I'm sitting in LAX wondering what, exactly, I'm heading back to Chicago for—I'm not pondering this because I fell in love with L.A. (quite the opposite actually, fuck this place). I'm thinking on my return because of my friends here in
hell (I literally typed "hell" while thinking of typing L.A.), and no, it's not because I miss them (fuck those guys, they're the ones that left).
I'm thinking about my return because my friends here went after "it"—whatever that is for them—and I've been slaving away for the man in Chicago, so far away from whatever "it" is that I don't want to walk down the jetway back to the soul sucking freezer of a city I call home.
Freedom is a Prison
I'm not sure how to write about the situation because realizing you're not getting after "it" unfortunately isn't half the battle when you feel like the only way for your to do so is to dent the universe.
I have all of these ideas and no way to act on them. I go to work eight to 10 hours a day and come home exhausted, but ya know, that's not really the problem: the problem is money. Sometimes I wonder what things would be like if I had just a little bit more to play with—what could I accomplish? Then it dawns on me that without being working poor, without being ri-fucking-diculously in student debt, without being deprived and passed over for opportunity after opportunity I probably wouldn't have the ideas for things that I do. Some people may have it fed to them on the proverbial silver spoon, but one day soon I'm gonna do it.
It's going to take awhile, but fuck denting, lookout universe, I'm saving for TNT.