There Will Be Faint

(Please refer to my first post about my shitty neighbors for this snippet)

I got back early from a business trip today and ended up passing out on the couch. I was woken up by loud thumping from upstairs. But this time it was different. The song that woke me up was “Kids” from MGMT. I am happy to hear their influence spreading beyond the hipster dungeon known as Westco café to the commonfolk of the Midwest. Anyways, the event just confirmed another area of my superiority over them – Music. I knew about the Managers way before them.

In medical news, I have my surgery scheduled for April 9. The absolute worst part about this is that prior to the surgery I have to see a primary doctor for clearance. They will have to draw blood from me. You have no idea how fucked up I am about needles and blood. I get severe panic attacks and pass out whenever getting blood drawn; I literally shat my pants in a bar (McFadden’s) once just THINKING about needles. I fainted in health class three times throughout the course of high school while discussing the subject, and even once in the shower thinking about it. I would rather take a steel boot to my nuts than draw blood. The fact that my donor ACL is coming from a dead body doesn’t faze me one bit, yet I’m getting flush and pale even thinking about giving blood for 60 seconds at the current moment. I understand I’m crazy for this fear, but everyone needs to be fucked up on at least one thing. Wait, but I already have the stuttering thing going for me. Fuck. Fuck. F-F-Fuck.

The good news is that the guy performing my surgery is Sasha Cohen’s (the hot figure skater) Orthopedist. I was referred to him from the Doctor at the Snowbird clinic, who used to work with him for years. So while I grossly exaggerated my skiing skills (“I think I just landed wrong off a 20 foot cliff and my knee gave out”) we really hit it off. He understands that I’m not the typical riff-raff patient he sees for some stupid arthritis (Boring!). I am extreme. When my surgery is over, I plan on printing this picture (see above) and asking him to have Sasha personally it sign for me.

Finally, I sadly report that I am donating my Volvo to charity. The battery died, and it isn't cost effective for me to have it anymore (insurance, city sticker fees, etc.). I sure will miss the good times in that car - running out of gas on Throg's Neck bridge, driving around campus junior year yelling "Juniors Rule!", driving around campus senior year yelling "Seniors Rules!". The list goes on. Feel free to post your favorite memory of the White Stallion in the comments section.

Final Status:
1991 Volvo 740 Wagon
149,456 miles
one (1) broken horn, one (1) dead battery, one (1) door broken handle

Lack of Material?

Well so much for my recent lack of material. Last night was one for the ages...

The fun part begins at Beaumont's, one of Lincoln Park's finest 5am bars. Beaumont's has held a special place in my heart ever since a crazy girl kneed me in the balls there two years ago on Halloween.
(It was because I allegedly screwed over one of her friends. Well, I kind of did, but no one deserves a knee to the nuts.)

I rolled over with some friends of friends, and took a particular liking to this extremely skinny girl. We started grind dancing together, and I had to explain to her my physical limitations due to a torn ACL - "I'm sorry, but I can only due the mashed potato, the traditional grind (straight dry hump), and the fist pump. Any lateral movement and my knee will explode." It didn't matter to her; I figure she just wanted to feel a tucked boner rub against her leg. On this note, whenever my semi starts to morph into a full chub, I execute a 180 spin, backwards jackhammer for 3 seconds and tuck while the girl can't see. Works every time. So anyway, I made out with this girl a bit on the dance floor, took a piss, and came back to find her dancing with a massive black dude. I thought to myself, now how the fuck am I going to compete with that? He's got lateral movement. So I left the bar and went home at 4am.

Prior to capping off any good Fri/Sat night I hit up the Taco Bell by my place. 6 hard shell tacos, no cheese. It helps me stay "regular". I ate them on my limp back to the apartment.

I get back and realized I had the backup set of keys, which will get me into the apartment complex but not my actual apartment. My roommate was at his girlfriend's place. Fuck. Shit. Fucking Shit.

The last time I locked myself out I threw a brick through my back door, which ended up costing me over $2,000 when all was said and done. I could have nailed a stripper on a coke binge at the Ritz for that money. Luckily, my new apartment has no glass, so there was absolutely no way to get in. After calling all my friends and having no luck, I hailed a cab and had him take me to the nearest motel.

The Best Western was the only one we could find, and it was $200 a night. Fuck that. So I went home, understanding this meant I would be sleeping in my apartment complex hallway. I smashed the hall light bulb and used a cardboard box as a pillow. It was cold.

But at approximately 4:45am I heard the front door open. It was the crazy art major chick from the 3rd floor! It's worth noting that I only know that she is crazy and an art major (the two are actually synonymous) now, and prior to our exchange last night we had never met. I convinced her that I lived in the apartment complex. She was cool about it, only after I named the landlord and showed her his phone number in my cell. And I had to promise I wouldn't murder her.

When I got upstairs there was a chick who had already claimed the couch, so I slept on their floor. This was basically the same situation I would have been in in the hallway, only much warmer. After the chick on couch woke up and I explained her my situation, I casually quipped, "So what do you want to do?" She understood what I was hinting at and shot me down. Worth a try, right? After all, the best home run hitters strike out the most.


Moral of the story: Stay away from small Italian cars. They are very dangerous.