Culture

Listless: Scrambling!

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Allow me to level with you, esteemed reader. Right at this moment I am sitting in a Caribou Coffee in downtown Chicago because I’ve had writer’s block all week and I refuse to let this impede my duties as a Heave staffer. So, for this week I present Five Reasons This Isn’t A More Substantial Column.

1. Liquor or: The start of summer.

I mean, yeah. I’ve graduated, and I read somewhere that this grants you at least two weeks of day drinking carte blanche before I have to do real people things like tie a tie or get a driver’s license or stop using my paychecks to buy high-end, battery-powered Nerf weaponry. Seriously, they sell them with fucking turrets now. Childhood is far more badass than in the ’90s. I mean, did Alex Mack ever have massive foam firepower? Hell no. She just turned into goo.

2. This lady next to me.

It’s hard enough to hustle out a piece without a woman laughing at my harried phone calls saying I’ll be late for dinner at Portillo’s. She don’t know my life. Though, the OneRepublic jam playing right now is turning this into some epic shit. Just remember, Heavers (the name I just gave our reader base that I hope doesn’t permanently kill all the goodwill we’ve gained over 3 years), it’s NEVER too late to apologize. Except for this smug lady. She owes me one real quick.

3. Typing on an iPad.

Seriously. These things can eat the most prodigious dick. It’s like I’m blogging in Minority Report and the mind cops are just conspiring to quash the burgeoning of Internet mediocrity. For some reason, I’m picturing that all these blogosphere cops resemble Robocop, except they all have these shitty devices in their chests.

4. The Art Institute’s modern wing.

My poor girlfriend kept reminding me about Listless, only to watch me ignore her so I could rant about how two stripes aren’t art and make pithy jokes. Trust me, after that sentence I hate me right now too.

5. The tantalizing promise of beef in my future.

Heh. But seriously, it’s Portillo’s time. Hopefully one day that’s on a clock. Now I’m done, but I feel like this needs a big finish, or at least Rip Taylor throwing around some confetti. But alas, it is not to be.