Me (11:33:36 AM): idky i am finding this picture ridic hot right now, but i am Me (11:33:43 AM): maybe it’s ‘cause i just woke up S (11:33:49 AM): lolololol Me (11:34:01 AM): i think it’s the ridonkulous belt buckle S (11:34:06 AM): lmfao Me (11:34:07 AM): like, LOL, but also, mmmm
I've been a kid of the suburbs all my life (take that as you will), and while I know many people who passionately hate the suburbs (and their reasons are valid), I've never wanted to live anywhere else. People tell me they love the city, they want to live in the city and become one with the city, but that's never a pull I've felt. For me, the city is a fun place for a night out, a special occasion, a visit. I love San Francisco. I love LA. I even love Sacramento (even though it's the worst city ever), but I've never wanted to live in any of these places. While there's a certain magic and charm about city life, it isn't the kind of life I've ever wanted.
That said, I fucking love Chicago. If I ever end up moving away from California and into a smelly, crowded, wonderful city, it will be Chicago. I don't know what it is about this city that gets me, but I spent the whole weekend simultaneously loving everything about Chicago and thinking, Why the hell would anyone want to live in a place like this? That sounds harsh, but I think that those feelings of undying love for the place that you call home can only come from this push-pull/love-hate relationship that consumes and DEFINES everything you are.
I've always kind of envied those people who've lived in one place their entire lives because they all seem to be just as hopelessly in love with their hometown as much as they hate everything about it. I don't feel that way about any place in the world. I could feel that way about someplace, but I think I need to find it first.
In conclusion, this weekend was amazing. I ♥ Chicago.
Stupidly overinvested, ino, but I wouldn't take back anything from the past two years. You're all ridiculously amazing people and I can't believe I am lucky enough to have met you.
I love you all, and this seems like just as good a time as any to say it.
I was tagged by The Little Passenger, aka Jayne, to do this survey thing. Warning: all of my answers will be boring.
What is your current obsession? I've been going crazy over this story I've been writing for OVER A YEAR that isn't actually very good. It's 30,000 words and counting (not to be confused with the 25,000 word story I have been writing since last Thanksgiving. Too many long stories). I currently have and have always had a love-hate relationship with this story (which I not-so-affectionately call the "journalist" story even though it has pm nothing to do with journalism). I want to finish it, though, because it would be a pretty big personal accomplishment. And because my friend is FORCING me to finish it. She's a harsh taskmistress, always demanding stories that involve rose petals and punk rockers...WHATEVER.
Coffee or tea? COFFEE. The answer is ALWAYS coffee.
What's for dinner? My dad is cooking some kind of pasta dish. I don't know what it is, but it smells delicious.
What was the last thing you bought? I bought a six pack of Heineken on my way home from the Honda service place this afternoon. GREAT VALUE. You can't beat it.
What are you listening to right now?
What is your favorite ice-cream flavor? I prefer chocolate chip cookie dough, but I'm a big fan of plain chocolate ice cream. I know, that sounds so boring, but I'm a creature of habit. I'm that person who orders the same thing at every restaurant. Routine is the spice of life! I mean, I wouldn't order it if I didn't enjoy it.
What is your favorite colour? Blue.
What is your favorite piece of clothing in your wardrobe? Anyone who knows me IRL has probably guessed I'm not all that interested in clothes. I actually hate shopping. But I hate a lot of things. My lack of patience for shopping doesn't necessarily mean I hate being clothed in nice things. If I had to choose an item, I'd probably pick this blouse I bought a couple weeks ago from H&M. It's so cute! It's kind of a peasant blouse/empire waist/flowery thing that I got for $5.
What is your dream job? Novelist. If I can't be a published author, however, I'd like to work in the promotional/advertising kind of business, specifically in the music industry. I don't even know how I'd make that happen, but I think it would be fucking awesome.
How many times do you press the snooze button before you get up? I don't actually have an alarm clock. I set the alarm on my phone and put my phone across the room so that I actually have to get up to turn it off every morning. As a result, I don't really end up hitting the equivalent of the snooze button very often. Sometimes I do reset my alarm for fifteen minutes later, but I think that generally requires more alertness and higher brain function than a snooze button does.
I'm not feeling particularly long-winded tonight, so it ends there! You're all lucky. I don't have anyone to tag. I guess I'll just tag anyone who hasn't done this survey yet.
Lesson of the day: If you're in possession of an expensive and semi-rare trumpet, the model of which is no longer made because the dude who made it is dead, and your main tuning slide is stuck because you haven't played this trumpet in over two years (practically three years, actually, but who's counting?), you should probably either A) wait until you're back in friendlier and more familiar territory (i.e. home) to get it fixed, or B) not tell your dad that you took it in to the local music shop and left it there overnight with no prior knowledge of the shop itself aside from what you've read on the town wiki, because he will probably be a little annoyed and/or suspicious and therefore (intentionally or unintentionally) feed the rabid flames of your paranoia.
A haiku:
on youtube i find b urie: single lady idiot boyfriend
(Clarification: I didn't actually find idiot boyfriend on youtube again. Don't read my genius poetry so literally.)
I envy -- but I'm not sure that I envy -- those for whom a biography could be written, or who could write their own. In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my factless autobiography, my lifeless history. These are my Confessions, and if in them I say nothing, it's because I have nothing to say.
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