Vote For Me.
Recently, I raised the bar for geekitude. You may think you are all fancy schmancy geekitundinal, but I respectfully say to you: Game on. I present the following evidence:
It was a warm but blustery Monday morning. As is typical for Chicago weather, it gives a little and it takes a little. This day it was warm and sunny, but the wind was blowing at a snappy 200 mph. Because I am brilliant, I wore a dress. Not just any dress, however, an ankle-length orange dress the color of a dreamsicle, with an ankle-length, camel-colored button-up sweater, with my all-time favorite belt, the one that looks like a cowboy’s gun belt, but without the holsters. Again, may I remind you, I am brilliant, and so I knew that a severely long dress would be unlikely to do a quick flip, as is usual for most dresses and skirts in Chicago’s cocky blustery days, and I would therefore be safe from any unintended flashes.
As I walked to work, pissed off at Monday specifically and mad at the week in general, I ignored the warmth and the sun and focused on the important things at hand—how, if I were Queen of the Universe, I would ban Mondays forever and make them National Shoe Day wherein we would all prance around town in cool ass shoes and probably, like, be generally cool or something, and then drink beer. You would be allowed to drink wine on National Shoe Day, but only if you were wearing Christian Louboutin shoes. This rule would apply to men as well as women.
As I was considering the route for the parade in my honor on National Shoe Day, I was shaken out of my plans by an insistent car horn. I crossed Franklin and I could hear the car turning behind me and then some kind of yelling and I thought, “I really fucking hate Monday mornings, but I really fucking hate rush hour drivers more.” I returned to my reverie, secure and happy in my own condescension.
When I approached Wacker, another car honked at me. This one was white, four-door, and had a lady hanging out the passenger side window, yelling at me. I knew she was yelling at me for two reasons: one, she was pointing at me; and two, I was the only person on the sidewalk.
Well, this got to me. I mean, really, people. The yelling! It is UNNECESSARY! We do not need to add noise pollution to the already egregiously long list of environmental face-slaps we have inflicted upon our world and GOD! Will you all please JUST SHUT UP, I am trying to lose myself in my own little world, which just so happens to be WAY BETTER THAN THE REAL WORLD! GAH!
A-hem. Then I walked by the 300 S. Riverside building, which is essentially a very large mirror, and I realized that somewhere during my commute, the back of my dress got caught on the Velcro of my bag, and was no longer acting as a long dress, or even as a dress at all, but more like a shirt, tucked into nothing because I was not wearing pants, and…huh.
To recap, I am winning the geek wars. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Should I make a motion to elect Morris as Queen of the Geek Brigade?” The answer is—yes. Yes, you should. Of course, someone will have to second the motion. Thank you for your support.