It's 3AM and I'm over it.

It began earlier in the night, midnight ti be precise (the time in which I venture out of my cave and purchase vodka tonics).

I took a ridiculously expensive cab to a club downtown where the doorman didn't care that I had a terrible fake id so much as he cared about the length of my dress, which was short, and the height of my heels, which were high. It was the sort of place where guys who own more hair products than girls sport faux-haws and trashy, pseudo hookers wear scraps of fabric that, unfortunately, let their fish lips out greet the entire room.

BUT.

It was my best friend's birthday.

So, I didn't really care.

And there she was, Christy, a best friend from junior high and high school who I hadn't spoken to in three years. It's amazing how easy it is to slip back into "Girrrrl", "Nuh-uh", and "Shit, are you for real?" when you are around the right person. 

"I didn't want to leave," Christy said about her time in Paris.

Other things that she said:
That they "love us" over there
That race is less of an issue than in the U.S.
That men are forward in their feelings (and in my mind, won't call you a slut *ahem* for wanting affection)
That she felt like she could be herself

"I think every female owes it to herself to go!" she exclaimed and I thought about my false starts abroad and how I've grown to resent the city for which I'm born and bred.

And so I'm done with it.

I loathe it all.

I hate the hyper-segregation that people pretends doesn't exist. I hate white girls calling me ugly and black girls calling me an "oreo". I hate black guys calling me a traitor and white guys calling me fat. I hate the hipster scene. I hate the club head scene. I hate the bro scene. I hate racist frat boys from the Midwest. I hate pretentious art students from the suburbs. I hate the winter. I hate the racism. I hate feeling like shit because I'm treated like shit. I hate that we act like we are truly a second city. I hate the lack of culture, of fashion, of creativity. I hate the entitled drivers and the reckless bikers. I hate the CTA. I hate the gentrification and displacement and racial hierarchies. I hate the pet owners who won't clean up their dogs shit and the Lincoln Park old money. I hate the Cubs. I hate the Sox. I hate the rivalry. I hate the North Side and the South Side and the fact that people completely omit the West Side and pretend like the rivalry is not about race...when it is. I hate people staring at me. I hate feeling like an outsider. I hate people not knowing where I'm coming from or what I'm feeling. I hate dumb questions about my hair or my skin or idiotic assumptions about my background. I hate that we pretend and ignore and act immature, childish and naive. I hate it all and I hate that it affects me so, makes me resentful. I hate that I can't be myself, that I don't know myself and that, the longer I stay here, the more that will be true.

people have such a strong desire to socially conform, that they will say and do whatever it takes to revert their own suppressed desires into the most mainstream, wholesome and normal ideals.

See:

closeted Republican congressman vetoing gay marriage amendments

Also:

closeted Midwestern frat boys shouting homophobic garbage while walking down the street

---

The whole point of a costume party is, it seems, to escape from the doldrums of everyday life. You get to experiment with your tastes, or lack thereof. But, and one can't forget this, it's not supposed to be real. It's fiction, it's false. It is something entirely not you.

Except, I really love costume parties.

And I really love costumes.

And I suppose that where I am now, a twenty year old college student a year away from graduation, I'd to rest assured knowing my final moments as "youthful" and "carefree" are spent dressing and dressing up the way that I want to.

The thing is, we're in college, or we're in the city, or we're adults.

And yet, people are so inherently threatened by ANYTHING that does not conform.

An important note here, when people think of conformity, they think that it only applies to the mainstream. To conform, to them, is to wear the khaki pants, to wear the polo shirts, and everything else is unconformity. However, and especially in a city like Chicago, what it means to "unconform" is about as standard of conformity as one can get. Yes, you are a hipster, which is not necessarily mainstream, but no, you're not the only one. You have studied the hipster lifestyle and can perfect the look of "non-mainstream" so acutely, that I would warrant your need to express yourself is just a need to conform, albeit to a faction of society that is on the outskirts (but certainly NOT at the rate that it once was ten years ago, or five years ago, or even last summer).

Last night, I spent most of the evening running around the city with my friend Will. The goal was to make it to Rogers Park to attend a party that Barrett and some of his friends from Loyola were throwing. However, we were severely interrupted by a number of random distractions like missing wallets and train delays. More importantly, however, the party was themed, one in which every guest had to arrive wearing at least 3 pieces of clothing in the same color, with a made up name to be associated with that color and a murder weapon (in the style of Clue) that corresponded as well.

For me, the obvious choice began with a silver sequined dress I purchased for my birthday last year, never wore, and only occasionally take out of the closet for an interesting evening. The outfit also consisted of silver lame leggings, and a silver headband, and silver jazz shoes, and silver gloves. Yes, it was a lot of silver.

That was precisely the point.

For the majority of the night, I could fend off snide remarks, snickers, and slightly sarcastic questions. While waiting to get off at the Loyola stop:

"That's a lot of silver," a young sassy Black man said to me as his friend, in scrubs, sat in another seat, snickering.

