened downtown Chicago. It's an almost oppressively hushed environment.

Except for the guy two seats over who's walkman was so loud that the music he was listening to escaped his headphones and echoed throughout the car.

I glanced sideways at the window I was staring out of (I wasn't really looking out the window, I was just watching my own face mirrored in the Plexiglas) to catch the reflection of this inconsiderate savage who dared violate our nearly contractual silence. Overweight white guy in his late 30s, bad goatee, bundled in a collection of flannel shirts and a jean jacket straight from 1989. The music was so loud that I was able to clearly make out the song.

Beastie Boys. Time to get Ill.

"Oh shit," I sighed "He's listening to Q101."

The station I had just left overflows with the Beastie Boys. At least once an hour I have to play a track and make it sound like I'm thrilled that they're coming up next. It's ridiculous. I don't know who decided that All-Beasties-All-The-Time was a great programming move, but it couldn't be more perfectly designed to annoy the fuck out of me. I mean, I like the Beastie Boys okay...Just not all the goddamn time.

I decide to sneak another peek at this cretin.

"Oh yeah, that's a classic Q101 listener for ya'," I thought "Jesus, what a fucking slob." I look down at my overlarge winter coat and congratulate myself on not wearing my station jacket. "I bet it'd fucking thrill the shit out of this guy to know he's sitting next to a real, live, Q101 DJ. He was probably listening to me earlier, he's probably like all the other fucks who call in and think I'd go out with them, or shit like that. What a 'tard."

The song ended, and I could clearly catch the "bullet" (the little sound effect thingy where pre-recorded guys with big ballsy voices tell you how cool the station you're listening to is) between songs.

He wasn't listening to Q101. In fact, he was listening to our major competitor.

I looked back out the window.

For once I wasn't watching my reflection, or even the shadowy buildings and streets whizzing by.

I was blind all the way to Sedgewick.

Adventures in Internet Conversations or How I Wasted My Saturday Night

After much interspection, foreplanning, and a moment of blind financial terror I decide that it is best that I stay in this weekend. I have to save money for the holidays after all. I have presents to buy for my mother and her husband, and at this point I'm completely clueless. My brother on the other hand is a much easier mark. Atari is releasing a retro console with something like twenty of the old Atari classics preloaded on it. Since my brother's video game skills never progressed past the 2600, I have decided that it will be a welcome change to the usual DVD purchase. The last on the list is my niece. She's only five, so this won't be too hard. Anyway, the thought of all of this, and a glance at my budget has forced me to supress the urge to go to Town Hall tonight. I do, after all, have a new computer to play with.

I start playing Civilization III for the third time about 7:00. I've restarted again, because I was losing. If I can't rule the world, then I don't want to play to the end, goddammit! I eat my grilled fish, steamed green beans, and baked potato while pointing and clicking. Alas, the damn French are so much more advanced than my Greeks, and I haven't even come across any other civilizations yet. I'm not in the mood to lose tonight. I send all of my Greeks into oblivion by exiting without saving. Damn French.

I decide to try something I haven't attempted in a very long time. I'm going to a chat room. That'll pass the time. I'll just talk to some people. I start out in the 20's room. My screen name is quietguy, because I don't always talk. I am not in the room for a minute before a private message pops up.

"hi"

Should I use proper grammar here, does it matter? Just type something dumbass!

"hello."

"full load of fun in my head :) is it fun there?"

What the hell does that mean?

"not yet"

I suck at this.

"i'm so excited :) just agood day 2day. . let chat? :)"

What the hell am I doing?

"ok"

"well. . . 22/f/us here. . you?"

"26/m/chicago"

"yeah. . hmm. . wanna see me on webcam? now? you do not need a cam."

Dammit, this is an ad, isn't it?

"If this is an ad for a cam site, I'm not interested."

Looks like my grammar came back, damn education.

