Elevator Love Letter

As some of you may know, I'm currently a college senior, better described for me as "I don't know what the shit I'm going to do with my life." I've been asked a few times what I'm going to do with this blog when I'm gone. Some ask if I'll keep blogging from a distance, some ask if I'll pass this blog and its password on to whoever wants it, some ask if I'll appoint an heir to all this shame and shittiness. I'll put all your worries to rest now and say that no, I will not pass this blog along to anyone else, and I will not appoint someone to write about the team. It doesn't mean that I'll stop writing, but when I graduate, this blog will no longer be the site of official Illinois Menace news. Just thought ya'll would like to know that now.

As this blog takes a more personal turn, I hope you stay. I know you're all (unlike the "everyone/everybody = Chris Hidaka" equation I typically employ, I think in this case "you all" might equal "none of you") jealous of the people who are fortunate enough to hang out with me almost every day (Capers, my team, Chu-bacca, PFD, Carol Leff, etc.). Not everyone (only WMU, the Legion, Peach, Fozzles, Margaret, and the Chu Monster) gets the privilege to share sparkling conversation with me over dinner, so maybe this new dimension of my blog will take you into the depths of my most private being, into the ABYSS of my SOUL.

I apologize if in the next few weeks or so, there are a lot of posts that aren't about any current ultimate happenings. I've been feeling a little wistful lately, and I can't tell if what I'm feeling in my bones is post-tournament ache or heart ache. In the past few weeks, I have found myself looking back at all the mistakes I've made in my life, and a few stand out in my mind, obviously. There's one thing in particular that I think about way more than I care to admit. Even after almost two years, I realize that I'm still standing in this train station, bags at my side because I think one day that train's going to come back -- but on some innate level, I know it doesn't work that way. How can something that feels so perfect turn out to be such a train wreck? Not like I'm being vague or anything, but I just can't seem to separate what I deserve from what I feel.

I'll work my way through this in the short-term, I'm sure, but I don't know what this means, long-term. it's a nuclear show and the stars are gone/elevator, elevator/take me home


Let's go back to when Chicago blew me away ...



Too personal right off the bat? LAWL, my b.