TLB anyone?...

I must say, Tokyo Lunchbox and Catering may be the most fabulous Chicago lunch joint there ever was. It is safe to say that I venture across Van Buren Street, to get my Spicy Tofu soup and White Rice fix, four out of five days a week. Some would say this simple meal is lackluster, boring, and obviously repetitive, but I say it is delicious and more importantly CHEEP! Only $3.30 for a satisfying yet healthy lunch option, count me in! Nowhere else in this giant square we call “the Loop” can one find an ever so delectable meal that doesn’t, quote on quote, “break the bank.” So to all you Chipotle, Potbelly, Sbarro, or possibly basement cafeteria people, go ahead, take a gander to one of the 7 TLB locations here in this great city, and fill up on some scrumptious eastern cuisine.

What’s in a word…

So hopefully I am able to become accustomed to this whole poetry thing. Is it a thing? An art? A random assortment of words? I guess it is all of the above. The premiere night of my Poetry Workshop ensued tonight, and I now find myself mystified by a question my professor placed upon us, “What is Poetry?” Considering the last poem I wrote must have been in Creative Writing with Ms. Hecht Junior year of HS, I am not sure my creative muscle with stand up against those of my peers. Along with opening the doors to my artistic ability once again, I witnessed a rift form tonight. A rift between the will and will not’s, the do’s and do not’s, the shall I say, exhibitionists and hermits.  It baffles me that while some people can word vomit for over 10 minutes about what a small poem exercise meant to them, some tremble at the thought of reciting their personal thoughts. It gives me a whole new definition to the words shy, embarrassed, or even withdrawn.  

Tatt, tatt, tatt it up…

The recent addition to my wrist has given me a new appreciation for those individuals whom cover 90% of their body in ink. I now have two tattoos. One placed behind my right ear, and one on my left wrist. Be it three years ago, I hardly remember felling any discomfort by the etching of a 1 in² heart behind my ear. Although last Sunday, my newest tribute to my father happened to cause me a much elevated pain level as it is located on a part of my body with little to no padding. This pain made me think about how it must feel to ink up in major ways, ways that require numerous sittings to finish. Ekkkk. I’d say it is safe to assume that the pain level is equal to somewhere between launching face first into a speeding windshield and being continuously body slammed by The Hulk Hogan. Hey, no pain no game.

Butter my butt...

Along with a hermit crab named Jet Jackson, whose shell is painted with a Batman emblem, my wondrous roommate gifted me a “Butter My Butt and Call Me a Biscuit” calendar. The magnetic calendar that now sits to the right of my computer consists of a county saying for each day of 2010. One would think that these quotes might make some sort of sense to an average city girl like me, but no dice. Reading ahead, I have found that many of the Hicksville sayings would not even be comprehendible by a rural Billiejoe Schmo who grew up in Cut Off, Louisiana or the cornfields of Indiana. To ring in the New Year, this calendar states “It’s time for all of us to put on the dog.” WTF?!?! Who in the eff would ever say that? I will undoubtedly continue to be baffled by this calendar for the remaining 361 days of ’10… I wish myself good luck.

Neverland is real…

At what age is a McDonald’s junkie supposed to ditch the Happy Meals and start ordering Southwest Chicken Salads, Filet-O-Fish, or the ever preferred Big Mac. I was unaware that this age was specified in some ohh so godly book of fast food, yet today I found myself being ridiculed for my 4 piece nugget meal with light up Avatar figurine. Just because I am an adult doesn’t mean that this deliciously small feast loses its “Happy.” Maybe all you overweight slobs don’t live in the same Peter Pan Neverland I call Chicago, or it could be that you are jealous that when I consume half my daily calories in one sitting I maintain the self-discipline to jog around the block a couple times. Next time keep your gawks and giggles to yourself, and gobble up your steamy McRib in silence. As for me, bring on the Happy Meals, bring on the fun.

Once a douche always a douche...

Joe Francis is none too happy about the high douchey status that Gawker awarded him last week. I personally was under the impression that sending uncouth email messages scooted people right to the top of the D-bag list, but apparently Joey didn’t get that memo. Read away y'all: Joe Fancis: Sore Douche

What a Douche-Lord…

Joe Francis, America’s iconic Girls Gone Wild playboy, was officially named “Douche of the Decade” by the ever reliable Gawker.com. Among the running were equally despicable Tucker Max, Dov Charney, and Arthur Kade, known, respectively, for their horrendous dating perils, workplace noncompliance, and fame seeking trials. To all the total douche-lords out there, better luck next ye…Decade.