It's cold. That's why.

Someone spoke to me today.

"You haven't posted in a few days. Why?" Was her question.

Because it's cold. That's why.

I have had the chance to steal brief patches of time in Chicago this week, but it doesn't take long before I can't feel myself. Today, I was outside smoking, when I lost all feeling in my face. I thought it was a stroke. A sharp pain started ringing behind my eyes.

"This is it." I thought. I got ready to scream for help before falling to the ground in a twitching wreck. I soon realised I was standing in minus twenty winds, in my fucking holey jeans, and I'd just eaten two chocolate bars. I now think that if I ever have a stroke, I'll just shrug it off as a sugar rush.

Last night was the lunar eclipse. We walked through a park, past a thoroughly regal looking fountain and perched our cold little behinds out of the wind. We stared at the moon and drank bourbon.

This is what we saw.







This is what the moon saw.




The snow and ice lay thin on the ground, and I seized the opportunity to do something I haven't tried. Pissing my name in the snow. It started well, The P perfectly rounded. It became obvious that my private school tuition was apparent too, as I was doing it in 'joined up' writing.

I finished up and looked proud of myself, until I realised I hadn't crossed the T. So, instead of Pete leaving his name in the snow, Brazil's most famous footballer did instead.


Chicago has a great vibe, the buildings are tall, some modern, some faux-old. It's nice. The bars are warm and friendly and I have met some people with cartoon gangster accents. All I want to hear is the word "Schmuck" and I'll be satisfied.

I went to the art institute and wandered around looking ponderous. There was lots of French impressionist stuff there and I began to snooze. I wish someone had told Monet what bright red was.
Later, I did enjoy the Chagall there, and some Flemish guy that painted a picture of a ginger baby Jesus (clearly), and a ginger John the baptist kissing each other. I wondered if Ginger Jesus got bullied at carpentry school. Perhaps that's why Mary claimed she was a virgin, so she could always pull the "Technically he's not mine" card. Ashamed of his flaming locks. What a bitch.

I remember my Mum telling me that being ginger was beautiful and that my freckles were kisses from the sun. It didn't really help.
Not long ago someone told me that in Scandinavia and Japan in particular, Ginger men were seen as the holy grail in terms of a tasty catch for young women. That helped.


There is a girl on Dave's corridor called Liz. I have no permission to use this photo, but Liz has hundreds of these photos on her facebook, so I'm guessing she wants people to see them.



Liz added me on facebook and I'm not sure if she understands the term "e-stalking". I sent her a message yesterday telling her that if I opened the door, I could see her. So, she might be coming round to the idea.
I spoke to Liz last night about Austin, Texas and other things. She asked me if I had been for authentic Chicago pizza. I said no. She responded by offering to take me tonight, an offer I duly accepted. However, this morning I ran into Liz and she was unable to speak. Her voice is resting.
I would like to go for pizza, but I'm not sure if I could go with a dumb person. The waiter may think I'm one of those overtly possessive friends who has to order everything and do all the talking. Even worse, Liz may look like a victim of kidnap, who has become numb to attempting escape. Instead, just going along with all of my evil plans. The thought makes me shudder. Sorry Liz.