"It's all for you, Damien."

Okay, let us sum up my current situations. But first, Disclaimer: I am currently medicated, so mind the gap.

The spawn of the Devil is currently residing within my gallbladder. I think he's put up shelves and hung some pictures. That hurtful little bastard thinks he's sticking around for a while. But I've got news for you, Damien. Come October, and with it my health insurance, eviction is inevitable.

I blew my knee out Monday night. I don't want to get too detailed, but if you're dying for an explanation you can Youtube a dance move titled "the cat daddy," and combine that with me in my kitchen at midnight, listening to some very uncat daddy tunes. But this time was far worse than any other knee blow out, so despite being uninsured for twelve more days, I hobbled to the ER for the second time in a month. Good grief. My doctor, who will henceforth be referred to as The Medical Man of My Dreams, was very kind and very sympathetic about my financial binds and blah blah blah, I'm having trouble maintain a thought long enough to complete its sentence... Anyway, I've now got a pair of crutches, two bottles of ibuprofen, and some pain killers, which will henceforth be referred to as My New Best Friends. And with the help of My New Best Friends, instead of having a wobbly knee that feels like a constant throb and stab, I now have a knee that feels as though it's perpetually in that weird state of when a body part falls asleep, but right before the little needles go to work to wake it back up. Am I making any sense here?

So I've been thinking . . . You ever see that Stephen King movie, Misery? Remember when Cathy Bates breaks his ankle so all he can do is lay in bed or write? Well, since I can't even get onto my bed (it's a loft and involves climbing a painter's ladder), and my book has gone missing (I'm trying my best not to flip out about that), all I have now is my computer. Perhaps the cat daddy is my Cathy Bates, and now I have no choice but write. Get it?

And now our favorite segment: More Things Chicago Has Taught Me:

• Don't take your book to a sports bar. The bartender will confiscate it.
• The Emergency Rooms in this city are far, far less terrifying in the middle of the day on a Tuesday than they are at midnight on the weekends.
• Not every park has tables. Plan your picnics wisely.
• Words words words. I can't think anymore.

Well, shoot. I can't write with My New Best Friends! Looks like it's just going to me, them, and all of these Boy Meets World reruns.

Not Dead Yet!

Welp, this is Chicago.  I have some friends, found a few favorite restaurants and bars and am generally always aware of which direction I'm facing.  So all in all, I'm a Chicagoan now.  Holla. It's been a tad past four months, and I've, for the most part, set up shop. I have regular patterns in life here with work, friends, and classes. Ah yes, classes. Remember those? What I came here to do?

I finished Writing 1 a couple weeks ago. That's right, I am $300 poorer, but oh, what I have to show for it! Eight weeks and five scripts later, I have solidified the proper spelling of my name, learned correct script formatting, and now unwillingly possess the detailed knowledge of what would happen if a human being were to take a shit on the moon. So, Writing 1: check.

Writing 2 I just started two days ago. It's a Sunday afternoon class is a room much smaller but also with far more comfortable chairs. Already, with just the leap from Writing 1 to Writing 2, we've begun to separate the quitters from the desperately dedicated. Walking into the tiny, dim room, I got my first real taste of the minority roll I'll be playing in my ideal line of work. In a class of 14 people, I am one of three girls. It's like stepping through the SPU looking glass. Everyone seems to already know each other, coming from the same Writing 1 class. But that's cool, because I know the instructor from my Writing 1 class. That's right, Kalah's only friend is the teacher. Fifth grade all over again. Winning.

I look a bit of an outsider here...

Friends!

Friends: They're wonderful. I even live with one now! She moved in a couple months ago, and it's been most swell, indeed. They're fun people who I know care about me. I know this from the very bottom of my heart. But . . . I've seemed to have left said heart behind, leaning on one of the many sloping sidewalks of Seattle. It's been very hard for me, recognizing that life goes on without me, and realizing that I would rather be there for that. Of course I'm not going to throw in the towel so soon, but that hasn't stopped me from vividly daydreaming about moving back to Seattle. To what? Be a barista from the rest of my life while all my darling friends become more successful at being adults. That'd just be weird for everyone, wouldn't it? Anyway, to make a long story shot (I won't even try to delve into my egg white / egg yolk theory here. It'd just be an incoherent mess without the proper diagrams), I've been very sad lately. I just cried, right before writing this. I'm talking, uncontrollable sobs. And the real upsetting part of that is that I can pinpoint no real reason why. It just . . . happened. I have a leak somewhere, I suppose.




Anyway, here are some new things Chicago has taught me:

• Try to avoid riding the train when severely ill / severely intoxicated. There are no trash cans to deposit one's vomit, nor is there any emergency stop button. You're in a tube in a tunnel full of other humans. Please don't put anyone through that.
• Dim sum is not ever good. This is a personal preference, but a lesson I've learned nonetheless.
• It is legal, and even encouraged, to bring your own alcoholic beverages to about 40% of all Chicago restaurants. And it's pretty awesome.
• Wisconsin is very close, but still not as close as you'd think.
• Don't go to a standup show unless you're prepared to clap, like, 80% of the time. If you don't, you're just going to look like an asshole. And more importantly, they need that, man. They're like Tinkerbell. If we don't clap, their ambition and livelihood will shrivel up and die. Brave souls up there. Brave souls.
• Friday night in a Chicago emergency room is surely one of the innermost layers of hell. I found myself wedged between a drug addict screaming threats in Satan's voice, and a kid who CUT HIS FOOT OFF. There was no foot left. So please, lets all do our very best to stay out of those Chicagoland ERs.
• For the right price, you can have pretty much anything delivered to your doorstep.

So, Chicago. I'm sure it will start to get better as soon as it lets up being 180 degree with 190% humidity. Yeah, that'd probably lighten my mood quite a bit. And, you know, if I'd just stop complaining so much and write some more.