u s e y o u r h a n d s

There is this digital clock by the tracks at Union Station that counts hours, minutes, and seconds. And I have always liked this clock because it is so prominent, but also because it does count the seconds. It’s so rare that you see this.

And today, I was looking at the clock, at the second hand, and it occured to me that the most important element of time is the second. Because how many ways has your life been changed by a second? Running or not running a red light. Catching a banister before you trip. The second that your heart yields to rest forever.

We never notice the seconds that don’t change our lives. They just add up to the hours of boredom, minutes of bliss. And life is just a very long string of seconds that pass by. It’s nice that at least one place gives them their due.

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I work across from a residential high-rise. I sit in the lunch room and look for jumpers, people having sex. But often, I see people talking on their phones, pacing on their balcony. Or maybe making the bed. And it’s so much more intimate that way.

Today, I found out that they can’t see in our windows. And this really bothered me because I won’t be able to have an actual connection with these strangers, my neighbors. Only a furtive peep.

WHY IS MY RIGHT HAND ALWAYS COLD??????

Yes, there has been depression lately. But I do believe that, like a misty fog, like a labored metaphor, it is lifting.

My fucking ass fell down our front stairs last Saturday. Now, I have quite a lovely scrape down my right leg and foot, and a dime-sized scratch on my left knee. And I did, in fact, get said scrapes from falling down the stairs as opposed to “falling down the stairs.”

I got a call last Friday that my mother had been taken to the hospital. That she had a head injury. That her teeth had been knocked out. That she had been hallucinating. That nobody knew what had happened.

And instead of being shocked, I felt my brain shrug overwhelmingly. Because sometimes people choose their lives. Because most of the time, you can’t change shit. And because this is just the way it is.

Last night I went to a fundraiser for a girl who had been mugged in Andersonville. And what shocked me was that she said that since she was a “big girl” (six feet or so) that she thought she could fight them off. And as they beat her head against a wall, she realized she was wrong. And I guess, so am I.

I’ll leave you with something funny: A businessman says “I need more profits!” So an eager young associate goes and rounds up Jesus, Mohammed, and Buddha. And the businessman takes a look at these dudes and goes, “Profits not prophets!”

Yeah, I know it wasn’t funny. But have a martini or three. It’ll be funnier then.

I’ve been busy.

I started a new job at an ad agency downtown. This is nice because I’ve wanted to work at an agency for sometime; i’ll learn a lot and “make contacts.” Plus, the office is located on the top floor of a Michigan Avenue building with good views of both Millennium Park and the Chicago River. It’s colorful as opposed to corporate gray. And, perhaps most importantly, my boss is not a hateful, passive-agressive bitch. Frabjous day!

I’ve been all sad lately, though, as a result of sporadic ingestion of psychopharmaceutica and endless mental debate. The less said about that the better.

Item I Meant to Blog #1:

I never looked up from my book. During the entire bus ride, I sat on top of that round spinny disk connecting a long bus. And since the driver was hauling ass down LSD, every time the bus shuddered or shook, the disk and consequently my seat, jumped. I chirped. A girl sat next to me. For the next 15 minutes, instead of reading, I breathed in her smell – a combination of cocoa butter, soft floral perfume, and girl sweat.

Item I Meant to Blog #2:

Ugh. I’m constantly hounded by this idea/fear/complex that I’m about to be fired. I don’t feel that my work is good. Sometimes, I’m convinced these people think I’m a moron. This follows me from job to job. And I’ve never been fired. And I’m not a moron. Ish. Ly.

Item I Meant to Blog #3:

I had a good time last night. Hanging out with cool people in a cute bar. Telling racy/funny/poignant stories. Eating $1. Speaking in fragments.

All the while, a tv played footage of beefcakey men in thongs dancing on a boat. Thankfully, this was behind me. I don’t need that much pee-pee in my life.

Item I Meant to Blog #4:

This happened today:

Brian yelled “Oh, shit!!”

“What?” I asked, thinking Princess had puked up another champeen-sized hairball.

“The van across the street is on fire!”

I went into the living room and provided confirmation that yes, the van across the street was indeed on fire. While he looked for the phone and then called 911, I enjoyed watching the motherfucker burn. Burn, motherfucker, burn!

Glass melted and slid down the back of the van and metal panels buckled and popped. The fire, which inexplicably began in the back of the van, was undoubtedly the result of arson. Which is kind of cool, except when the burning van starts to stink.

Conclusion: Firemen are “cool.”