All my wretched and diabolical plans for this summer appear to be in mid-thwart. Originally, I was going to snooze through a job at the Country Club, earning way more cash than is necessary, while raking in a fair check from Illini Media in my work as assignment editor. I would scoop up some easy credits from Parkland in an online course or two, thus eliminating the need for me to slog through the bitches that are economics and political science during a real semester. My friends here and I would go out on a bi-nightly basis, scoring cheap drinks at bars, eating grease foods while inebriated and engaging in general goodhearted brouhaha. And I would write six or seven brilliant endeavoring feature stories while chipping in a couple dinky beat bits for the paper. And I would have an apartment to myself for a negligibly cheap sum, where I could play PS3 and Final Fantasy X at my leisure.
By the sheer amount of good things referenced in the preceding paragraph, you may have correctly assumed by process of elimination that I'm not having the best of summers. One of my larger concerns at the moment is this what is becoming chronic shoulder pain and odd discomfort of the lower back. Because they make moving harder, which translates to every thing being slightly harder. Luckily, one of my roommates left behind a bottle of Ibuprofen that is currently blanketing those pains. It wears off at night, though. Bummer. Additionally, I was rejected by the Country Club, then everywhere else I applied (read: Chipotle and IHOP) and oh hey, it's July on Sunday. Furthermore, I wasn't able to sign up for classes, partially because I didn't have a job to fund the $300 credit nuggets, and partially because I was late in beginning the process of registration. My job at the paper has been a double-edged sword. In that it gives me first pick of all story ideas, then full power to assign them to whomever I like. As in, not myself. Meanwhile, I'm clinging to the pithy salary I'm getting, trying to fund my life and buy food that I can feasibly cook. And socially most of my nights have consisted of light reading and boredom, as I've only been out to the bars a couple times. It's senseless to go spend money there when I have no job.
Which brings me to my apartment. My home. My cave. The air conditioning is broke. I'm hesitant to call the landlord because technically I don't live here. It's a no-table-involved lease agreement that I have with Gordon Voit, a swell chap I might add, that I get this apartment for the summer for $500 bucks. That figure looked way less threatening when I was banking (literally) on $12.50 an hour, 20 hours a week. It's as hot as a human mouth in here right now. The thermostat tells me we're at or north of 90. The only light right now is from the relenting sun and this computer screen, the only other electricity being used is to power my fan, which is admirably blowing right at my face, doing its very best to keep up.
Earlier today I was wearing my fall jacket to keep me cool. But eventually I made Chunky chicken and gumbo soup, and put Frank's Red Hot in it (read: gave up). I followed that with the coldest shower I've ever taken (a bookend to the hottest shower I've ever taken, which occurred at Blaisdell Hall of PAR after getting back from the Return to Titletown celebration in Lambeau Field), which I took with the door open for good measure.
The remaining of my two roommates moved out (for a month) yesterday. So how's living alone? Well, it's lonely. But I have no problem with that. The problem is that I'm not miraculously self-motivated sans the presence of others. I'm still making good excuses not to do necessary things (what if he flips a shit and kicks me out? I'm lambed). I can't even find a good place to hang this disco ball. The one thing I need right now is for this weather to go the hell back to Texas or wherever it belongs and to let things cool around here so I can stop being all hot and bothered.
That or a vacation. My cave is a human.
--Eliot Sill
