Uneasy Evening.

It's an uneasy evening in the city. Now that the season is fading and the earth is nearly dying, the sunsets are weaker, blue, as though the heat-induced glow of summer's pinks and reds is too much to muster. The winds pick up, soaring through the streets, catching them all unaware. The lake is churning, walls of water sloshing over the embankments, wet cement under the feet of the runners. Tumultuous, turning, thrashing. I always have the urge to be a part of the lake when it's like this. It doesn't seem cold even though the water is a misty gray that seems foreboding. It's oddly beckoning, a beacon in the dead world. It's saying, "I'm still alive." Still alive, but not nearly still life. I am driving up Lake Shore, not seeing anything but red lights in front of me, slowing, slowing, never stopping, slowing, speeding, no, not speeding, slowly slowing, slow. I only see the water, am captivated by it. I break its gaze, the urge doesn't fade. Even as I drive away from the lake, I wish to be there, to sit and watch the waves break and tumble.

Alright, so I know these are horrible pictures, but I took them on my camera phone, which is nearly ancient technology compared to my old camera. As soon as I can get to Costco, hopefully tomorrow, I can promise better pictures to appear shortly.

The concert was nice. Marilyn Manson is the most over-rated "metal" musician out there. The concert was about as hardcore as a high school punk band performing. It was something that I had fun enjoying, but I also had fun looking around me. Metal kids, punk kids, all of them decked out in their gear enjoying the music are funny to watch. They all think they're so hardcore, and it flashes me back to high school. Ah, we used to over do the eyeliner and put on red and black and go out and act all bad. Cute, really.
But seeing Marilyn Manson in concert is something I can now cross off my list of things to do before I die, so that's nice.

We were driving home exhausted and had to pull over to sleep because neither of us could stay awake. We set an alarm and locked the door and were woken by a knock on the window. Police officer with a flashlight. We answered all the questions, not on drugs, just sleeping because we're trying to get home, Chicago, 21, 23, here are our IDs. He checked, told us we were parked in a roadway (although it was a "roadway" between a closed Wendy's and a closed other fast food place that we thought was a parking lot) and that we weren't in any trouble. We drove home after that, thankful for the rest.

Home safe. Tired. But safe.

Return

I felt the first wave of homesickness hit. It was late, I was exhausted. Emily's mom always says, when you're upset, just go to bed. I'm never upset like that. Not about that. All of a sudden, it was that strange urge for Mom, the need for a hug, for something. And I turned and found only my moldering apartment. Emily heard my unsung cry, before I even started crying and came and held me while the tears rolled down. And then instead of sleeping, I stared at the night.




I have just purchased my very first frequent flier redemption ticket. Instead of feeling joy, I feel nothing. Just robbed. Now I won't get into my rant about Frontier Airlines right now (I'm procrastinating Spanish homework) but trust me, I feel like I deserve more than crappy seats after four years of traveling. But maybe that's just me. With their new fare categories, they make the flier choose the impossible: pay more upfront or pay more later. I always spend more upfront (getting the free bag and the choice of seat [nothing worse than being stuck in the middle; with my luck, it's always crazies] is well worth that extra $20 each way). But now that I'm redeeming my ticket, 20,000 of my miles can't buy me that. Instead, I'm economy. I'm the lowest of the low. I'll get my seat assignment when I get to the gate. I'll be sitting in row 23B, right in front of the bathrooms or crammed between a crying child and a widow. My backpack will be crammed under the seat because I wasn't able to check a bag because that would cost me. It'll be wonderful. I'll curse Frontier but be grateful I'm not flying Southwest. I'll arrive, annoyed and crumpled, ready for a hot bath and some Wendys.

Tonight is the Marilyn Manson concert in Wisconsin. Hunter and I are at eleven months today, but I'm somewhere else. You know when you hold onto something you know you no longer fit into because you like the way it used to look/feel? It's like that. We're scraping, pulling, twisting threads together trying, but I'm not convinced I'll be able to get back into it. But that is life, isn't it?

I told Dad I was going to Rome. His first question was, "What does Hunter think about that?" My answer was that Hunter can think anything he wants. I'm 21. I'll be 22 and in Rome and I'll have the rest of my life ahead of me! I'll travel through Europe. I'll stay at hostels. I'll eat crazy things, drink crazy things, meet crazy people. I'll take too many pictures of things no one wants to look at. I'll be made fun of by locals. I'll make fun of locals. Hopefully some things will get lost in translation, hopefully I'll be swept away by some beautiful foreigner, and I'll send postcards home and write of our tragic, star-crossed love. I'll come home smiling, dirty, reeking of Europe, elitist, humbled, and most importantly thoroughly and irrevocably changed. And Hunter, well, he'll be here.

I've edited twice now. Not editing, really, adding.

I want to live. I'm worried that no one will ever love me and it's become a strange fixation lately. I no longer want to be married and settled so soon (not that it was ever soon, but it was soon enough). I want to wait and draw it out and be sure. I want someone who gets me, who's not afraid of my baggage (there's quite a bit), who's not unsure--about themselves or anything, who's strong and capable yet sweet and snuggly, who's funny, charming, handsome, devilish, wild, driven, but most of all, intelligent. I want someone to capture my mind. To challenge me and enthrall me and leave me shaken and breathless not just because of a kiss but because of an idea. I want someone who wants to talk philosophy. I want someone who walks that middle line, though, someone who's not all play and who's not all talk, someone who's not too pretentious, yet not uncultured. I want that person to love me and adore me while realizing that maybe I'm not perfect, I want more than "you'll do." I want equality, connection, completion. Does he exist?