I’m sitting here, listening to Johnny Cash and eating wafer thin rice cakes. I have Cash on my discman, because everyone else in my office musical tastes do not include the Man in Black. I’m eating rice cakes–not sure why. They certainly aren’t good and they stick to my lips like a tongue to a frozen lampost. But, since I leave tomorrow–the rice cakes are the extent of the groceries left in my flat. Well, there is some Cous cous–but it isn’t cooked and I’m not going to cook it. Sorry.
The Johnny Cash was a gift from my friend Adam Phelps. Adam was a DJ at WISU, once upon a time, and I was a high school girl in love with the DJ. That was about ten years ago (eek) and we are friends again–I hooked him up with a patch of the Chicago flag for his leather jacket and he hooked me up with some Johnny Cash and another mixed CD.
Ten years ago, or even eight years (shit, even five years ago) a mixed CD from Adam would have made me faint. I’m not a fainter, but I would have. Then I would have listened to it incessantly for three or four weeks (not days, weeks) and disected the meaning in every single song. But now, I get to listen to–completely free of a psychological breakdown. And, since I’ve quit trying to impress him, I feel free to fast forward through the songs that I don’t like.
I’m done with my rice cakes, which means I need to be done with my blog for the day. My aunt asked if I’m going to keep writing this after I go home. I think I will. As long as I can keep looking at Chicago with new eyes, I think I’ll keep writing the blog.
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