I'm Back.

First impression at Chicao O'Hare was "fuck all these warning signs."

At O'Hare, a sign warns me not to open a door that obviously leads to a sharp drop, and then pavement (this is the door that will eventually open to those accordian-like people tubes that connect buildings to airplanes). Thanks, O'Hare, for the block letters and the screaming font and exclamation points. You really saved my life with that. It would have been impossible not to notice the fact that that door leads to thin air and death.

At Le Pichet, a laminated sign in the bathroom warns me not to flush paper towels down the toilet.

You get the picture.

These signs simply don't exist in Europe.

I'm in that writerly place where everything feels fresh and new and weird, and it'll only last a few days before people asking "would you like room in that?" becomes a common enough occurance that I stop registering it in the "new and different" lobe of my brain.

The rest of my thoughts revolve around loss and despair. I want to shake people on the streets of Seattle and say things like "you don't have to live like this!"

(to the waitresses) "You can be a bitch to me if you're having a bad day, I don't give a fuck."

(to the gay men) "go have sex with a german for god's sake!"

(to everyone else) "give up, smoke a cigarette and get back to me when you've come up with something pithy and honest to say about life."