FACT: The entire contents of one's house are wrapped in humongous sheets of paper, loaded into boxes, and subsequently loaded on a truck. Unpacking is not much fun, and the movers' sense of humor is sometimes more apparent than not. Often times one will find twist ties, garbage, or other trivial things wrapped in these aforementioned monstrous sheets of paper.

FACT: These boxes that are everywhere need to be emptied out and subsequently disposed of. We're talking hundreds of boxes.

FICTION: Moving in can be an enjoyable process that fosters new relationships and personal growth.

FACT: I like to avoid unpacking by going to sleep in obscure places. I fell asleep on the basement couch and my parents thought I was unpacking for three hours.

As I mentioned earlier, this past weekend I drove down to Cincinnati to visit Natalie. This is my story.

It might be difficult to imagine the relation I'm about to express, so stay with me: Natalie's friend's boyfriend Nick rode down with me, so after my accounting test I picked him up and we drove to Cincinnati. The ride went pretty quickly with talk of his studying in Italy and his occasional nap.

Natalie had forsaken us while we were trying to get to her house, so we had to rely on our extremely inaccurate Mapquest directions to steer us to her house. They led us to some rough and uncomfortable neighborhoods in Cincinnati, namely Beekman St. It was full of class, to say the least.

The girls were supposed to make Nick and I some poultry something-or-other for dinner, but they backed (chickened? I'm lame) out at the last minute and Natalie's dad made Chicken Marsala and a really good tomato salad.

We went to Skyline Chili for lunch on Friday. I decided that I would try it again, that I would again subject myself to that watery beef delicious only to 'Nati natives. I got a burrito and it was actually pretty good. Maybe they forgot to put chili in it.

After lunch, we went to the library. Natalie told me to park in this parking lot behind some Indian restaurant, that she parks there all the time. I listened to this hideous lie and we went to the library. We rented a couple movies, and when we got back to the parking lot the back wheels of my car were two feet in the air: my car was being towed. The guy charged us fifty dollars to put the car down or we could go to the impound lot and pay the 110 they charge for a full tow. I ran to the ATM and paid the man.

This is public notice that Natalie owes me for that. It's also her birthday, so happy birthday Natalie.

It is 1:45 PM. I left for class at 8 and the moving truck was in front of my house. The house is now filling up with comfortable and familiar things. Tonight will be the first night in three weeks that I sleep on a real mattress.

My patience is waning. There are strange men in my house, moving my things. I won't have time to do my accounting homework and would really like to drop it. Summer courses are like hell except with less fire, brimstone, and demons. I have to continue moving things in. I'll post later to tell about my weekend in Cincinnati.

In other news, I'll be in Cincinnati for the weekend. Now I know this website holds a very special place in your heart but I won't have any updates until Sunday.

Late last night, my dad told me I was dropping him off at the airport. He flew out of O'Hare to New Orleans today for work, and I had to get up early. His flight left at 10, and I had to drop him off at the airport at around 8:30. I got up when I was supposed to and we left our street with him directing me. We went some secret-backroad-short-cut route that got us there right when he needed to be there, but it was up to me to find my way back. My accounting class started at 9:00 and I have a big test tomorrow.

294 is a tollway that practically goes right to the airport. Surprisingly, this stretch of highway has both a northbound and a southbound direction. I paid little attention to this detail and started on my way.

294 south is a crowded interstate that is about 5 lanes wide in both directions near the airport, and it eventually slims down to four. I was driving with the windows down, and the music up loud. The traffic coming the other way was crawling, and I was glad that traffic had been ok. The airport traffic was bad. I was glad I wasn't in it. None of the scenery looked familiar, but it shouldn't. I've never been on this road in my life.

I pulled through the toll plaza and glanced at the change I keep in the cupholder of my car. "Not much," I thought, "but enough to get me home."

