And now, the answers to all your questions . . .

What do you do on weekends?
Turn tricks.

Where do you hang out?
Ennui. Or home.

Go to any shows?
I went to Blue Man Group last year. I say it's worth going to at least once. I hope to go to Avenue Q soon.

Where's a mall/store you frequent?
I don't go to the mall here. They're pretty much all in the suburbs, and I try to avoid the suburbs. The stores I most frequent are the grocery stores and bookstores. The best bookstores are in Hyde Park, and I don't get there often, so I'm mostly at your standard Border's.

Have you ever tried vivobarefoot shoes?
No, have you? I've heard they're supposed to be awesome.

Go to the Lake often?
In the winter, almost never. Now that it's getting warmer I'll go more often.

Take trains outta town much?
Almost never. The closest I get to out of town on a regular basis is Evanston, the closest suburb to me. There's no real deliniation between it and Chicago, and I think that only the fact that it has a major university to keep it secure in its own self prevents it from being gobbled up by Chicago.

Explore the city at all?
Sure, I just explored a little of the Addison neighborhood Wednesday night.

How about, how did you survive the spat of shootings this weekend?
By hiding under my bed.

Having been referred to as "like his sister," Eye Candy can no longer be Eye Candy. The crush is over. However, we are still pals, so he will henceforth be known as The Candy Formally Known as Eye.

Carry on.

I keep meaning to write something in here, honest I do, but all that stuff I tell you whenever I call you about the exciting, whirlwind life that is Chicago? Lies, all lies.

So, you tell me what you want to know. Questions? Comments? I promise to answer everything.

For those of you curious, I did indeed survive the earthquake. Actually, I slept right through it.

While perusing the craigslist job offerings, I came across this headline:

Kid Driver and Light house keeping (Naperville, IL)

Kid Driver and Lighthouse keeping? The kid part sounds boring, but, man, I'd love to be a lighthouse keeper!

Of course then I opened the ad and saw that what they really wanted was light housekeeping . . .

So, for completely unsexy reasons, I happened to get home last night at around 6:20 this morning. 6:20, I figured would be early enough to avoid seeing anyone I know, and would thereby enable me to avoid the Walk of Shame.

Wrong.

As I was walking in the front door, The Best Landlord in the World Happened to be walking out.

"Well!" he said knowingly.

"Uhhhh . . ." I swiftly parried.

"Good morning!" he smirked.

"Good morning," I muttered.

We stared at each other.

"That all I'm going to say," he said.

"That's probably, uh, yeah, that's, yeah . . . good. That's good," I said.

He went to the train and I went upstairs.

Did I mention: COMPLETELY unsexy reasons?

As I was flipping through the 783 channels on my TV the other night, slouched in my comfy blue chair, drool running down my chin, I happened upon Forrest Gump. Much like Everybody Loves Raymond, Bring It On 4: In It to Win It, and Law and Order*, Forrest Gump is always playing, all the time on some channel. Since it was the best thing on (or perhaps I mean "least bad"), I watched it to the finish. "That's not as bad as everyone says it is. Prolly they just say so because they're jaded hipsters." And I went about my merry way.

Four days later, the subtle genius of the cruelty of Forrest Gump has unmistakably emerged. For four days I've had lines from the movie running through my head -- always Forrest's lines, always spoken in Tom Hank's trademark Retarded Southerner with a Cold drawl. And my brain slows them down to emphasize the accent! "Aaaaaaahh'm not a smaaaaaaaaht maaaaaaaaayaaaannnnnn, Jennnnnnnie, but Ahhhh kndowwwwwwwwwww whaaaat lovvvvve iiiissssss." Zomg.

And now I'm in my room, saying them out loud, hoping maybe that'll purge them from my brain. And it's not working. Because that's a STUPID idea and never works and it's the evil of Forrest Gump convincing me that that's a smart plan. Aaaaaaahh'm not a smaaaaaaaaht wooomaaaaaaaaayaaaannnnnn, but Ahhhh kndowwwwwwwwwww whaaaat a dummmmmb ahhhhhhdeaaaaa loooooks liiiiiiiiike.

I fully expect this condition to escalate until I turn to the person next to me on the train and inform them that "Maaaamaaaaa alwayyyyyyys saaaaaid, dahhhhhhhhhing waaaas a paaaaaaaht offff liiiiiiiife," and then they'll call the train police (crazy people have to ride on the CTA to be tolerated; I take the Metra) and then I'll get hauled off as a terrorist and you'll never hear from me again because we don't like to send terrorists to trial in this country.

So, in summary: Fuck you, Forrest Gump.

*I actually typed Lawn and Order there, and isn't that the best name for a gardening show ever? A really anal gardening show. Everything in a row. All leaves must be picked up as soon as they fall. Gardening for the Type A.

Oh, shit. I was totally just about to post something incredibly amusing here, culminating in an amusing, self-deprecating jab at myself, referencing my feet and their breaking into a sweat when Eye Candy invited me to lunch today, but I forgot the lead-in, and I just don't have time to think of another good lead in.

So, this entry has gone straight to crap.