"Lets meet http://grin.dot7.org/members/cintia_ehuer"

I close the message window. Of course the entire time this conversation is occuring more private messages pop up with more links. At least these people don't waste my time pretending that they want to talk. I switch rooms hoping that I can find one with real people in it. But, everytime I hit the same experience. There are a few people actually chatting, but from what they are saying, it sounds like they're a lot younger than I am. Oh well, I tried. I suppose I can attempt to rule the world again.

High Scorer

"I don't get it," She starts "I mean, I don't know why I'm never even considered."

They're at the tiny Mexican restaurant he likes (veggie burrito for him, 2 taco dinner for her, he'll finish her rice and beans later when she gets full), and she's finally broached one of the reasons she suggested dinner tonight. She needs his opinion. Or maybe just his validation.

"I'm attractive enough, I'm smart, I'm funny. And I'm totally cool. Like, I don't freak out like the other girls, I don't bitch when someone's too busy to see me...I don't act all needy and shit. And yet they never even think about me." She toys a dribble of salsa over some rice. "I feel like I'm the pinch hitter. Like, I'm a really great pinch hitter. I always knock it out of the park. But no one ever picks me to start a game."

"What exactly is it you're looking for?" He asks.

"I don't know. I mean, I'm not saying I need to "play a whole game," but it'd be nice if someone would at least think about me playing a couple of innings. I don't understand why that's so inconceivable. Maybe it's just an ego thing. I don't necessarily want to play the whole game, but I want somebody to want me to."

They focus on their dinner for a while, discussing other things in their lives. Plans to join the Peace Corps or go to Europe, difficulties with her job, the girl from San Francisco that's coming to visit him over Thanksgiving.

As he finishes off her second taco and starts on the rice and beans (she wasn't as hungry as she thought), she returns to the subject.

"Is it me? What am I doing wrong?" She twists a thin paper napkin into a mangled clump.

"Well, it's like this...No one is going to draft you when they think you're gonna quit the team as soon as they make you an offer."

She sits quietly a moment. "That makes sense," she says. They begin collecting the detritus of their meal, loading it back onto the plastic tray to deposit in the bin by the door. They stroll silently into the cold autumn mist, and he walks her to the bus stop.

"Thanks," she says "That was nice." "Yeah, I'll see you on Thursday" (at the Thanksgiving party where she'll meet the girl who's coming to visit him). "Be careful," he says, as he hugs her goodbye.

The bus is nearly empty, and she sits unseeing, thinking about what he said. She feels like there's a decision to be made, but she doesn't know what it is. When the bus halts two stops before the one that would take her home, she gets off. She walks two blocks to the bar where they know her, where she spends most of her nights.

She sits alone at the bar, chatting occasionally with the bartender. Ignoring the guy that ignored her first. During her second gin and tonic, she smiles at a boy ordering a drink. "I like your tattoo," she says, running her finger down his bicep. She leans back and gives him a look that's as much a challenge as enticement. In a few hours she'll lie sleepless, staring at the boy's ceiling and wonder if she's made a decision or not.

Batter up.

Unsolicited Chicken Slogans for Frankel

"The Chickening"

"Bride of Chicky"

"Dawn of the Drumette"

"The Rocky Horror Chicken Show"

"Army of Darkmeat"

"The Crunch-iestchickenstripseveroryourmoney-Back of Notre Dame"

"The Henhouse on Haunted Hill"

"Plan 9 (piece nugget meal) from Outer Space"

"Chicken of the Corn" alt "Children of the Corn-fed, farm fresh, organically raised Chicken"

"Sometimes They Come Back...For more delicious chicken strips!"

"White Meat on Elm Street"

"Bram Roaster's Dracuchicken"



More to come later, I'm sure. Whether I want to or not.

Shot Down

I know the drill.
I even have a helmet.
However, for some reason I keep trying,
hoping,
that I will find that one diamond in the barren sand.

Yet again I find myself brooding over what might have been.
What signs did I miss?
Is my judgement just this bad?
Why can't I find what so many have?