Two toll plazas later and $2.40 later, I realized I was running low on change. I had about two dollars left. He was still in the terminal, and I told him where I was. "Oh Tom," he said, "you have to be going northbound."

The time was 9:15. Now I'm an English major, but I knew that was late for class.

I pulled off at the nearest exit and turned around. I entered the tollway and floored it. My car was roaring in the left, and I got to the first toll plaza. I went through the automatic lane, where you can just throw your change and speed off. As I pull up, I notice a guy crouching behind the automatic machine. I was bewildered by his unexpected appearance, and I muttered an unexpected and incredibly awkward, "Hi." I continued on my way.

Fortunately enough, there was no toll booth on my side of the highway where the south lanes had to pay. I was lucky.

But not too lucky. I pulled into the O'Hare 294 traffic. And waited. And waited. And waited. I paid another dollar in tolls, and couldn't have afforded another. I didn't have money in my wallet and my car was clean of change.

I made it to the college at about 10:30, at which point I just kept driving home. I know I have a test tomorrow, but I wasn't going to walk in an hour and a half late.

That is how I donated $4.20 to the Illinois department of transportation.

I was going through some old vacation pictures. Here's one of me in Saudi Arabia with Islamic militants. It was the worst spring break ever.

With Natalie's birthday fast approaching, I have to start thinking about birthday presents. I'm kind of torn, but here were some of notable mention.

I saw this gem on eBay. Nothing says, "I love you," like a taxidermic rodent that hold your weapons. Click the different picture angles. More disturbing than asking, "Who would sell something like this?" is the question, "Who would by something like this?"

Maybe a lucky troll collection?

How about a leopard print motorcycle helmet?

If you use any of my suggestions, tell me how it works out. I'm sure

I'm sorry, the last couple posts haven't been up to caliber. I'm working on some, but I'm running on four hours of sleep. I'll post more when I get a chance.

P.S. Go buy Rilo Kiley's "Take Offs and Landings". You probably won't regret it.

Honda's Asimo robot shown here with former Star Wars star C-3PO. The effeminate metallic bride will wed Asimo at the end of this year. The ceremony for the first robotic gay marriage is being held in (where else) California on Skywalker Ranch, Star Wars creator's George Lucas' private ranch. The newlyweds will then honeymoon in Detroit, the motor city capital of America.

I went to REI to get my dad's father's day present. My mom, siblings and I got him an external-framed backpack, we're going backpacking next summer and he doesn't have one. It was the first time I left the house since yesterday. I am awesome.

I went to Dominick's (grocery store) to cash in on their sweet deal: a large pizza for five dollars. Well, I'm not one to turn down a deal, so I put my order in and walked around the store while they made it. The PA system inside the store was playing Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On." The version of the song that they played had clips from the movie, sayings like, "I'm the king of the world," and other lines from the movie. I wonder why they chose to omit Leonardo DiCaprio saying, "I'm so c-c-c-c-cold r-r-r-r-r-r-ight n-n-now," and "I'm going to draw you naked, don't get freaked out."

My uncle told me he liked "Titanic" better in reverse: dead people from the bottom of the ocean come back to life and rise to assemble the world's most luxurious ship on an iceberg. They then set sail and disperse throughout Europe.

This is the same Uncle that I always manage to embarrass myself in front of. I won't write about it now, but most of you have heard of my extremely embarrassing situations with this side of my family. My life is awesome.

I finally had to do laundry today. If I had to guess, it was pretty routine, save for the fact that I don't really know what I'm doing. I kind of twisted, pulled, and pushed dials until it started making noise. I like the washer and dryer at my old house better but these will have to do.

I'm sitting here writing this with my lunch (depressing, I know) and now realize the dangers of my kitchen. The kitchen has an island in the middle of it and one of the cabinets has a top-secret pull-out drawer where the microwave is. I put a hot dog in and just kind of waited for thirty seconds, oblivious to the fact that this genital-level microwave is frying future Thomas Juniors. Who knows what kind of explanation I'll have to provide for not being able to reproduce. "Yeah, we had this microwave...it made darn good hot dogs though. It even had its own button for pizza."

