I resolve to be more humble.

One comes to a lot of revelations whilst watching the World Series of Poker.

Rejoice! I just turned in my final paper of my illustrious *sarcasm* undergraduate career... 20 weeks past its proper deadline.

I've been up for, like 30 hours, and I missed prime drinking time, so this entry is the equivalent of me getting pissed and raucously dancing on the bar.

I'm off to L.A. the 2nd to the 7th. Feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

We are seeking essays about, but not limited to, the following subjects: Family, Career, Sex, Society, and Self. Be specific. Be unique. We want you to tell us—and, by extension, the entire world—something we haven’t heard before, something that defines you as a member of this burgeoning generation. Make us laugh, make us think, make us mad—just don’t make us yawn."

What are your thoughts on writing contests? Though it may be a little scammy (the runner-ups don't take home any cash), I'm thinking of entering it, due to recent encouragement from a certain somebody, and some sudden inspiration. I could probably churn out some pretty killer stuff about career, love and class/racial relations. An idea recently popped up while apartment hunting, relating one's choices toward housing and location and the kind of person they wish to be. A person's environment affects their mood, their outlook, and the kind of people they're going to meet. Afterall, Chicago's neighborhoods each of a distinctive personality from which you can judge a person's class and lifestyle - for example, Wicker Park (hipsters with $$), Gold Coast (old Jews with visors), South Side (poor and black).

Pigeonholed in Hyde Park, without easy access to CTA trains, the seething class differences and racial tension occasions boils into a splattering bubble. Therefore, I've been so meticulous in choosing a new place and have been getting a circuitous tour of all the neighborhoods. Interesting stuff I have not yet been able to clearly articulate. Something to think about.

Oh, and I hate this sentence: "Make us laugh, make us think, make us mad—just don’t make us yawn." You publishers should be able to think of something just a tad more original and less patronizing. O, Random House, do you really deserve to thumb through my writing?

These past couple of weeks have been wonderful, beautiful, and cathartic. My trip to San Fran shook off the last of my depressive moodiness, and since then its been fun, sun, and a gorgeous frenzied stress, borne from the commencement of PanAsia, Crystal's visit, a budding relationship, and learning to be happy again. But can't win them all, I guess. Last night I had the first bad night in a long time.

Crystal's last night in Chicago, and I plan a fabulous night of salsa dancing with her and my favorite Cathleen at Babalu's. We get there a little late, and the line wrapped around the corner.

Suddenly, we're approached by a gorgeous Latin man. He asks if we're alone. We are. He's a promoter and he decided we were gorgeous enough to get pulled to the front of the line. We're ushered past the hour long wait and all the of fluorescent button downs and bursting miniskirts.

Then, Cathleen and her little pot-addled mind realizes that she forgot her ID. Pissed, but helpless, I give her mine. To make a long story short, we end up banned from Babalu's for the night, barely escaping with our IDs and dignity.

The rest of the night comprised of us wandering from pathetic bar to pathetic bar. We even made a last, desperate flail and were momentary patrons of John Barleycorn. The high point of the night was a conversation with a sketchy Middle Eastern cabby. A friendly guy working nights to pay his way through college, I listened to his bullshit for a bit, when he gets a phone call from his friend.

"Hey, tell him you're my girlfriend."

I take the little bleeping contraction, "Hi, I am a prostitute your friend picked up at the Redhead. But he was cute, so I gave him a 10% price cut."

The friend laughs timidly and asks if he can join.

"Sure, I can do threesomes. It'll cost you extra. And I don't do 69. I don't believe in mutual pleasure."

He asks what I look like. Vaguely annoyed, I hand the phone back to sketch cabby.

"She's a model! Beautiful, beautiful!"

I grab the phone back. "Yes, I've done some modeling. Mostly plus-size and the "before" pictures for the Xentra ads".

And then I spend the rest of the ride pretending to be sick, while Crystal convinces him that she's Iranian (she's an uncommon looking latina), and making him sick with Muslim guilt.

As if to add insult to injury, I lost my cellphone during the night. Oh WOE! I hope sketchy cabby doesn't have it!