The old cliche skips in my head:
"Hope springs eternal."
Yet I find myself at the bottom of the well.

Filling a Void

No one has posted in awhile. So I'll pipe up and see if we can get this engine started again.

I am working on a chicken strips project here at work. We're coming up with fun and arresting chicken-oriented lines. You know, something unexpected and fun.

I want to use "Something Chicken This Way Comes."

I like it. Maybe not everyone would get it, but hey - we're trying to appeal to a hip and intelligent demographic, or something.

My only concern: we will be cursing the restaurant.

I am torn.

In other news, Wendy's "Unofficial" Spokesman has been canned. I guess the public showed some uncharacteristic taste and responded negatively to the ads, and Wendy's decided to pull the campaign. You won't have Mr. Wendy to kick around anymore after the end of the month.

Some notes:

1) The idea isn't so bad. The first couple commercials were kind of amusing.

2) The guy bobbed his head way too much when he talked. You have about three more weeks to notice this: the guy's like a twinkly-eyed, earnest Bobblehead.

3) The most recent commercials have been kind of excruciating, unfunny in a bizarre non-joke way. Like the one where he's talking to the kid about how he didn't have so many choices in his "kid's meal" growing up? He talks about how he didn't get to choose between fries and mandarin oranges, or between soda, milk, or apple juice. And the kid says something like, "Maybe they didn't trust you to make an informed decision." And Mr. Wendy bobbles his head with humility and says, "Point taken," and turns away, shamed. "Point taken"?? What point? Was this a dis? Mr. Wendy reacts as if he's just been dissed to within an inch of his life. The pieces of the joke-saw puzzle just don't quite fit.

4) You notice how the word "Unofficial" is always in quotes? The caption below his bobbling head says: Mr. Wendy, "Unofficial" Wendy's Spokesman. I can tell you why: the legal department shot back a memo that said, "We can't say he's an unofficial spokesman. He IS official." And the creative team shot back, "But that's the joke." Legal: "We can't imply that this is an honest customer testimonial." Creative: "But... But don't you get it? That's the joke is that he really likes Wendy's food, and he wants to tell people about it even though he's not on the payroll." Legal: "But he IS on the payroll." And so forth, until they finally settled on the quotation marks as a way to make both sides equally unhappy.

My Geography

I like being naked

The tiny mesa of my belly swoops swiftly down, then up
like a swallow
To a jutting hipbone, hovers a moment
Before gliding down the narrow juncture of my thigh
Heavy handful of breast, sharp-dusk-nipple
hard against my palm
If I stand just straight enough, I love my lower back
Violin curving into the swell of my hips and buttocks

A hundred dark freckles map my skin
"mole" is an ugly word...Say freckles
Scattered constellations and connect-the-dot puzzles
A trio teeters in a precarious triangle on my collarbone
Two against the underside of my arm where the skin is soft
My favorite hides an inch below my left breast
If I push hard against it I can feel the springy vibrations of my ribcage
Cartilage straining fragile
And I'm reminded of the boy I loved whose chest was a valley
birdlike birdcage delicate
I'd lay my head between the hills of his breastbone and think
even though he's so much bigger than me
If I reach out just one hand
I could crush him

My peaks and slopes
Flesh alternating salt and silk
The dips and nooks and hidden surprises of my body
I like being naked

Postcard to the Powers that Be

Dear Sirs:


I HATE YOU YOU DICK YOUR A DICK!




(Note: The above was scrawled in a brownish substance, first believed to be blood. It was later determined to be pudding)

Throwing in the Towel

"May blessings fill our home" "Make a joyful noise!"

Jeff was waiting for his microwave popcorn to finish popping. He pulled a couple of extra paper towels off the roll - he hated that feeling of greasy salt against his hands when he reached into the bag - while he patiently awaited the digital countdown.