"That's right, baby," I replied. My night already began with a first drink to fend off what would be the comments I knew would arise.

"So why you wearing so much silver?"

"Costume party."

"What kinda costume party is that?"

"You have to wear all one color, and I chose silver."

"I can see."

"Mmmhmm." 

"Is it a sex party?"

"I'd be wearing black, not silver hun."

And then the doors opened.

Later in the night, once we were back in Lincoln Park, after we got lost in Rogers Park, after running away from the cops, after dancing to Little Boots and Kylie, after talking about why Barack is our last hope and why John McCain is the final nail in the December 12, 2012 coffin, another confrontation.

"That's a lot of silver!" a drunk frat boy shouted from his balcony. His friends were laughing, but intrigued. They were exactly the kind of older drunken frat guys I hate: the ones that like to pretend that they're still in college, the ones who STILL haven't settled down and don't realize it's because they're ugly, and fat and foul, the ones who are investment bankers and want everyone to know it, the ones who overcompensate miniscule penises with oversized cars that nearly knock me over on the sidewalk, the ones who like to put me in their "spank bank", the ones who are gross, and stupid, and Republican and racist, and misogynist and a disgrace to the kind people in Lincoln Park and men in general.

You know what I'm talking about.

"That's right!" I shouted back.

"Why don't you take off those silver pants, and that dress, and come up here!"

"You wish, honey!"

"You think I want you,  you fat bitch?" (Sidenote: I'm not trying to make generalizations, but the guys who always call women fat, or at least, always call me fat, are white. Always. I've never had a black man or Hispanic man or East Asian man or Southeast Asian man or West Asian man say that to me, ever. When examining the unhealthy beauty standards of modern society, it seems to be a two-way process of mainstream media, usually dominated by Western European and European descendant males, and the unknowing men who undoubtedly accept these unrealistic ideals, because, as absurd as they might be, usually reflect a facet of society we deem the "majority", and apply them to every woman they meet, regardless of age or race. It's a terrible cycle that crushes the self-esteem of impressionable young women, especially if you are, in my case, a woman who dates men of all races, a woman who's last two relationships were with white men, and a woman who, because of her tastes in music and clothing and WHATEVER, is almost exclusively around people unlike herself.)

"I'm sorry. I don't speak dumb ass."

"You're probably a dude, anyway."

"And?"

"You fucking faggot!"

"It must really suck to be so be so closeted, doesn't it?"

"I'm not gay!"

"Well, if I'm not a girl, then weren't you just attracted to a guy?"

"You fucking bitch!"

And then I said some other things, probably about his beer belly and ragged face, since I like to shoot for the most obvious of details when looking for insults in the heat of confrontation, and we walked away.

"Oh, wow, I'm sorry about that," Will said.

"Sorry? What's there to be sorry about?" I replied. 

A man in a large green van said, "I've been waiting all winter to see that," while clapping his hands and with his head out the window as his friend turned the corner. After a dead, long, grim winter, the balmy mid-fifties of yesterday eased my nerves. Responsibilities could be forgotten because the sky, the blue, was perfect. More of those things happened during the day and I wondered, rather, knew the feelings were not genuine. I assume the carnal male nature combined with the narcotic depression that was November until THIS VERY MOMENT would make any female seem desirable. I can't account for their tastes, but I wouldn't imagine girlish pigtails and angular glasses among their favorites.

I don't really know what's going on anymore, self-wise. Last week, I downloaded Night Drive by Chromatics and I have been listening, obsessively. The group has a wonderfully surreal and serene quality to their music.

Some background info.

I joined Alla in the middle of the concert last weekend. HEALTH had already taken to the stage and for a few moments, I leaned against the railing for the upstairs lounge, transfixed. Finally making my way upstairs, I sat along the edge of a table she occupied with a brand new Chicago transplant. A group of people (two guys, one girl) eventually joined us as well, although neither of us knew them. One of the guys was that same blog guy and so, after trying, unsuccessfully to end the conversation, he still continued with trite anecdotes and, I can recognize it within myself some times, a self-consciousness so unbearable, I felt embarrassed.

In the beginning of the quarter, I purchased a package of moleskine notebooks. My total number is gross, and I'd rather not share, but I reasoned the purchase because they were so small, and so inconsequential and my money was my money. Of course, I did not know that my money would eventually turn into NO money, but that's besides the point.

During concerts, the ones where I can breathe and collect my thoughts, I keep a black moleskine notebook and BIC pencil on hand to take notes. It seemed silly, contrite at first, but then I recognized it was much more important to capture the mood when the mood was present, when I was most excited, immediately after a song when I can finally catch my breath and just savor the choice. That night, I scribbled incessantly. There was too much to say and perhaps not enough. Trying to avoid the unwelcome advances turned into an activity, a project. How many times could I use the word "animalistic" to describe HEALTH? How many times could I write "fierce" when trying to capture essence of Alice "My New Music Idol" Glass?

Apparently a lot.

"So, do you listen to Chromatics or Glass Candy?" he asked.

I sighed.

