It’s been over two years since I’ve lived in a home with stairs. Hell, since living in Chicago, I haven’t even had a kitchen table. In less than two weeks, I’ll not only have a giant kitchen table with a Lazy Susan in the middle, (perfect for entertaining, which is, I faintly recall, something that people do when they have houses,) but a fucking breakfast nook overlooking the California landscape. Since the house is built cascading down a hillside, I’ll have to take stairs, stairs, stairs, from the front door down to the living room.

Holy crap, I’ll have a living room? I’ll have hills?

You’d think I’d be as psyched as a slum-dweller cast in “The Real World,” and I am, in a way … but I’ve liked my modest place. It’s been all mine, and I’ll miss it. My windows face due west, and I’ve enjoyed owning the sunset.

It’s going to be an intense transition, but I’ve been in enough living situations to realize that while I’ll definitely have to adapt, a change in environment won't change me. I’ll still have to deal with the same patterns and behaviors as always. But I’m thankful for the opportunity for external changes, because they make me aware of internal constants.

My Chicago Comic Strip is contracting, panel by panel. There are so many people I see every day, people I don’t know by name, but by the titles I invent for them. They don’t know my name, either, unless some of them have read it off of my debit card. I’m a recurring character in their lives, as they are in mine. Each of us is a part of the other’s routine. I feel writing them letters or something, so they don’t think I was a figment of the imagination.

Dear Flirty Indian Man at Kiosk,

Thank you for being so nice to me at your little booth every morning, when I buy my daily Diet Coke. Every time I wear contacts instead of glasses, I’ll think of you, because you always comment on my eyes and tell me that I look “ten years younger” without my glasses.

By the way, how old do I look with my glasses? Because if I look a whole decade younger without them, that would mean I looked sixteen. Which would make you kind of a perv.

I’m sorry you always had to repeat yourself when we conversed. It’s not your accent that makes you difficult to understand. It’s the fact that you mumble. Don’t be bashful about your bad teeth. I don’t mind. Open your mouth and enunciate a little.

Anyway, you’re sweet, and I’ll kind of miss you.

See you tomorrow,

Glasses and Diet Coke Girl who Always Wears Skirts

* * * * *

Dear Greek Owner of the Corner Convenience Store,

Once, when I came in to buy batteries or something, I asked you how you were. You sighed and responded, “I’d be a lot better if everyone was as nice as you.” You smiled, but you looked so damned tired.

Well, sir, I hope more people are nice to you. It must be kind of a bummer to sell Colt 45 after Colt 45 to bums who pay with the change in their cups. I’m sure they don’t mean to piss you off. I don’t know, maybe you were just having a bad day.

Anyway, thanks. Good luck with those home renovations you mentioned before. I appreciate you occasionally cutting me slack on the sales tax.

Twelve cents richer because of you,

Canned Goods and Diet Soda Girl

* * * * *

Dear Stooped, Ashy, Corner Convenience Store Toady,

Okay, so, when I first saw you, I thought you might be mildly retarded. Until recently, it seemed like all you ever did was stock the soda coolers and smile sheepishly.

About a month ago, I noticed that you graduated to register and sales! I’ve even heard you speak a couple of times! I guess you were just shy. Congrats, man. Way to conquer your fears.

I’ve made up this whole back-story for you, you know. Not a weird one. It’s more like a heartwarming Christmas tale. I think you need a Little Match Girl or something to bring fire to your heart. You deserve it. Maybe you’re your own Little Match Girl. Aw.

Oh, and you did a smashing job on the coolers.

Hope they don’t keep you tied up in the storage room and feed you on scraps (like I suspect they did),

Girl Who ALWAYS Gets in Your Way

* * * * *

Dear Large Black Storekeeper,

Look. I can tell that you think I’m a lonely young alcoholic, probably because all I ever buy from you is cat food, Camels, and cheap wine. Oh, and Diet Dr. Pepper.

