Chicagoan. Chicagan. Chicagaga. Chicagette.

I'm officially moved.  I am a Chicago resident, and I think I like it.  I've moved in with my oldest brother, who's a couple of years younger than me.  At first I thought maybe I was making a sacrifice doing that.  I'd planned on living on my own.  And now I have to share decorating decisions and a bathroom with a smelly boy.

However, in addition to the large space we can afford together and having a man around the house to kill gross things and lift heavy ones, I also get a bit of a companion.  The first two days of work weren't, well, fun.  They were fine, but it's a shaking experience, immersing oneself into something that new and all-encompassing.  Last night, after getting lost and taking 2 hours to drive home, I teared up and took a bubble bath.  Much better.  Tonight when I got home I just felt weird.  Uncomfortable weird.  Vulnerable weird.  Geno wasn't here, but knowing that I wasn't alone in this place, that he'd be here later, that somebody would find me in less than 24 hours if I were viciously attacked by rats, well it all just calmed me down.  Maybe I should be more independent than that, but fuck it.  That's not who I am.  It's scary, but I like needing people.  (Sure, ask me again right after I fall in the toilet from the seat being left up and have to clean his beard hair out of my toothbrush on the sink.)

BTW, our apartment is super-cool, and the owners (who live upstairs) are just plain wonderful.  My only current concern is whether or not I can live with a 1-hour commute.  Time will tell, imaginary readers..... time will tell.

ps - I miss Kurt.  Move to Chicago, selfish!