It seems as though lately it would be a better idea if I stopped...talking. At work, at home, wherever...it just seems like if I didn't talk, people would generally be happier with me. Perhaps I should take a vow of silence for a few days. Or maybe just smarten up. Man, I'm a dumbass.

I got to work today and found that some people I work with had checked out a book to me. The title: The Path of the Mischievous Sprite in Victorian Fairy Art. Is it that obvious to think of me after reading that title? Sigh.

With my 20th birthday only a day away I'm really feeling the "adult" settle in. Example: Today during lunch I actually had to run "errands" which consisted of "the bank and the post office." Pretty soon I'll be saying, "Call me Josh. Mr. Eisenberg was my father." But he wasn't.

I have truely become a city person. On my way home from Bernadette's today I decided to cave in like always and get a cab instead of walking. So I get in the cab, tell the driver, "Corner of Lincoln and Wilson," we make idle chit chat about the weather, and then we approach my corner. "Right here," I say. "Of course," he says. I get confused. "Of course?" "Well I remember you. You get out, walk over into that building." "Oh," I say. I hand him the money, get out, and walk into my building. There are approximately 17,000 licensed cab drivers in Chicago, and I'm starting to not only get repeats, but repeats who remember me. I'm at a loss.

So I went to my bank the other day (which shall remain nameless, less I be sued for liable), and I had to take out some money for my brother. I went up to the teller and asked for a checking withdrawl slip. "We don't have those," she said. "If you want to take money out you have to use your own." I was shocked, and a little confused. I didn't have any withdrawl slips of my own, so I pulled out my checkbook. I wrote out a check to Cash, and the amount was around $1,600. I handed her the check, she looked it over, and then said, "Can I see a license please?" (I promise, this gets better.) She looks from my check to my license, then back again. "Um, the signature on your check doesn't match the one on your license," she says. "Oh..." I don't know how to respond. She laughs, "It's okay, if you could just sign your name again so it looks like your license." Surely she must be kidding. She hands me back the check and I go to fake my own signature, but I'm struggling to remember what it looks like. "Oh, here, you can copy it from the license," she says. I try my hardest not to yell out, "What is the matter with you?!" but I simply take my license back (I'm suprised she didn't hand me tracing paper!) and copy my signature. I hand her back the check, she hands me $1,600 dollars, and I vow to change my bank within the week.

The other night my girlfriend and I both came to the conclusion that we would get married, if for no other reason, for the free things. Instead of making up a list of things we need, and then going out and buying the things on said list, we could simply go register somewhere, stand in front of a Justice of the Peace for a few minutes, and BAM! We'd get all the housewares we want! "Honey, do you think we should buy one of those veggie steamers?" "Eh, let's just get married instead." "Yeah, alright." Of course there's that whole "being in love" thing too. We'll see.

The other night I took Bernadette's dogs into the backyard for their late night bathroom trip. The both of them ran out, found spots on the grass, and immediately started peeing. "Ah," I playfully and loudly said, "That's what I like to see! Synchronized peeing!" At that moment a man walked out from behind the fence that separates the sidewalk from the yard. The entire time he walked along the sidewalk he just gave me a, "What are you on?" look. I tried to avoid his gave, keeping my enthusiasm for the peeing to a minimum. I then thought to myself, how many times a day do we talk to our pets in a way that we would never, ever, talk to another human being? I personally know I would never comment on a human being's synchronized peeing. Nor would I probably say to them, "Whooosa goodboy?! Huuuh?! Whooosmy litttlle Mr. Pants?! Yooouuuu are!" Not only would I not apply the tone used to say that statement, more than likely I would never call another human being Mr. Pants. Bernadette's dog, despite the fact that his name is Atmos, gets called Mr. Pants dozens of times daily. Her other dog, Vega, gets called Horse. My point here? Beats me. But just for fun, try and say to your pet, "Hello cat, how are you today?" in a monotone voice, and then go to work and say to your boss, "Helllloooo litttlle cutttie woooty. What are you - No! No, off! Get off my pants! No bite! Bad boss!" and proceed to smack him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. Oh what humorous results you'll find.

While finding blogs here has become less and less common lately, there is another outlet to get your Josh fix. If you go to Side Winder (www.sidewinderzine.com) you can read a weekly column I have there. Hopefully you won't think it's lame. And if you do, eh, what do you know?