To all the boys I ever threw crazy at: I'm sorry.

I’m sorry I was passive-aggressive at your grandmother’s funeral.

I shouldn’t have told my friends about your psoriasis in such great detail.

I’m sorry that I freaked out and assumed that you are now into banging older chicks after I saw you having lunch with who I later learned was your mother.

I should have never pretended to love Rush. (....Rush sucks.)

I’m sorry I tweeted about your penis size.

I realize now that you probably didn’t need that Break-Up Songs mix CD I made you.

Remember when I told you I had a nightmare that you died at Pitchfork? A lie. I just wanted an excuse to text you.

I’m sorry that when I met your new girlfriend, I told her that she has a front butt.

I’m sorry that your new girlfriend has a front butt.


Image via Almost Genius. And hey, did you see that I wrote about "Moist" over at Slacktory?

What does Chicago smell like?

Remember in Seinfeld when Kramer wanted to bottle his Beach perfume? Scent is strongly tied to emotion and memory. I was thinking about what I would put into a bottled Chicago scent. Which smells hit you each day during your commute? Which remind you of first dates and first steps and that weird guy that flirts with you at the dog park?

If I could bottle Chicago, I would mix up this blend:

A hoppy base of local beer. Daisycutter. Gumballhead.
Elements of jibarito, pierogies, sport peppers, and Blommer's chocolate.
A bit of that electric burning odor from the Red line.
Some rotting-Lake-Michigan-fish scent.
Whatever "music snobbery" smells like.
Top notes of alley pee.

What would you include?

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