"Friendship is our most precious gift, to Bestow and Receive"

He'd never paid any attention to the paper towels before. He assumed the receptionist ("Office Assistant," gotta remember to call them "Office Assistants." And NEVER "secretaries.") re-stocked them in the kitchen as needed. This week she'd supplied towels with inspirational sayings swirling across them in pastel ribbons.

"Feast from the banquet of Life!"

Jeff was eating microwave popcorn because, while at 80 cents it was the most expensive item in the vending machine, it was also the most filling. If he had a bag now, and another before heading home at 5:30, he'd be good for the night. He'd done this every day for the past two weeks.

"Rejoice in the Love surrounding You!"

He still hadn't figured out how to cook since Deb left. She always eschewed pre-packaged dinners and frozen pizzas. Jeff had no idea what to do with a kitchen full of porcini mushrooms and risotto. He wasn't even sure what risotto was, exactly. Sometimes he wondered if he'd known what risotto was (or did?), maybe she wouldn't have been so frustrated all the time...He knew she wasn't happy, but...Still. He'd tried.

Hadn't he?

"Life is an abundant Symphony!" "May our Hearts be always Full"

Lost in the fluttering sentiments of the Office Assistant's choice in paper products, Jeff didn't hear the microwave herald its triumphant "ding." His head jerked up as the scent of charred kernels reached his nostrils. He just stood there for a moment, swallowing hard.

Without looking, Jeff crumpled the wad of paper towels into the waiting trash can. Some previously lunching co-worker had left a pile of flimsy deli napkins on the table.

They would do.

Coffee Shop

I watch her from my post behind the counter. She holds her book upright on the table with one hand and idly reaches for her coffee cup with the other. The cup has no idea how lucky it is.

The Break-Up

"I appreciate that I'm not the type of girl you would think to bring flowers to. And I understand that roses are boring, and tulips pedantic."

"But CARNATIONS???"

3 Sentence Story Contest!

This week is 3 sentence story week at Peep Fiction!

No prizes will be awarded. No winners will be announced.

Second Letter to the Powers That Be

Dear Sirs,

I see that you received my previous correspondence. And I appreciate the promptness of your reply.

It was quite the delightful first date...A perfect day at the zoo, followed by buffalo wings and conversation at a quaint neighborhood pub. The specimen you sent me was satisfactory in every way. Excellent condition - physically, mentally, and (seemingly) emotionally. There were no awkward pauses during the scintillating discussions of independent film, music, career ambition and travel. And I must say you really did your research this time! It couldn't have been easy to find another left-handed 27 year old who's previously worked as both a zoo keeper and a party promoter, who just moved out of the same city my brother currently lives in, and who can pick up things with his feet (just like me!). We certainly had a lot in common to talk about. Start to finish, I had a wonderful time with the subject you provided.

So what's the catch?

Huh? What's wrong with him? Is he still carrying a torch for a lost love (who may or may not show up at any moment)? He's a writer, was he researching some story about awful blind dates? Was this actually even a date? Maybe he just thought it was two people hanging out. Did you send me another gay one? Did you, you bastards? Is he gonna take that job he was talking about in Washington...It starts in a MONTH, you know...A fucking month!

Or...Cruelest of all...Are you letting me get all excited about a single perfect day at the zoo (with buffalo wings to follow), just to find out that this guy isn't into me at all?

Is he?

Jesus christ, you guys suck.

This isn't over, fuckers.
K-

Cocktails for the New Millennium

Note: The Management has been advised to include a disclaimer about the risks of drinking any alcoholic beverages (much less these ones). We're supposed to inform you that alcohol may cause liver disease, impair your ability to operate motor vehicles, and lead to birth defects. But frankly, we don't care about your health, you're already a bad driver, and we're pretty sure your children would be ugly. In all honesty, we loathe you. So please enjoy:

Cocktails for the New Millennium: The Next Millennium, not this one.

