Last night, in a dominant performance not unlike that of The Bears: Finishing What Katrina Started just a week before, Glue Factory (which contained several members of The Bears: Finishing What Katrina Started) won the trivia contest at Rocks, ensuring that our team's bill was 25% less than it could have been. We won by 7 points, which is a very solid margin in the Rocks trivia realm. I am confident that Glue Factory was the only team at Rocks comprised solely of male even-year graduates of Lyons Township High School, and I am confident that is why we won. Take that Hinsdale Central, you uppity pricks. You may have Range Rovers, but we got a slightly cheaper bill. Next week, it's three-peat time.
Other than that two-to-three hour period, it's been a real shit of a past two days. It all began yesterday morning. While walking to the Diversey stop in full suit and overcoat, I hit a solid ice patch in the alley behind my house. Were it not for my meerkat-like reflexes, I would have totally bit it. Instead, I just sliced by right ring finger open on some ice, a fact I did not discover until on the train, when I noticed bloodstains on page 148 of Chuck Klosterman IV, the book I'm currently reading.
Work was nothing spectacular and actually provided a nice respite from the rest of the world, aside from the fecal phantom, of course. My plan was to leave work right around 5 so that I could be at Rocks by 6 for the start of the IU/Illinois game (I'll get to that later). Giddy as a schoolgirl, I left work at 5:10, believing that I had afforded myself ample time to ride an elevated railcar 2 1/2 miles north, especially given that my door-to-door travel time Monday night after work was an ominously easy 24 minutes. I should have know things would go awry when I was a block away from Washington & Wells and I saw Purple Line train pass, prompting me to think to myself, "That's alright. There will be another one in 5 or 6 minutes. You look great, by the way." CTA, I'd like to express my sincere dislike of your irony.
After waiting for at least 20 minutes with nary a Purple Line in sight, a polite man or woman came on the loud speaker and explained that the Purple Line was delayed on its way into the Loop and, thus, it was running about 20 minutes behind. This announcement prompted every man, woman, and child on the platform to get onto the next Orange Line to Clark & Lake, and then walk over to the Brown Line side. Several Brown Line trains came by before there was room enough for Keira Knightly.
By the time I got home, it was about 6:20. IU was up on Illinois 15-11 about halfway through the first half. They would go on to score 28 more points. Total. Usually when you allow an opponent to score only 51 points, it's a pretty safe bet. Unless you only score 43. Good Lord, that was an ugly game, and by far the worst game IU has played this year. At least we'll be getting Eric Gordon next year.
The sheer anger flowing through Christoff's and my veins fueled our historic trivia performance. I wasn't going to lose everything that day. How many Bears are in the NFL Hall of Fame? Please. The President of the Confederacy? Are you serious? Oh, you want me to name the title and artist of that five-second song clip? Play something more obscure than "Battle Flag" by Low Fidelity All Stars. In what year did Clay Aiken win American Idol? Nice try.
The glories of victory were fleeting, as my night terrors roared back. Damn you Peter Tomarken. Why were you taken so young?
I woke up this morning both weary and wary. I left for work a little later than I usually do, but shit happens, right? Indeed, shit happens. As I strolled confidently through the turnstile at the Diversey stop, I felt like my troubles might be over. Karma, being the vengeful, ruthless bitch that she is, felt otherwise. When I placed my monthly CTA pass in my pocket, I noticed that my pocket felt a little different. On the stairs up to the platform, I realized that I had left my building and floor swipe cards at home. Feeling like I needed to gain entry to the elevator bank that takes me to my floor, as well as the door that allows me to enter my general workspace, I turned around and walked back home. It was not until I was in my apartment, staring at where the cards should have been on my dresser, that I put my left hand in my left pocket, where the cards had been the whole time -- naturally, since neither card had ever set foot in a left pocket before. I'm convinced that some sort of nymph may have been responsible, or possibly a nympho.
Instead of dwelling on whether Ariel or Chasey Lain was responsible for the teletransportation of two plastic swipe cards, I just went back to the Diversey stop to continue getting fisted by the world. Not thinking twice about it, I put my monthly pass (which is not a Chicago Card or Chicago Plus Card) into the little card intake in the turnstile. It didn't come out. Apparently you can't use a monthly pass twice within too short of a period of time or the CTA eats your card as punishment. The nice man in the booth informed me that he didn't have any extra $20 cards -- which they apparently usually give to half-Italian males upon whom shit is being rained on by God -- but he will have one for me tomorrow.
Work, again, provided a diversion from everything. I paid $2 for the pleasure of riding the Purple Line home this evening. One stop before Diversey, the train stopped for 15 minutes while the conductor tried to fix a door malfunction. During these 15 minutes, the entire train was serenaded by the sound of train doors rapidly slightly opening and closing. I love you, CTA.
To top it off, Jessie just explained to me that Pierce Brosnan is "so handsome."
For some reason I have planned to leave the house to go to dinner in about a half hour with Christoff, his special (?) ladyfriend, and the Jester. If I don't return, it's been a good run. I love you all.