How I abhor this place, it's sweet and bitter taste...

...has left me wretched, wretching on all fours-
Chicago, I'm yours.

I've been known to call on Chicago as my disappointing lover. Some nights wild, other nights ho-hum. I live adjacent to the lakefront path and I run against wind, and see nothing but sky scraper, but that's all of very little asthetic value when your eyes are your own.

Oh, I know I can't be cry-eye all the time. I've friends and family and an birdie of an apartment, but somehow the city still seems sub-par. I think I may mold such opinion because I want allowance, an excuse, a mandate to move. New York City and all things new. They call it the city of second chances. I believe I may be ready to cash in on mine.

There's the issue of Sarah Lawrence. God, do I love her. The elite of all elite. A writer's wonderland and the thought of it points me to prose. Seats me in coffeeshops in the late hours of the p.m. where I now forfeit another episode of 'Everybody Loves Raymond' (a show so problematic I'll skip the diatribe) to write words and thoughts and phrases. I still can't write. The prose too pointed, too aware, too constructed. I want to write words that run. That race and finish. I want to run and finish. I want to make beautiful what everyone already sees in this city. I just want to see.

But with these things there's no telling, we just have to wait and see...

Annnnnnnnnnd flat tire.
As in: the most flat tire parked somewhere far away from my house at a Chicago intersection I'm neither familiar with can remember the name of. I think I parked on Campbell...

Some good samaritan of sorts came running to my rescue. He offered to fix the tire. After I told him I was without donut (a lie, mind you), he offered one from his home. After I told him I would rather use my own personal donut (I don't have to tell you the obvious here) he offered to drive me home. I haven't encountered such selfless generosity before. Anywhere. But what do I do? I lie, and lie, and lie for fear this man will mug and rape me. I can't get him out of my mind. It's as though this selfless stranger has become permanently imprinted. A girl's got to be cautious, and I try and convince myself that's why I was wary. But I can't help but wonder, if he were an LL Bean sporting , well groomed business man, would I have accepted help? Am I just as apt to pre-judge as all those people I tisk and condemn?

Starting new in Chicago. I have plans!:
The plans involve the following: (which to begin involve many colons:::):
A regular running regimine,
A regular writing routine,
Growing my hair out to an obnoxious length,
Cutting and donating said hair to locks of love,
Dying my hair blond,
Drawing city scenes on Saturdays,
Visiting my grandparents on Sundays,
Saving up enough money to visit Rachel, Jenni, and Nina,
Starting over with my sister.

I'm going all Eternal Sunshine style.
"Sun is shining in the sky, there ain't a cloud in sight. It's stopped raining, everbody's catching rays and don't you know it's a beautiful new day?"

I woke up with this song in my head this morning...

Hooray!
Success! My first blog posting on this here new site. I think I may dedicate to writings and photos and musings of some similiar sort.

My latest plan is to grow out my hair to an abnormally long length, cut it and dedicate my luxurious locks to 'locks of love' and dye it blond. If I'm going to be a vixen (current career aspiration) I might as well look the part.

I realize I've become unhealthfully addicted to www.postsecret.blogspot.com Maybe it's just that I want to be someone's postsecret. But don't we all?

Chicago's lonely, but I'm far too friendly to let that get to me.
I think I'm in love with the boy at the coffee shop Filter. His name is Steve and I know he's friendly.