I'm going to write about my biggest pet peeve because I can. Leaving the toilet seat up. Before all of the men on the planet start a collective sigh eye roll grumble grunt series, hear me out. First and most important point is that I only really consider it a pet peeve when it happens in a residence where women are living/working or a place of business. Visiting the boyfriend with all male roommates? Fine. I'll wrap my hand in toilet paper and put it down. Getting up in the morning in my own apartment and almost falling in because a boyfriend or another male acquaintance couldn't manage to aim without half an inch extra space? PREPARE YOURSELF BECAUSE YOU MIGHT DIE (if you are a male in my household). Commence Rage Blackout.
RAGE BLACKOUT
A special situation happened to me today while I was at the Caribou Coffee in Boystown (just visiting the old neighborhood). They have a sign on the door telling everyone to actually just use whichever bathroom they would rather identify with. This means, if you've got a peen and you feel like a woman, use the woman's bathroom. Today, I went to use the bathroom that is still marked WOMEN, and to my horror and absolute fury, the seat was up. NO. NO NO NO. I don't care if you have a dick and you want to use the women's bathroom. There are few things I could actually give less fucks about. But this individual just had to leave the seat up? Really? Listen. Seventy-five percent of waste removal from the southern region of the body requires having the seat down. Think about it. I'll make a chart.
Man
Woman
Number 1
Seat Up
Seat Down
Number 2
Seat Down
Seat Down
By numbers alone, having the seat down as the default wins.
This is my offer. If you need the seat up in a public place or in the home of females, just kick the damn seat back down when you're done and I won't start gluing toilet seats down. Deal?
Once again, I have failed to maintain this damn blog. Maybe once my life gets into an actual routine I'll actually set some time aside every couple days for it. Everyone should know by now that if the blog suffers it usually means my life is changing rapidly. Like always.
I had a job. But then I quit it. For reasons I already explained here. Then I was unemployed for about two weeks, which was interesting. Then I started a new job working for a digital marketing company doing business to business sales. I don't suggest trying that unless you're reallllllly motivated by money, which clearly I am not.
Dearest Chicago, I am waving my white flag. You win. I still love you but I think I should love you from afar and on the weekends. I'm moving back to 'Fundelein' this weekend with my parents until at least November. Chicago, I promise to never be that suburbanite on the CTA when I visit. I promise to always smile back at the people in Chicago that are actually significantly friendlier than Chicagoans are ever given credit for. I promise we'll keep in touch, you're still my favorite city (so far).
To the twenty-somethings making it work and living happily in the city, you're troopers. Like, holy shit. I can't even sound like an intelligent human being when I try to describe the level of respect I have for you folks.
OKAY SO GREAT. I'm moving home because I can't find what I need in Chicago. I'm not (completely) happy here. I have a pending plan that I'm not going to share just yet, but for the time being I'm going back to work at my beloved shoe store, spend time with my family and friends, and spend time in the city because I still have that wonderful boyfriend hanging around. What a gem. I just want to be happy. I know it sounds silly to anyone 25-60 years in age (usually) because of the looks I've gotten when I tell people that, or the multiple people who have told me I'm silly and young and naive.
WELL MAYBE I AM. But I'm 22. I need $2000 and a backpack and I can make it. Or at least I can make it until my next adventure. Once I find where I belong I'll settle down. I will admit I have the privilege of having awesome parents that still help me out when I need it and still pay for my phone, among other things. But that's the thing, there are people my age that don't have that luxury. They can't pick up and move in a weekend. I DO. So why not take advantage of that? Huh?
Everyone deserves to be happy and do what they love. I just started season 3 of The O.C., but I've watched enough to know that everyone loves Sandy Cohen and nobody likes Caleb Nichol. The people that are driven by money continually get shit all over way more than anyone else in that show, and it affects their whole family (AHEM COOPER FAMILY, sorry your parents suck Marissa). Think about it. And if you never watched The O.C. YOU NEED TO. I know I'm about 10 years behind but it's never too late. This shit is enthralling and for some reason I'm finding so many real life lessons. I don't know. I've also been introduced to the term "rage blackouts" which is a condition that I believe I suffer from. For the record, I hated Summer Roberts at the start of the show, but now I'm pretty sure she's my spirit animal. Or Seth Cohen. Either way they better get married or I'm quitting life and if you ruin ANYTHING for me, you will suffer from a Summer-inspired rage blackout of my very own.
..... Damnit.
I tried to be inspirational and then lost it in a tizzy of O.C. emotions.
What I'm trying to say:
Be twenty-something.
Run away.
Regroup at your parents house.
Be scared.
Cry about it.
Sing "22" like you mean it. Whatever.
Be in love. With life. Your life.
Now everyone watch Katy Perry continue to be perfect. If there was ever a combination of Summer Roberts and Katy Perry, I would marry her in Minnesota.
peacelovekatyperry.
Oh yeah, I made a twitter for the blog. I say socially unacceptable things: @cactikillerblog