I went to the gym tonight. The routine was pretty normal, but as I was running on the treadmill the TV was tuned to something other than Cubs baseball: it was tuned to NBC's "Will & Grace." I can just picture the apathy in the boardroom of NBC as someone's pitching the idea of a couple who is friends with a gay guy. "Yeah," the "Will & Grace" idea-pitcher would say, "and it'd be really hip because it has a gay guy, because gay jokes don't get old...and the girl? She'll have a really annoying voice, kind of like 'The Nanny' but with more misandry..." The board considers the pitch and asks if the characters would be bubbly and annoying. The show sold.

The entire show is nothing more than a running gag about a gay guy. Yes, homosexual people exist, but their lives are not all that funny. In the episode tonight, the gay guy was teaching a theater class and asked all the men to come to the front row and women move to the back. That prompted a maelstrom of laughter from the laughtrack, and I just kind of stared up from the treadmill, steadily thinking, "what the fuck?"

NBC, I have a few suggestions. "Will & Grace" needs an about face, a 180 degree turn in the opposite direction. "Will & Grace" needs hot lesbians and a lot less of the annoying lady. P.S., would it kill you to put a clock in the bottom of the screen like Fox's "24"?

I finish my workout and head back to my car, when, in the corner of my eye, I see something so striking, so bizarre, that I had to stop walking. To my right, in the little courtyard are four rather portly older people playing ukeleles and one person playing on big bongo-like drums. I'll let that sink in. Ukeleles and bongos. These people were official, too. They had all music sheets and duffle bags and instrument cases around them like they had received some legitimacy somewhere. Stoners. I keep walking, baffled, to my car.

Driving home, thinking my night cannot get weirder, I again notice something strange. There is a minivan with its tailgate tied closed. Normally this wouldn't sound too weird, but they were hauling a hot-green painted piano. Not like a baby grand or anything, but one of the upright ones. It was painted hot-green. I almost crashed just staring at the atrocity.

I couldn't make this stuff up. My life is strange.

As I got home, I poured some water and realized how dangerous that was. In my earlier posts, I have mentioned how I've had service people here that have done repair work. I've given two strangers a cup of water each and put them in the sink when they were done drinking. Now, I'm here alone. I don't do dishes. I've been using the same plate since I got here, and I came with four cups. They are identical, and I realize that I'm playing a deadly bacterial game of Russian Roulette. Whose germs will I get first? The Indian cable guy's or the hispanic painter's? The odds are 50/50, but remember, the house always wins. I'm sure some disease will catch up with me eventually.

EMERGENCY POST: My parents have found out about this blog and I'd prefer that they not read it. But now that they have, here's a little update, just for them.*

Mom: I think your spaghetti sauce is terrible. I've been eating it for years and have never complained, but it's really been your loaves-and-fishes. Hungry children need variation in their diet.

Dad: I can't really tell that you've lost weight. Sure, you exercise, but I don't see the results.

Now, my parents told me they wouldn't read this. I'm sure I'll hear about it if they do, but that'll be their fault for reading it.

*These may/may not be consistent with my actual beliefs, and I may/may not be kidding.

On another note, Natalie, my wonderful girlfriend, has noted that she hadn't been mentioned on this site. She's great and I'm in love with her.*

*I'm so whipped.

In order to bring more fun and excitement to you, dear reader, I think it's time that I have a contest. On the morning of a quiz, one lucky winner will be flown to Chicago to watch me fail an accounting quiz. You'll follow me on my morning routine, as I hunt down my accounting book, homework, and notes, as I eat a Pop-Tart and feel unmistakably disgusted, and as I listen to The Unicorns' Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone? album on my drive to school. You'll get to sit next to me and watch as I mark every wrong answer on the Scantron answer sheet. Void where prohibited, subject to official rules and regulations.

