A Week's Worth of Weak Worthlessness

I must confess, lately I've been patting a lot of people on the back.
I mean this quite literally.
It's like somewhere along the line, I lost confidence in my smile or my words of companionship and have since began relying on brief non-sexual human contact.
Just in the last handful of days I patted my dad on the back, slugged my editor-in-chief on the shoulder as I was saying goodbye, pinched my buddy's shoulder blade in a joking manner and briefly rubbed my mom's back.
I have no explanation for why this is happening and it kinda creeps me out after each time I do it.

* * * * *

Why is it that Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, Diddy and Sean "Puffy" Combs are all legitimate terms for a talentless man, but when I mistakenly call him "Puffy Dad" I'm suddenly the world's most ridiculous imbecile?
His name is retarded even if I got it right, you jerks.

* * * * *

When a girl says she doesn't want to be surprised for her birthday, she is lying. Do not take her on her word. You will find hundreds of girls conceed that other girls do this, but none of them will ever admit they do it.
Oh, but they do. They all do.
Girls don't own up to most things.
Britney Spears sold millions of albums in 1999. She mostly sold these records to 16-year old girls and 45-year-old pederasts. Those 16-year-olds are 24 now and the 45-year-olds are 53. When was the last time you heard either of them admit to ever liking Britney Spears?
Yup.
All I'm sayin' is that somebody bought those albums.
Girls will tell you not to do anything special, but they actually expect the opposite. She may say she doesn't want a big fuss, but if you don't make a big fuss, she's going to be extrememly upset that you don't care about her (apparently). The irony is, there will be times when girls claim they don't want something and you will anticipate this instance as being another "surprise party"-type situation. You will therefore ignore her wishes and try to do what you believe she must really desire.
This will inevitably ignite a shouting match about how you never listen to her and just do whatever the hell you want.

And this is why I'll never vote for a female president.

* * * * *

Last week I walked past the two marble lion statues guarding the main entrance to the Art Institute of Chicago. There was a small crew of men standing around the lions measuring their heads.
During the holidays they toss Christmas wreathes (holiday wreathes?) around both of the lion's necks. It was well past Christmas though, so I was a tad confused.
And even though I didn't know what they were doing, I remember thinking that they were measuring the head of the left lion oddly and that it didn't seem as if they were taking the statue's dimensions into proper consideration.

On the front page of Wednesday's Chicago Tribune was a picture of two dumbfounded architects trying unsuccessfully to fit an undersized Chicago Bears helmet onto one of the lion's heads.
Ha! I thought so.
Go Bears.

* * * * *

Okay, so I don't know how to answer the phones at work. I hear them ring, but the lights on the phone situated at my desk don't go off. My conclusion is that must not be for me.
But the phone keeps ringing and ringing and inevitably, someone from one of the offices - paying us so they don't have to pick up the phone - angrily ask whether or not anyone is going to answer it.
I could answer the phone, I'm not opposed to it. I'm just not sure when the appropriate time to answer a phone that isn't mine might be.
I suppose a go-getter would inquire about the phone answering conundrum, maybe show a little initiative. Frankly, I don't want to let on that I don't know how to work the phones. I keep thinking that it'll all make sense soon enough.
But it hasn't, I still have no idea when to answer the phone or even if I'm able to answer the phone.

* * * * *

I've got my teacher with the male camel-toed pants again this semester. If you're unclear as to what I am referring to, please look into this blog's archives for the entry entitled "Ninja Slipper".
Four months later, I'm used to it. I'm not going to complain all over again.
It's worse this semester though because I've got one teacher with mom pants and another with floods. This alone is enough to halt me from ever becoming a professor. Apparently, professorial tasks stimulate the intelligence in the brain, but retard the ability to properly dress oneself.
I'm not talking about high fashion here. I'm just wondering what is going through my teacher's head when he hikes his courderoys up past his bellybutton, looks down and sees a solid three feet in between his shoes and his slacks.
Your pants would fit sir, if you'd just pull them down a bit.

* * * * *

I've recently landed a sweet internship with Cinema/Chicago, the organization in charge of The Chicago International Film Festival. I have several job titles, but around the office so far, I'm pretty much just known as "the writer". I write anything they throw over the walls of my cubicle. I don't ask questions, I just write what they tell me.
The last few days I've been writing legal correspondence and talking to various lawyers - which is something I am not in any way qualified to do.
The funny thing is - I love it. More than most anything I've done since coming back to Chicago, I've really dug doing it and I've contributed a surprising amount already...

...And of course, this is just about the worst thing that could happen. I'm barely into my second semester in journalism school, I'm scheduled to be the editor-in-chief of the school newspaper next semester and already...
...My God, am I thinking about going to law school?

Ugh. I hope not.