I should just go back to sleep in the childhood bedroom I'm staying in for the rest of the week, because this — the puppy! the ridiculous Fredrik bio! — is by far the best thing I'll see all day.
And no, I'm not shacking in a random New Jersey family's townhouse or anything because they had a dope swingset that looked fun. I'm in Chicago! Which is the reason why this URL is finally now working (THANK YOU, GOOGLE MESSAGE BOARD TECH GENIUS GODS) and isn't fully updated with eight shades of shenanigans that I've been keeping track of in my telephone. All free time has been spent either trying to catch up on work, explaining to my friends in town for Lollapalooza that, no seriously, my parents won't let me drive, and being treated like a very, very, very large eight-year-old for better (laundry!) or worse (curfew).
I just made an egg on the stovetop only because my mom wasn't home to interfere and prevent me from "burning the house down", but i guess considering homes catching on fire actually runs in the Wisel family, I'll let that one slide. And because she'll be reading this in two hours, still somehow possesses the ability to ground me and bought me a pair of ridiculous blue shoes I "better not break my neck on" and then shipped them back to New York for me. (Yes, i am kissing ass and saving face, but refer to the previously mentioned inability to get myself anywhere for reasoning and explanation.)
I've got a mountain of things to do and exercise bikes to pretend I'll ride before heading into the big city this afternoon, but be on the lookout for more in this spacecase now that all my internet woes have been fully sorted out.
Also, did you see how skinny Miley Cyrus got? These are the type of big news stories suburbia has caused me to care about. If nobody's yet figured out how to mix an edgy, chic coke den with the private, zen-like focus of pilates under one roof, now is the time. Actually, that just might be Fredrik's life calling. (Hold the meatballs.)