Out of whack.

I'm tired. And hot. And cold, somehow, at the same time. It's ninety-two outside right now and it's not even nine yet. Inside, it's probably forty degrees, since I sit right below the vent. But I'm still sweating from walking to the train an hour and a half ago. I keep thinking of those poor gay athletes (gathletes? can we please call them gathletes?) at the Gay Games this week sweating their balls off in the name of equality. They're the real heroes.

We signed our lease. We're moving in on Friday evening. Our apartment is the shit. I'm excited as hell, even though the next five days will be hell. I keep thinking that I've just got a lot of cleaning and packing to do and that it'll all be worth it. I'm excited to get out of Wrigleyvile. On Saturday, as Nicole and I walked down our street, I almost had one of the hilarious slip-ups where someone steps on a banana peel and then falls flat on his back. Except that it was vomit, not a banana peel. I'm so happy that in our new neighborhood, which is on the border between Lakeview and Lincoln Park, people have enough class to throw up on the grass.

Here's my second disgusting story from the weekend: I cleaned out the refrigerator, finally. I expected to find at least one flaming bag of poop, considering the smells coming from the thing, but I only found a few bags of soft apples, a plastic container of what used to be cherry tomatoes, and some grey turkey slices. I was completely disgusted until I found two Red Stripes hiding in the back (those stubby little bottles are so stealthy!). I grabbed them, yelled out, "Sweet, dude!" and drank them. Which is probably why I have a headache now.

I'm too spaced-out to come up with a good conclusion, so I'm posting this picture, because I don't understand it: