Wish me luck.

I have to leave in approximately 45 minutes to get a root canal. I'm actually really tired right now, so I can't imagine what state I'll be in once I'm given some horse anesthesia and pushed back onto the streets of Chicago all by my lonesome. With my luck, I will forget about the post-it in my pocket that details which busses I have to take to get home and end up passed out behind the counter at a Dunkin' Donuts, drooling on the linoleum and muttering to myself about dolphin-safe tuna.

Hot:
It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia on Hulu
String cheese
Sleep

Not:
Root canals
Inexplicable fatigue
Ballet flats that smell like cat poo

I cannot think of a single day, since I moved to Chicago, when I have not spent money at Walgreens. If I were to add up exactly how much I've spent there, I would probably cry. And if I were to amass everything I've purchased, I'd probably cry harder because I'd be staring at a huge pile of Red Bull cans, gum wrappers and cheap makeup. Sometimes I go twice a day and the ladies at the registers shake their heads with pity. One time Steve Carrell was in front of me in line. Last night I bought a box fan. "Good!" you think, "A logical and somewhat redemptive purchase!"

But wait... It is made of candy.

Just kidding.

A bit overdue...

And unless my dad learns how to turn on a computer, discover the internet, take a Google tutorial and miraculously find this blog, he will never, ever see it.

That being said, happy belated Father's Day, Dad.

I'm lucky to the oldest and potentially least-accomplished child of a greatly accomplished scholar, professor, humanitarian and all around amazing human being.

When I'm feeling thoughtful, I will ocassionally reflect on the gifts my parents have bestowed on their children... genetically (skin that burns under 60-watt light bulbs and a veritable chin lottery, of which I am the loser), materially (hubcaps, $5 Old Navy gift cards), intellectually and so on.

When it comes to what my dad has passed on, a great deal of it is fairly obvious, at least to me. My sister is a major fan of helping other people. She also likes Spanish, joining my dad as the only other fluent family member. All three of my siblings are incredibly intelligent, some are obvious leaders. Two of them have lived or will soon live in Central and South America, respectively. My brothers are good rugby players. I, on the other hand, waffle on my feelings toward mankind and will hesitate to offer anyone any sort of assistance unless I get something in return, like peanuts or back rubs. I can ask where the bathroom is in Spanish, and if I said it out loud, you would probably tell me that I'm actually telling you I have hepatitis. I'm the B student to my family's A+ average. All of my recurring nightmares have to do with playing touch football in grade school and breaking my glasses.

I imagine I will figure out my gift one of these days, but in the meantime I will wear my mediocrity with pride and view my last name as sufficient evidence of my good fortune.

Anyway, Dad, if you took all of the aforementioned steps and found this, check your email - I sent you an e-card. And I love you.

I just got lost and slept right through the dawn.

Despite the misleading name, the Weepies create some pretty uplifting music. I think it's one of those things though, similar to when you eat scrambled eggs during a particularly bad bout of the flu... I associate them with an unsettling time in life and subconsciously abandoned them as a result. The release of their most recent album prompted me to give them another try, and I realized that their music also reminds me of driving down Blondo with the windows half-cracked on the old Ford Focus. Fall in Omaha was short but beautiful.

Anyway, I'd never seen the video for the World Spins Madly On before, and I think it's the stop-motion monster that got me.

Bad apples.

I had an extensive conversation with my roommate Heather a few days ago over our feelings toward apples. Heather had recently made the decision to ditch them altogether, instead sticking with oranges, which are entirely more reliable. I on the other hand am an apple loyalist, refusing to believe that the bad apples outnumber the good. But man, when an apple is bad (and I'm unfortunately not speaking metaphorically - I am indeed talking about the fruit itself), it is really bad, and it can ruin your day. I recently stumbled upon a bag of Braeburns purchased from the Jewel near my apartment, and so far I am 0 for 3. Every day at Apple Time (approximately 1:15 p.m.), I reach for it in the fridge with the hope that this one will be the one that keeps me believing. And then the first bite tastes like a sandbox, but I keep going. And then the second bite tastes like florist's foam, and then any subsequent bites taste like pure masochism.

The last time I had a genuinely good apple experience was when I lived in Bucktown and bought my produce at Olivia's. The slightly elevated price was the premium I paid for not wanting to throw up in the microwave every day at 1:16. As for this batch, I'm done. The remaining Braeburn will be left in the refrigerator for the next six months before either evaporating or being thrown into the neighbor's compost heap (garden?). I then will give apples one more collective chance to impress the shit out of me. After that, I will join Heather on the Orange Team and only look back if I lose my health insurance and have to adopt the "keeping the doctor away" adage. But then, and only then.