On the days that I fantasize about striking it rich (it usually involves
finding buried treasure in the backyard I don’t have or pulling off a Reservoir
Dog diamond heist minus the missing ear and everyone dying part), I see myself
buying a beat up Chi town apartment with brick walls and open ductwork. I would
write every day, eat Italian food every night and become a regular at one of
the old Irish pubs off State Street. I also imagine getting a boob job and
ridiculously large TV but that is beside the point. Mostly, I picture Chicago.
I could write a list about what makes Chicago the best city
in America. A very long list that would include things like amazing food, hilarious
locals, Irish pubs everywhere, a green
river, 24 hour drunks, an incredible music scene, affordable dives, snow,
beautiful buildings, 50/50 nice guy – asshole ratio (unlike the 20/80 of New
York), and so on. But alas, I would much rather bitch about the things that
piss me off so here I go:
1. Indoor Temperatures
Just because it is -4° outside does not mean
that turning the thermostat to 80°
is the solution to making me comfortable. This isn’t just a few bars or
restaurants either. This is everywhere! You know what’s worse than freezing my
ass off? Sweating! In fact, sweating in a wool skirt, nylon tights, knee high
snow boots and a thick fuzzy sweater makes me want to murder you. Sure I would
look cute doing it, but I am seriously one more degree away from smashing
someone’s face in. 70°
is perfect, assholes!
2. Tourists
Either walk fast or get the fuck out
of my way! There is nothing on Hubbard street worth stopping for. Really? A
picture of Starbucks? Where the fuck do you live that this is the first
Starbucks you have ever seen? Montana? Oh, look, a cleverly named bar. This
must be the only city in the world that has such things. Hurry and take a
picture in the middle of the sidewalk so no one can get around you. Don’t
worry, the rest of us love being late. And guess what? No one will fucking
arrest you for crossing at a red light. Go! There are no cars! The cops don’t
give a shit. I promise.
3. Goulashes
Rubber boots? When there is no snow on the
sidewalks and it isn’t even wet outside? I feel like at this point you are
purposefully trying to piss me off. Stop. Please. For the love of fashion. You
look ridiculous.
4. Falling Ice
I guess getting hit once is
acceptable. But it is very hard to look graceful and continue walking like a
normal person when TWO pieces of rather large shards of ice come crashing down
on you. And you don’t even know who to be mad at. You just keep walking and
rubbing your head and cussing at nobody.
Which only makes you look like a madwoman. A fact you don’t realize
until your already a block down the street and people are moving to avoid you.
And
I suppose this is normal, hence all the signs that I didn’t believe. Do people
ever die this way? I feel like Chicago was trying to murder me.
5. Strange Way of Honking
If you get honked at in LA, New York, Detroit,
Dallas or any city besides Chicago, you will know it. People in every other
city in America know that laying on the horn means get the hell out of my way.
In horn language, light tapping usually means someone is waiting outside for you and
politely wishes that you would hurry up. So when you light tap your horn at me,
you just confuse me. Do I know you? Should I wave? Is there a kitten crossing
the road? Oh! You want me to move. I had no idea with your pussy-like honking.
Do me a favor, Chicago-ians… commit to the horn. Lay on that mother fucker like
you mean it.
6. Pizza and Hot Dogs
I know all about the pizza and hot dogs,
everyone-who-lives-in-Chicago, so please stop telling me about them. Okay okay,
you guys have the best pizza in the world. Sure, you make a mean hot dog. But notice how you don’t see Californians running around
telling all the out-of-staters, “You should really see our beaches. They are
magnificent.” You know why? Because they assume you already know because
everyone on the planet knows. I love your food, Chicago, the whole world does.
So stop telling me about it every two seconds because all that does is
make me want to rip off your lips. And how will you enjoy your pizza dogs after
I do that? You won’t.
7. The Uncreative Homeless
Look, I love the homeless. They live in boxes and wear fashionable fingerless gloves and drink 24/7. They are my kind of people. I do, however, expect a little creativity when begging for my money. A clever little sign, a pregnant side kick, a magic trick, a dancing monkey. But all this “Got any change?” business isn’t cutting it for me. Step it up, homeless Chicago people! And who the fuck carries change anymore? Does change still exist? Ask for liquor or burritos, it’s what most normal Americans have on them at any given time. Or learn to take bank cards. Your requests are outdated and annoying.
In other news, Wil has made promises of a sex-filled week
when I return. I think this is exactly why I keep him around. That and he feeds
me wine and lets me pass out in his bed occasionally. And he bought me a book,
which is pretty much the most perfect gift ever.
Since I made this trip sans vibrators, he better be hydrating
and working out. Because come Saturday, I’m going to be ready to go… and mildly
grumpy. I will expect a leather whip and a sex swing. Okay, I actually expect
neither. Especially the whip. What a strange thing to sexually enjoy. Seems
bloody and hostile. Anyways, I do expect marathon sessions. Just saying.
Oh, and I have to apologize for how long it took to update
my blog. I have another post coming later tonight to make up for my lack of
updates. It involves a day at church and a rather large Valentines dinner but
my battery is about to die so you will have to wait. I will be out of commission
and off the grid for a few hours but stay tuned. I appreciate all your emails
and death threats, though. Much love back at you.
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