The Mali-Booyah!
* One jigger coconut rum
* One bottle NyQuil

Serve chilled if you have a temperature, warm for a cold. Either way, it's the sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever so-you-will-never-wake-up-again-and-realize-you're-gonna-die-alone medicine.

Planter's Punch
*2 jiggers Jamaica rum
*1 jigger lime juice
*1/2 jigger simple syrup
*One slave of the Negro persuasion

Why don't you have your slave mix you up a nice punch while you sit on the verandah, you cold-blooded bastard? My God! How do you sleep at night? You sicken me.

The Morning Perk
* One pot black coffee
* One handful Percocet

When you're trying really hard to wake up, only to find you have no reason to.

Slow, Slutty, Double Entendre
* One Sorority Pledge
* 6 pitchers of some sickenly sweet, pink alcoholic mixture (no less than 80 proof)
* One tiny paper parasol

Feed the pledge the pink stuff. Have sex with her.

What? The little umbrella? Just throw that away, dude. Those things are totally gay.

The Vic-ano
* One Liter Vodka
* 12oz Tabasco
* One refillable prescription for Vicodin

Drink the Vodka. Take a lot of Vicodin. Try to talk one of your friends into drinking the Tabasco. Tell him he's a fag if he doesn't. If he asks why you aren't drinking it then, if you're such a non-fag, tell him it's 'cause you're already too spicy, and his mom knows that's the truth, hell yeah, muthafucka, you know what I'm talkin' about. Aww, snap.

The Flaming Homo
* One pint Homogenized Milk
* One match

Light the milk on fire.

What do you mean, "How?" I don't know...fuckin' lighter fluid or something. Do I have to do everything around here? Jesus Christ, you're useless. Just useless.

Bloody Virgin Mary
* Ruphynol
* One 12 year old Catholic School girl

No, you didn't just read that. Move on.

Gin Rummy
* One bottle Gin
* One bottle Rum
* One deck Regulation Playing Cards

Get drunk. Play cards. Like you were gonna do anything useful today.

A Letter to the Powers That Be

Dear Sirs,

I am hereby requesting an upgrade of my relationship status from "Placeholder" to "Standard." While recognizing that my previous experience with Standard Relationships has been sketchy at best, I feel confident that my tenure as a professional Placeholder has given me the valuable skills to move on.

I have successfully consoled the recently dumped, provided physical release to the indecisive, and prepared many an individual for a lifetime of love with other people. Case study 1: The last subject I "dated" (two years ago, I might add) was Mr. B. Anderson, who reconciled with his ex-wife only 6 weeks after our relationship began. He was happily returned to his former spouse and golden retriever in pristine condition.

Case Study 2: Mr. E. Legzdins, who fell in love with a girl he met in a bookstore just days after sexual contact with me. Naturally this is reminiscent of Mr. J. Leonard, who found his soul-mate exactly 24 hours after I gave him the first multiple orgasm of his life.

I have included affidavits from the 6 individuals who slept with me before discovering that they no longer wished to sleep with my gender. Likewise included is the synopsis of the 5 month period where I provided solace (both emotional and sexual) to Mr. R. Johnson during the traumatic dissolution of his previous relationship. I would like to point out that I was exceptionally understanding of his "need to be alone right now" up to and including the point where he found someone he really wanted to date.

As a Placeholder, I have proven my ability to open hearts and seminal passages for other people. A Standard Relationship upgrade is, I believe, not only well deserved, but long overdue.

Sincerely,
Karla M. Pacheco

P.S. I understand that if you are unable to fulfill my request at this time, you may be able to supply a Friend With Benefits. The BF4-E requisition form is attached.

Inner (child) Monologue

Oh wow! Lookit...Over by the dumpster.

What? The box? Yeah, somebody must have gotten a new refrigerator.

Let's build a fort.

Excuse me?

Let's get the box and build a fort. You could totally fit in that thing.

I'm not building a cardboard fort. I'm 27 years old.

C'mon. It'll be fun. And whimsical. You like whimsy.