On another note, I'd like to write an open letter to my accounting class in the case that any of them stumble across this site.

Dear Accounting 153-701,
I'm writing to share my feelings of contempt I feel for all of you. Some of you I will address personally, some will just fall into the conglomerate of non-contributors.

To the two guys in front of me who insist on speaking in some Asiatic language, throwing in a "liability" and "equity" sporadically: Please converse in English. I have no problem tuning out English, but when I'm required to listen to horrible noises, attempt to decode, and then realize I can't, my brain twirls inside my head. The foreign language that is accounting becomes, well, more foreign. Also, guy-on-the-right, you don't speak loudly or clearly when you answer questions. It's my belief that you know this and are trying to drive the class mad.

To the guy with the stutter who insists on commenting while the professor mumbles on: your comments are neither witty nor worthwhile. When you shriek, "DAMMIT!" during a quiz, it's distracting to everyone. When the professor comments about the Chicago Cubs, it is your turn to listen, not to add "...you got that right." I hope I've cleared this up.

To the people who don't bring fucking pencils on quiz days: I'm getting annoyed that you don't bring your own pencils. You know when we have quizzes, and you know you need a number two pencil. This is an accounting class, not a soup kitchen. If you're looking for handouts, look elsewhere.

To the few incredibly hot girls in the class: you all are very hot. I would love to credit your assets, if you catch my drift.

To the rest of you: most of you are unmemorable. You'll all make great accountants.

Best,

Tom

The time: 1:25 AM. That's eight hours and 35 minutes until my accounting quiz that I'm fucked for. I'm going to start now and study 'til about 3:00 AM, wake up at 7:30, shower, study some more, take my quiz and come back and hibernate the rest of the day.

I'll leave it to Bright Eyes to get me going.

THE SUN CAME UP WITH NO CONCLUSIONS
FLOWERS SLEEPIN' IN THEIR BEDS
THE CITY CEMETARY'S HUMMIN'
I'M WIDE AWAKE, IT'S MORNING

I am brilliant. I've moved my alarm clock from right next to my bed to the bathroom, so that when I mosey on in to turn it off, I can disrobe and step in the shower. It's killing two birds of my morning routine with one stone. This morning in the shower I couldn't get over how wise of a decision this was.

I got my things together and left for class. As I got to my car, I noticed across the street my neighbor was mowing the grass. I haven't introduced myself to the neighbors, so this situation was rather awkward. I waved and smiled, and she did the same. Now, at least, she knows what I look like. She can't think that I'm some kind of Satanist who doesn't exchange pleasantries.

I got out onto Lake Avenue and was taken aback at the traffic. These are not people driving, these are cold and unfeeling machines. There is no respect for human life, and if any pedestrians walked out in to the street they'd be confetti by the time their foot had touched the pavement. These cars had been reduced to metallic stampeding wildebeests, and it was drive at your own risk.

Other than the maddening traffic, accounting class was pretty uneventful. We went over homework and I was bored to tears after the first forty-five minutes. Oh well. Quiz tomorrow, wish me luck, dear reader.

I went to the community college (OCC) to work out tonight. It was pretty routine, until I got on the treadmill. Four people in a row were in various stages of motion, smelling and sweating profusely. I hopped on at the end of the row and eyed up my competition once more. It was probably 8 o'clock, so it was getting pretty late. This was no friendly exercise. No, this was a race.

I nonchalantly glanced to my right. My target? My neighbor's speed. If this was a race, I had to compete. The screen said the pace was 6 MPH. I decided to go 7.

Now, I'm not athletic by any stretch, so close friends can probably tell where this is going. I looked over and the lady next to me looked back. I could see the intensity(?) in her eyes, she was determined to exercise next to me. Shocked by her flagrant display of exercise, I buckled down. Miraculously, my thought process reeled back to basic carnal instincts given by ancestors from the cradle of humanity. I was no longer a student at a community college, I was the pace car for the human race. (GET IT!? WE'RE RACING! HOW SILLY!)

