Author Archives: Candice

Allergic to Chicago

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Seems like this summer is turning out just like last summer. I’m looking forward to another few months of not being able to breathe, smell, or taste properly. I guess it could be a coincidence, and I’ve just recently developed these nasty allergies. But I prefer to believe that I’m allergic to the city of Chicago in general. I thought it was the cottonwoods, but tree pollen has dropped back down to low levels, so I’m apparently just allergic to everything. Grass pollen is high today. Since when am I allergic to grass? The house I lived in growing up probably had more grass than this entire neighbourhood, and I never had problems back then.

Maybe it’s not allergies. It could be the chemtrails.

Yeah.

Maybe.

Whatever the fuck it is, my body is devoting at least 90% of its energy to producing mucous. It’s beautiful. Especially when I wake up in the morning (er, afternoon) and clear out the backlog. Those wads of snot are the most lovely shade of crystal green…

Kill me.

Noise Control

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Part of my neighbourhood is a quiet zone, because there are lots of old, dying people living there. So, why does the church down the road get away with it’s damned ding-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-ding-ding fifty-seven times every day? It’s fuckin’ annoying, is what it is (and a poor excuse for music, I can tells ya). I have a hunch that if I decided to get up on top of my building and ring some loudassed bells every morning when reasonable people were still trying to sleep, I might get myself into a bit of trouble. Goddamned church!

Everything beyond my door annoys me

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Pedestrians need street signs, too, City of Chicago. Or are we meant to walk in only one direction on one way streets, as well, hm? The street signs on on the part of Grand I was walking on this afternoon face oncoming traffic only, and since that traffic was westbound, and I was walking east, it was a little bit annoying to figure out the cross-streets, since I had to cross to the east side of the intersection first. Dumb.

Oh, also… I’m back in Chicago for the foreseeable future. Not that I’m psychic, so I can’t foresee very far into the future at all. In fact, I can’t foresee at all. So rather, I’m back in Chicago for the time being, and will be here in from now on with a probability of 1 for the present, and declining at a rate that I don’t know enough about anything to determine towards a probability of 0 at some time in the future. Or something. Whatever. Hi again, Internet.

Hey, jerk on the bike!

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Did you know that traffic laws apply to you, too!? You know how you hate it when you’re riding your bicycle and you almost get run down by a car? Well, as a pedestrian, it pisses me off just as much when I almost get run down by you, while you’re running a red light or a stop sign without watching where you’re going. Cut it the fuck out.

the lounge car is now open

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Also, my train is being delayed even more! By how long, no one cares to say. But there are angus burgers and chicken caesar salad and hot chicken sandwiches available for lunch. Thanks so much for the update, guys. This train is already more than two hours late. Oh well. The conductor sounds exactly like John Goodman, so at least that’s mildly amusing.

dear internet, see you next month or so

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I’m currently on a train, about halfway to Washington, DC (which means I have another 8 damn hours to go). I’m meeting Sean and the rest me Cyanotic there for the next few stops of their tour. All I have to access the internet is my crappy cellphone, and typing this is a pain, so I’m going to stop, and if I neglect the internet even more than usual, you’ll know why. I’ll be on AIM (Questular).

Writing cheques to myself

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is one of my favourite things ever.

Pay to the order of: Me. Signed: Me. Endorse here: Me.

This one has a bald eagle and an American flag on it. I feel so… patriotic. Despite not being a citizen and all. Hurray for for sample cheques! I’ve never, ever used them all up. Who the hell writes cheques anymore?

They’d be better off hiring monkeys

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I just finished taping up a note for the UPS guy who will be coming tomorrow with a package for me, and with any luck, actually dropping it off.

Why is it so hard to get something delivered?

Why have I had to complain about this 87 other times on this website? (I’d add appropriate links here, but my site is down at the moment, so I’m posting this by e-mail in hopes that it will show up eventually.)

Delivering packages is pretty much the only thing that FedEx and UPS do. You’d think that a business that does one thing would be able to do that one thing reasonably well, and would hire people who have at least one or two of the rudimentary skills required to do that one thing, including:

The ability to count (so I probably shouldn’t be getting calls asking me “I’m at 3943, but I can’t find 3943 1/2”, since anyone with half a brain should be able to figure out that it’s probably somewhere between 3943 and 3945).

The ability to follow simple directions (so when I tell the genius who can’t figure out how to find 3943 1/2 to go past 3943 and try the very next door in the courtyard, I probably shouldn’t get another call 10 minutes later from an entirely different street) (and okay, maybe 3943 1/2 isn’t as straightforward as other addresses — but these guys spend all day every day finding addresses — they should at least be able to figure out that 3934 1/2 N Janssen Ave is not located anywhere on N Greenview Ave).

The ability to read (so I probably shouldn’t have to write a note that says “our buzzer is on the bottom” when our buzzer is clearly labelled to begin with, but when I do it anyway because I have experience with delivery drivers’ limited mental capacities, I probably shouldn’t be sitting in my living room all afternoon listening to absolute silence only to later on find a missed delivery tag stuck to my door, and to be told upon calling the delivery company and asking them to check up on things that the driver explained that no one answered the buzzer — no shit, Sherlock, you didn’t press it).

Hm. Um. Yeah. That’s about all they need to know, as far as I can tell. And yet, they could hire a monkey and get better results. Dear Bob, and they trust these retards to drive company-owned vehicles? If they can’t match “G” on a package to “G” on a label next to a doorbell, is it really safe to assume that they can understand the meaning of a stop sign?

Maybe I need to give up and just leave a sign that says “Dear UPS / FedEx — Get fucked. Just take the damned thing back to the warehouse. I’m sick of playing your little game. We all know I’m going to end up picking it up there eventually, anyway. I will be complaining about you to your supervisor (again) this evening. Have fun with that. I hope you die horribly.”

Seriously, why do they bother sending drivers, when seemingly nothing ever gets successfully delivered to anyone?