Come on Bunny, Light my Fire
I moved into an apartment in North Chicago. It is a quiet and pleasant little one bedroom apartment, perfect for a Bunny and her fuzzy mutt. It has great light for working, drawing, or gazing at porn.
I didn't pay much attention to the neighborhood when the place was shown to me. It looked pleasant enough and was close to the El, so I didn't care. I felt oddly comfy there.
I moved in two days ago. After hauling my shit up the three flights of stairs, I was mighty hungry for a Subway sammich. On my way to the restaurant, I passed a Starbucks which was playing the Indigo Girls' "Closer to Fine." On my way back from Subway with my favorite sammich in hand, I passed the Starbucks again. This time it was playing the Indigo Girls' "Blood and Fire." It was as if a warm summer breeze had blown over me.
I stopped and looked around. Three girls walked by, all natural looking, all smiling at me. One seemed to survey me as she passed. Everywhere I turned there were women with no makeup. They were exceedingly nice to me and comfortable with their looks, some were holding hands.
The soundtrack switched to the Indigo Girls' cover of "Down by the River." I walked back to my place, and on the way met two very nice female cops who lived together.
My mother called.
"Honey, my boss' daughter lived two streets away from you last year. She says it's a very nice neighborhood, and that she wants to meet you."
Bunny: "She lives in Chicago?"
"No, not any more."
Bunny: "Umm, okay I guess. What's she like?"
"She works for a famous feminist writer."
It doesn't take a street full of rainbow flags to put the two and two together here. I have moved into one of the biggest lesbian neighborhoods in Chicago. No wonder I feel so comfy here.
Last night while trying to heat half a sandwich from lunch, I fired up my oven for the first time. I tried to turn on the "oven" knob, but dyslexia intervened. Instead I turned on one of the burners, and when I opened the oven door to check if it was working, I flipped my long ponytail onto the burner. My hair went up in smoke.
This morning I went to the salon on the corner. I explained the situation to the nice Hispanic lady, and she cut my hair as long as she could without leaving the burned areas. Basically, it's Cameron Diaz's bob from "There's Something About Mary." Short. Fucking short, but cute. I told the lady what a great job she had done, and she said, "You can imagine I've given a few girls short haircuts. Dios mio."
On my way back to my apartment I was hit on twice, the last vestiges of my heterosexuality shorn onto the floor of the salon. I've become very popular in my neighborhood, though the old lady that lives next door to me put a sign on her door "GO AWAY!" because gays are apparently evil.
Doesn't she know "There's something about Erin?" A flaming bag of dog poop might teach her this.
Update: The old bag that lives next door to me has moved out. Two very attractive lesbians have taken her place.
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