Dear Chicago,

I miss you at your worst right now. I miss the way you smell, the way the wind blows in my face, and the way the wind blows your worst smell in my face right when I least expect it. I miss the cold, and the way the winter stays until you least expect it. I miss how it is 10 degrees colder down town than it is anywhere else on the brownline. I miss riding the redline late at night with all those freaking weirdos who try to touch my hair, solicite me for money, and tell me that the Sox pitchers are better than the Cubs...until the whole train boos 'em off the car. I miss riding the El, Orange, the Harold Washington Library, and Carols Country Pub. I miss Movies in the Park, even though I only saw half of one, and I miss that dirty old Lake Michigan. I miss riding my bike in the middle of traffic and people who know how to deal with dat. I miss telling people just what I think, and knowing that it's just ok because the people on the street are okay with that. I don't miss Lollapalooza, but I do miss walking on a break and listening to Kanye through the trees and wishing to be free. I miss all the theatres: all the ones I went to and all the ones I didn't go to; museums, too. I miss the snow, and I miss the people who know how to shovel a sidewalk, guard a space, and get outta there because there just isn't any other choice. I miss North Park (a little), King at Neffers (not really), and walking home from the el and the creeps that hollered no mattered how I looked (not really). I miss pizza every block and the best burritos in the world, and I miss boys who bought me a drink even when they didn't have shit to buy one with. I miss 2am being late and 4am being a novelty. I miss driving down Ashland, getting lost downtown, and knowing that Michigan Ave sucks. I wish I had jumped in Buckingham Fountain on my last night in the city, and I miss my Illinois drivers license.

Chicago. I miss you. You haven't seen the best of me yet. New Orleans is making it for you.