train brain.

I haven’t blogged since March. My tour with Bright Star ended, I returned to Chicago, began working 70 hours a week between two restaurants, and forgot about the beautiful things that inspired me during my three month escape from reality. I didn’t write, because I didn’t know what to say other than, “My feet hurt.”

And then an opportunity to move to NYC appeared out of nowhere and working too much suddenly became fortuitous. I managed to save up some money, refocus my goals, and… leave. Just like that. It all happened in less than 6 weeks.

So here I am in Brooklyn. Everyday I write nonsense in my journal. Narrations on my disgust with the train, a recap of the moment when a man walked in on me peeing at a theatre last week, bits and pieces of fiction, fascinating quotes like “Also, I’m super proud of myself for not taking my feelings out on a slice of pizza.”

But mostly, I just complain about the train.

I seriously hate the subway. I hate the subway more than I hate the fact that donuts sprinkled with bacon are unhealthy, or the idea of the HBO television hit “Girls.” I also hate that if I listed all the reasons I hate the train, I would begin to sound like someone who could relate to that television show called “Girls,” because really, that’s how minuscule my problems are. (I have it pretty easy, really.) Although a couple days ago, a character from a Brother’s Grimm fairy tale approached me, told me I was very ugly, and then asked me for some change.

The other day as I sat on a train headed uptown, which is in the exact opposite direction of Brooklyn, AKA HOME, I thought about the reason I started a blog in the first place- I was pissed off about my relationship with the Chicago Transit Authority. Not that they did anything wrong, really, it’s just that sometimes I get overwhelmed. The CTA seemed to be a classic example of things I “don’t get.”

It seems I am always fumbling something, which is frustrating. While on the C earlier this week, I explained to Cole how I feel I have so much in common with “Lucy O Ball,” immediately realized my error, and then swung clockwise 180 degrees, piercing a man with my heel as the train came to a violent stop.

Writing about these things makes me feel better about myself. I’m not special, there are a lot of people out there who simply have their head in the clouds. Raise your hand if you feel like an idiot sometimes. See? A few of you raised your hands. I’m glad we’re friends.

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