I think I can safely say that I have already fulfilled my whimsical obligations for the summer. I went to the zoo no less than five times, fed ducks at the pond, AND I built sandcastles at the beach last month.

You only did that because you were hoping some bohemian artist type would see you grubbing around in the dirt wearing a bikini, and fall in love with the "glow of child-like wonder" in your eyes.

Shut up!

Please. It wasn't even that great of a sandcastle.

It had a moat.

You didn't even do anything when those little kids stomped on it while their mother cheered them on.

What was I supposed to do? Yell at a 5 year old? Yeah, that'd be just great...The scary tattooed lady makes a pair of toddlers cry and slaps their mother for not teaching them to stay the fuck off other people's sand property. Whatever.

So you gonna grab that box, or what? I figure we start by cutting a few circular holes down one side...Upright, it's a spaceship. On its side, a submarine!

I'm not getting the box.

And we could run down to Walgreen's and buy some markers, make it look really sharp...

Listen, that box has been sitting in a pool of alley water and garbage juice for god-knows-how-long, it's dirty, it's damp, it's...

Or, or, check this out: We cut out the top so it looks like the turret of a castle, spend the day defending ourselves from the Gauls. Huh?

Listen. I CAN'T do this. I can't anymore. This cutesy-little-girl shit is killing me. I don't want to look at the world as something new and magical everyday. I don't want to be the breezy free spirit living on a different planet. I've got a lot of shit going on and all the fucking cardboard forts in the world aren't going to change that. I'm tired of being "delightfully eccentric." I want to be like everybody else. This is just...I can't anymore. It's just too hard.

Okay?

Okay?

It was a good box.

Yeah, it was. I know. I'm sorry.



So I didn't get the box.

I still wish I had.

Ode to a Suburban Red Lobster

Don't worry Rebecca, as soon as I can fit -

24oz "Alotta Coladas"/ Going to Skokie even though the one downtown is closer because we wanna be kitschy/ Scampi juice/ A table of women dressed up for a night on the town that may or may not be sisters (they're all ugly in the same sort of way)/ Free half pound of crab legs/ A scenic view of The Olive Garden

- into one story, I'll get it to you.

Yeah, it'll be great.

Ben

Melody knows that Ben Affleck would totally fall in love with her.

Sure, there was J. Lo and Minnie Driver, and Gwyneth, but there was also that girl back in Boston...A sales rep, or something like that. Melody's read the articles about Ben's search for "a normal relationship." She knows he's worried about his celebrity scaring off regular girls. Melody knows she's perfect for Ben Affleck.

She hasn't quite figured out how they'll meet. Maybe he'd be in town shooting a movie (though what they could be shooting in Dayton, Ohio is a little unclear), and he'd stop by the coffee shop. She'd compliment his tattoos as she served up his half-caff mochachino, and show off the angel she has on her ankle. She wouldn't even act like he's Ben Affleck. She'd treat him just like any other guy in the shop. Maybe a little flirty, but still down to earth. He'd be a bit taken aback, then strangely relieved. He'd ask her what time she's getting off work and if she could show him around Dayton. She'd laugh, and say "Sure." Melody would be completely cool.

She'll take Ben out to feed ducks in the park and he'll be enthralled by her easy manner, her irreverent sense of humor, and that little glint she knows she gets in her eye when she smiles. They will share their first kiss under the stars, after Melody takes Ben to the overpass where her friends all go to drink beer on weekends. From that moment, Ben will refuse to let her out of his sight. He'll invite her to the Golden Globes and send his assistant to take her on a designer shopping spree to pick out a fabulous dress. Joan Rivers will ask her who she's wearing.

Or maybe she'd be visiting friends in L.A. (Melody doesn't have any friends in L.A., but Andrea is always talking about moving out there one day). Ben would spot her on the street, strike up a conversation...And the rest would be history. She just knows if Ben Affleck met her, he'd love her.