Anyways, I eventually stopped. I went to go lift weights after that and I am sore. My weight lifting routine is mediocre at best, but the real victory came when I got my dinner.

Living alone, as I've mentioned before, I'm responsible for my own food. As such, I try to make it as simple as possible. Scanning the road for semi-late-night options, I saw that Boston Market and Taco Bell were open. I decided on Boston Market and pulled up. The bastards inside had closed it, as it was two minutes after 10. I waited outside for a minute, thinking they'd show sympathy to a disheveled, hungry-looking stranger. Such was not the case, so I settled for Taco Bell.

I pulled up and ordered a Spicy Chicken Burrito and a number 6(?), the combo with two chalupas, a hard taco, and a soda. I figured after a hard workout, I might as well not waste it by eating something unhealthy. Taco Bell tacos have all kinds of vegetables. One taco from tonight had a diced tomato that was as yellow as corn. That means it's good for you.

On a more hilarious note, my total was $6.47 and I managed to pay three-fourths of that in change. Ladies, I'm a good catch. Take me home to meet your parents.

Tom:1
Taco Bell:0

After writing last night's entry, I stayed online for a solid hour and a half, doing my accounting homework intermittently. Finally, I decided to go to sleep around 2:30 AM. I set my alarm for 7:30 (class is at 9) and figured I'd get up. Wrong I was.

My alarm had, during the course of the night, found it's way to off. I COULDN'T POSSIBLY have touched it subconsciously, so this only furthers my belief that this house is haunted and wants me gone.

As many of you know, I'm living here in Chicago alone until the end of June. I do my own grocery shopping, and if you'll follow the logic here, I make all of my meals. If you can imagine, I'm very malnourished. I've had pizza and sandwiches for about a week straight, throwing a hot dog here or there, and I wish I was lying when I say that I'm sitting here typing this with a Nestea and a bag of thinly-sliced lunchmeat.

I had gone grocery shopping Friday, and believe you me, I have bread here. I'm not sure if it's out of laziness that I don't make a sandwich or if I've forgotten the acceptable habits and ways of society by being here all alone. Cabin fever is setting in, a scrubby beard is here to stay, and all work and no play makes Tom a dull boy.

I'm taking a summer accounting class at a local community college for the summer. I had my first day of accounting class today. There's a ton of homework, and I'm still in summer-mode. The teacher seems sleazy, he has the kind of tan that looks weird on old men--a kind of tan that probably comes from too much booze and too many cigarettes. Also, he owns a travel agency. First off, who uses travel agencies? Secondly, if that doesn't ooze sleaze, than I can assure you his briefcase does. He looked ready to sell me a used car or to teach me about the fluctuability of assets, equity, and liabilities. I could hardly contain myself.

He walked us to the bookstore today to ensure that we bought the book. No, please understand what I'm saying. During class, we took a field trip to the bookstore. Who does that? Well, a certain accounting teacher, that's who. The class only lasted an hour and I was bored to tears. No, really, I was sobbing with the emo chick in the back of the room.

I got back from class to find my front lawn underwater. I walked over to a flower bed and saw water forcefully flowing out of the ground, flooding my front yard, my neighbor's yards, and my street. I thought it was a broken sprinkler, but it turned out to be a water main for the city of Glenview. Within a couple hours they sent someone out (after my repeated calls) to ask if I knew there was a "flooding situation" in my front yard. I groaned, and would have rolled my eyes if I was born with the ability. (I can't roll my eyes, stop persecuting me.) "No," I thought, "I just thought that the Caspian Sea was looking for a Chicago office."

I have a ton of accounting homework to do. I'm going to go, but this blogging thing seems fun, even if I'm not a hipster.