I’m dying to go to New York, just to visit. She told me it suits me and she can imagine me living there. Chicago is the mid-size version of New York City, and I’m satisfied with that. If I were to choose another city to live in, I would probably either go east coast Boston or west coast San Fran. I lean sharply to the west, however.
Last weekend was so brilliantly good. The three of us eating mashed potato pizza at Piece and drinking beers, while chatting about artists who stray from their bands and venture solo, we debated over who made it and who didn’t. We drank shots of whiskey and Miller Lite in a wood clad pub, where he bought me a rose, which tied perfectly around my wrist.
The weekend seemed to extend forever. We shopped for hours on Saturday, buying little to nothing, except for the extra items that fit nicely in my bathroom. I like the placement and the smell of men’s soap that sits on my bath tub ledge, the extra toothbrush in my medicine cabinet, and the reserved towel in my linen closet.
I ended my weekend, with the homework that seems to consume my life; reading Alice in Wonderland in nothing but my underwear, and writing a little bit more. I stumbled upon a writing contest through the Chicago Reader, and I think I’m going to make a go of it. I have little expectations, or any real hope that I will actually win, but I still feel the need to give it a try.
Life is good.
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