We're all doomed.

And I know this because I went to go pick Sally up from 2nd City last night, and then ended up at her place for a while. Her roommate has this great comic book that presents many of the wackiest conspiracy theories in a graphic novel form. It's a fascinating, although really depressing read.

I mean, if half of the stuff in there is true, then the ultimate fate of humanity is being controlled by either the freemasons, alien "greys", various factions of the CIA, or pretty much anyone else you can think of besides our elected representatives. I'm not normally a conspiracy minded chap, but I'm not naive, either. I mean, you're just plain blind if you don't think that Elvis, Hitler, and Chandra Levy aren't running a taco stand together in a New Orleans suburb.

Let's not kid ourselves, OK?

The book gives you this sense that we really have no control over what's happening in the world. After reading it, I always feel as if I might as well go and smoke, eat, drink, and entertain myself to death. I mean, us little people can't control the fate of the world on a grand scale, so what's the point?

Of course, if you think about it, maybe FadeIn is just part of the grandest of conspiracies. Maybe I'm not really that handsome devil from those pictures yesterday, but instead a shadowy G-Man, or "spook," who comes here every day to amuse people and distract them from what's really going on. Then again, if that were the case, I wouldn't dare suggest such a thing, even in jest...

...or wouldn't I?

Anyway, I bought new shoes on Friday.

Yeah, I spent about an hour or so down in the Clark and Belmont area. An hour! Sixty minutes, people, is entirely far too long a time to think about shoes, much less go out and try to purchase them.

There's an Army/Navy surplus right there at the Belmont el stop that sells...let me see if I can remember their term for this...men's athletic fashions? Lifestyle athletics? Anyway, they have shoes like Vans and Adidas and all the other pretty, expensive brands. It's staffed by somewhat snobby salespeople who earn their cred by selling leather and camouflage to suburbanites.

So, I go in, and, in my typical fashion, spend about five minutes deciding which shoe I like. Ever so politely, I ask the kid who is in control of the shoe section to go see if he can find my size. He goes ahead and takes a few minutes, and I begin to theorize that he is perhaps lost in one of the three pairs of pants that he seems to be wearing. How much fabric does one person need?

There are people in third world countries who would kill to have a second hand pair of old Dockers, and this kid has a tent strapped around his waist.

This is why they hate us.

Eventually, he returns, and says they don't have that shoe in my size.

Fine. I continue to look for the shoes I want. As I look, I noticed that there was someone in the store who had an empty coffee container filled with rocks, and was bashing it against the wall in an almost rhythmic fashion. Then I realized that was the music they were playing.

I think it was a love song.

So, Pants Boy doesn't have my second choice shoe in my size either. The situation was becoming desperate. Was I really going to have to go with my third choice in footwear? I chose two possible number three shoes. Finally, he comes back and informs me that they do indeed have shoes in my size for one of my third choices.

Good. But, I'm not the kind of person who buys shoes just because they have them available. Insanely, I decided to torture myself by asking the kid to hold those shoes while I walk down the street to consider other possibilities.

One place had maybe two pairs of men's shoes. Then, I was off to Designer Shoe Warehouse, where the most productive thing I did was use the bathroom. Finally, I checked in the Sportmart across the street to no avail.

Back to Army/Navy, where I fork over my debit card and purchase my new shoes. Nearly an hour has passed, and the insensitive, politically incorrect part of my brain calls me a woman for spending so much time shopping. This, however, is balanced by the part of my brain that tells me that this little adventure ended in the most masculine way possible:

I bought the same exact type of shoe I've been wearing for months.

Yep, right down to the color, size, and style, I'm wearing the same shoes I had before. This is the first time I've owned the same exact shoe type back to back, but you read my story: What could I do?

The fun part comes when I put my shiny, new, clean shoes down next to my old, grimy, beat up pair. It's like a shoe Before And After. The downside (or, perhaps, the upside) is that, if you remember the shoe woes I related a few entries back, I know almost exactly when and how these shoes are going to die.

It's like falling in love with terminally ill shoes. I know their time is limited. I just want to have as much fun with them as I can before it's over.

Hmmm. Damn. Speaking of which, it's now May, and I have about 30 days left here in Chicago. There's so much to do, and it's a little overwhelming and sad and exciting at the same time.

If I know myself, and I think I do, I can sense a weepy, and, god forbid, sincere, "goodbye Chicago" entry in the works. If I do indeed inflict this upon you, my apologies in advance.

Oh, and it was very cool of all the people who participated in Diaryland Show and Tell. I think I found all the people who actually put pictures up, and I really enjoyed it. Next year, the people who didn't do it this time are going to be all up on that bandwagon, trying to pretend that they're as cool as we are.

Bastards.