What a bloody day. As some sort of sick homage to American culture, but mostly because it was a blast, Zoe and I went to Great America (an amusement park) with our friend Anthony, my mother and my two brothers. It was in fact, a blast, eating disgustingly unhealthy, grease-laden food, running around the park dodging teenagers and trying to find the shortest lines, so that we could ride as many coasters as possible in the few hours that we were there. And boy did we, and my voice is hoarse from the adrenaline-fueled screaming as I plunged forth into another drop. I could think of so many metaphors that will remain wasted.
After we got home I rolled over to The Bar, home of The Show. This one place in Chicago has more memories in it, more good times and bad, than any childhood home, and so tonight was my somewhat fond farewell to the Heartland Cafe on Wednesdays, to the open mic that spurred my growth as a writer (if we can call it growth when you realize you're too old to write angsty poetry and perhaps you should just work on fiction), and to all the people that I know and love there. But there was so little to say goodbye to, so little left of value to me but friends and memories, and there was such a confluence of petty drama, needless angst and bad poetry that it made me sick. At the risk of sounding like some sort of liberal New Age dweeb, the negative energy in that place tonight was enough to make me vomit. And I'd meant for this to be such a happy occasion. Shrug.
So we have four days before we leave for Ireland, four days of packing, scrambling, saying farewells and doing every single little possible last minute thing we can without exploding our heads in the process. Fortunately Chicago is doing a fine job of encouraging us to leave and all signs in our lives point to yes. Yes, this is the perfect time to leave. Yes, this is the perfect time for adventure. Yes, if you stay in Chicago too much longer, you will slap the wrong person and then there will be trouble.