I admit, I have a Diet Dr. Pepper problem. It is my monkey. As for the other things, I assure you that I’m fine. It’s not like I’m in there every day, or anything. I don’t go home and stick a straw in the wine jug to guzzle it all down at once. I just happen to enjoy the cheap merlot that your store carries, as opposed to that carried by the other 3 convenience stores on my block. You should be GRATEFUL for my business, Judgey Wudgey.

Okay, I’m going to stop now, before I sound like one of those people who refutes evidence because she’s in denial.

Sorry I apparently bug you so bad,

FUCK YOU

* * * * *
Dear Mexican Guy Who Always Talks to Me at the Gym,

I don’t know a whole lot of people who are so genuinely, disarmingly friendly to everyone they meet. You make me smile.

Since your English is kind of shaky, and it takes you a while for you to tell someone your awesome story, you should totally make yourself a t-shirt that reads, “I CAME HERE FROM MEXICO FOR AN AC/DC CONCERT IN ’94 AND JUST FUCKIN’ STAYED!!!”

Because, dude, that story rules. You're kind of my hero.

Good luck with that poultry shop you mentioned,

Clumsy Gym Girl

* * * * *
Dear Haranguing Socialist Radicals,

Where’d you guys go? You used to stand outside my train station every day, yelling and handing out fliers! Just when I was preparing to actually talk to you, you disappeared.

Come back! Just one more time! I really wanted to go to one of your meetings, undercover-like, so that, afterwards, I could make fun of you on the Internet!

By the way, you guys should really try to recruit some better-looking people if you want to appeal to, you know, the Proletariat. The Proletariat likes pretty people, too. Che Guevara was pretty hot.

I’m not trying to be mean. It’s just that the lazy-eyed, slopey-headed, monobrowed screechers who used to stand by my train looked every bit as scary and crazy as people want to think they are. Sure, that sentence sucked, but you know what I mean.

Improve your marketing. You need more attractive representatives. Sex sells, Komrads.

Maybe you all got arrested,

Girl Disappointed that She Couldn’t Spy on You

* * * * *

Dear Skeletal Armenian Hooker,

You know? I can’t pinpoint why, but you’re my favorite of the whores I’ve seen in the neighborhood. You seem nice. I mean, you’re always wasted, which is sad, but you behave in a certain way that makes me think your personality and spark is still intact. Good luck, girl.

Take Care,

Passer-by

I wish I knew how I felt, these days. Don’t get me wrong, I’m really very excited. But life is currently on hold, and I hate that.

Everything’s just washing over me, and I reach to my friends for leverage. One of them hosted my going away party last Friday. On the way there, the bus driver winked, and slipped me a bus pass on which was written his name and number. When I got off the bus, a homeless lady asked me for change. When I said I didn’t have any, she said, “That’s alright. Have fun tonight, baby.” Those two brief scenes created an appropriately bittersweet opening to my Chicago goodbye. I think they were good omens.

That night, I was surrounded by good friends who managed to express the perfect balance of joy and dismay about my leaving.

· I was congratulated and hugged, then sternly warned that someone would be sent to kidnap me from San Francisco if I showed any sign of becoming a hippie.
· One of my friends, appalled that I had never seen his famous strip tease, stopped what he was doing to change into a mechanic’s uniform and leopard thong to give me a lap-dance. That’s love, folks.
· Friends from my theatre company reminded me over and over that I was the baby of the group, and made me promise not to hang out with too many people my own age.
· My tallest friend gave me a huge bear hug and said, “I love ya, Lady.” I mean, I knew that, but he’d never said it before.
· One of my friends gave me a bottle opener with a Cubs insignia on it. It came with a card that in which she had written,

“March forward, young lady. Eat up every morsel of life your spirit and heart and stomach can hold. I wish you luck and Happy Magic and Love wherever the road takes you. The California Sun Pales in Comparison to you. Be free.

Love, JH”

And I’m in danger of becoming a hippie? No, I’m just kidding. It was lovely.

Less than two weeks from now, I’ll be in a new home. It will only be 10:30 P.M. there, and I’ll have a physical reason for being so wide awake.

Good night.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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