Ben will move Melody into his L.A. mansion, or maybe a nice brownstone in Boston. She's not really sure yet. Most of the time she'll be with Ben filming on location anyway.

In his directorial debut, Ben will cast Melody as his love interest, claiming he can no longer imagine making love to anyone else, onscreen or off. Critics will rave about Melody's "quirky charm," and "non-traditional beauty." Her first appearance on Letterman will break all previous ratings records.

At the Oscar after-party, immediately after she wins "Best Actress," Melody will break up with Ben Affleck. All she really wanted to do was date Edward Norton.

She's got it all figured out.

True Love: Fragments from the Conversation

"What do you mean, you've always dreamed about being a Navy Seal? I've always dreamed about being a Navy Seal!!!"

Two drinks later.

"Yeah, I think it's probably a lot harder to stab someone than it looks. And I worry that I wouldn't be able to really debilitate them with that first stab. The first stab is important."

Three drinks, half a pack of Newport Lights.

"Hey, I don't have bad self-esteem, I just really like cock."

Ten songs selected on jukebox. Another pack of Newport Lights

"Well, I mean...if the homeless don't want people dousing them with gasoline, they should stay in a shelter, right? Hey, are you done with that? Ya' wanna get outta here? Sweet."

And I'm not even starting this thing with something new...

I am the Perfect Woman.

I’m fairly attractive, with a pleasing rack. You can tell your friends you’re sleeping with me and expect a thumbs up, rather than a disappointed shake of the head. However, I’m not so drop dead gorgeous that you’ll worry about me leaving you for a Gold Coast day trader, nor will I inspire bar fights. You will never get the shit kicked out of you at 2 in the morning because you feel obliged to defend my honor (and your masculinity) from the 200lb linebacker who grabbed my ass. No, because I am the perfect woman.

I don’t enjoy playing video games, but I love watching them. I’m really good at finding secret levels, too. Rest assured I can sit happily for hours watching you play Grand Theft Auto, and after you’re all x-boxed out I' probably give you a blow job while you watch a televised sporting event of your choice. In the absence of a good sporting event, we can watch the Three Stooges and I will actually understand why they’re funny. I’m that perfect.

I hate talking on the phone. I love beer. I can quote The Simpson’s for hours. I own 3 pairs of shoes. I refuse to patronize any club with a velvet rope and $40 cover charge but love drinking in dirty dive bars, where you will be allowed to ignore me completely while watching the last quarter of a football game. I buy all my own drinks.

I am educated enough to carry on conversations about politics, drama, philosophy and science, but I also know about 200 dick jokes. I don’t wear underwear, but I will wear lingerie upon request. That one thing that you thought was just an urban legend, even though your college roommate’s brother swore he knew a girl who tried it…I can do it.

I hate talking about my feelings.

I have an insatiable sexual appetite, but a horrible fear of commitment. If you want to keep seeing other women, I will most likely be relieved, and even encouraging. I will never call you out for looking at an attractive woman when we’re together. In fact, I will frequently point them out to you. You won’t have to hang out with my bitchy, emasculating girlfriends because I don’t have any. I can hold my own when we’re with your friends, but I won’t make them feel stupid. I am funny, but not funnier than you.

I orgasm easily.

I enjoy fishing and camping. I enjoy fine dining. I enjoy art films, I enjoy movies where lots of shit gets blown up. I watch porn. I know that men masturbate, I know that men cheat. I won’t freak out when you do either because I know it’s not really reflecting your feelings for me…It’s just your biological makeup. I won’t yell at you when you don’t call for 3 days. I’ll never give you the silent treatment, cold shoulder or withhold sex. I won’t say “I’m fine” in that horrible, chilling “nothing is fine, nor will it ever be” tone of voice. I won’t ask what you’re doing with your life or where you see yourself (or us) in 10 years.

I will never ask you “what are you thinking?”

I am the perfect woman. But I think it’s just because I act like a guy.

Just Checking

Yep. It's a test.