Growing up, I was a victim of a small town. I listened to country music, attended “field parties,” and knew everyone within a 15 mile radius. I spent my summers on my grandparent’s farm, playing with wild animals and picking green beans from the garden. I considered I Love Lucy to be the last, great television show and I never used a computer until I was forced to in school. Did I mention I am only 22?
I have spent the last four years living in Chicago. Chicago and I have this love-hate relationship; I hate it 95 percent of the time, and absolutely love it the other 5 percent. It has this funny way of changing your life by not changing anything at all. It is absolutely contradictory, yet it constantly promises the same things.
I hate the El and buses, bicyclists and motorists, Chicagoans and tourists. I don’t understand why people would want to visit this place that has nothing to offer but expensive shopping and tall buildings. The other day, as I was walking to work, a homeless man spit in my coffee. I wish I could say that was the first time that happened.
And now, as I am preparing to move from this imposture of a city, I digress. I really am going to miss this place...
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