I’m in Chicago, the best reference for which I have is "Da-a Be-ar-sh" SNL skit of old. That and, somehow, hotdogs. I came here in high school once, for the FBLA national championship, and came away with 8th place in machine transcription and a memory of painted, ceramic, life-sized cows.
What I meant to say first is that I’m sitting at Chicago O’Hare, pathetically sipping a large McDonald’s coffee. Oh wait. They call it McCafe.
God dammit! I closed my email so that people wouldn’t chat me and forgot I was typing this post in gmail.
Back to the pathetically sipping. I thanked something or other when I saw the "Open 24 Hours" sign in the …. ahem hem … McCafe window. I really need that right now.
I don’t need to cry. I don’t need to feel sorry for myself. I had points when I wanted to. Maybe I was tired. I feel ok. I feel good. Maybe I was fighting what I thought was supposed to be my reaction.
Writing feels good. Putting yourself OUT there feels good. That’s what I meant to say. And it doesn’t have to take all day. I can go back to my coffee now.
Suffering becomes beautiful when anyone bears great calamities with cheerfulness, not through insensibility but through greatness of mind.
(And it’s not that serious! (as my schoolkids used to say))