"Um, I've heard of them, but I'm not really familiar with their music," I said.

"Well, you should try them out," he replied.

I put the pen down in the middle of my notebook, turned slowly, and took a couple of seconds to test his nerves, and my own gall.

"Really." I said, more deadpan than a question, really.

I thought about it though, for the next couple of days. When reviewing my notes, at the top of the page I wrote "Chromatics" and "Glass Candy" and was confused. When did that happen? When did I LET that happen, more importantly?

On Friday evening, I downloaded the album. On Saturday morning, sitting underneath the dryer at a beauty shop on the West side of Chicago, my tiredness caught up to me. The night before was long, not nearly as long as my 5AM the week before, but long all the same. Chromatics, with their illuminating lyrics and harmonies, kept me at ease, with peace.

On Monday night I rode the train back to Lincoln Park and listened to Chromatics. The train car was relatively empty because I narrowly escaped the rush of students from night classes. The lighting seemed extra severe and I felt prompted to look down, to focus my attention on the lines and creases of my hands, the wrinkles in my black and gray dress, and the waxed train floor.

In the window seat, the vantage point is either picturesque or depressing. Still, on the redline, in the tunnel, I took my place and watched as the lights above flickered through each mile in the city. "Running Up That Hill" came on and I barely caught myself. I began to mouth the words, the song a favorite.

In the window, my reflection was a little less empty than other late night train rides. I locked eyes with a young man leaning against a pole. 

Someone caught me.

Perhaps not as devastating as an afternoon with Daft Punk, there was still a level of embarrassment that could easily be had. I looked back up again. I shrugged my shoulders. And then, he nodded.  

Zoot Woman makes good night time music.

At night I ride the trains uptown to Lincoln Park and I find it rather peaceful. The ride is short, sometimes too short. Last night I arrived home in 5 minutes. The train conductors are told to move with brevity. Or perhaps, as I suppose, they are finally allowed to move at their own pace. The daunting push and pull of the construction, the never ending construction, can turn even the shortest of rides into projects.

I can formulate a thesis, create an outline, develop my first paragraphs.

It’s smooth.

Very smooth.

The lights seem horrifyingly bright, perhaps to keep us aware of our surroundings: the homeless passengers taking refuge within the heated cars, the anonymous students traveling out of the desolation of the skyscrapers, the couples clenching hands for an impending date.

Maybe others don’t notice but I can’t help but notice and Zoot Woman’s music, the quite perfect melodies of their self-titled album, is the perfect compliment.

Last night I leaned the back of my head against the glass and felt my eyelids closing. The sleep the night before was unproductive, to say the least, and it was a wonder to find myself most comfortable on a train car, littered in garbage, my bag, clutched to my arms; breathing in and out.

By 11PM, I had to take a break.

Well, we all did.

I think I started earlier than intended and subsequently had to take that break, finding myself sprawled along the edge of the couch in the Ice Box.

At one point, while trying to situate the shots of vodka and tequila mixed with cheap champagne in my hunger-enthused stomach, I saw Katie run into the living room, grabbing my not-yet-finished bottle of champagne from the mini-fridge.

We would later wrap her in her own comforters as she couldn’t make it before the new year started.

Last year, we found ourselves thrown into the thirst of the city, without much going as for plans. A cab ride gave us a straight shoot down Fullerton as, at 11:55PM, it was decided that watching the fireworks at the beach would be the best alternative. I was the one to pay, and I nearly sprained my ankle in three inch heels trying to make it to the rocks, to continue the night with good friends.

My mother says that how you spend your New Years determines the following year. She also says that a clean house means a clean, fresh, new start.

I’m hoping so.

Last night, I spent a good couple of hours cleaning my apartment. I’m not going to elaborate on its state of disarray, suffice to point out that there were take out items that horrified me with their original date of order.

And today (yesterday) is New Years Eve.

Although last year was fun, it does seem to accurately reflect this past year.

My time was spent in flux, not quite sure of relationship status, friendship status, school status.

--

Yummy, gooey, greasy pizza.

That’s how the night began.

Actually, let me back up a bit. There was my time spent collecting all of my laundry and shoes and other random assortment of items from my house in the suburbs. And then running to the mall with Lourdes and picking up a dress for her before close at 5PM. And then going back to her place, and then driving on the expressway to my place with lots of Brazilian Girls and a slight snow storm.

I continued cleaning up a bit, heeding my mother’s words.

But then the delicious, despicable Chicago’s pizza, that pizza that I know I shouldn’t eat and yet I do, rarely, because it’s just so damn good. That pizza would come back to haunt me later in the morning, but for then, it was good.

On a random stretch of Milwaukee, Lourdes, Jenny, Steph Squared, Amy and I ventured to a loft party with cheap beer, strong mixed drinks, and a couple of DJs. After last years spontaneity, it was nice to have a plan, and stick with it, and have a good time catching up and, as the clock struck twelve, good friend.

“One More Time” played and champagne flew threw the air and I thought, if this is my new year, if this is 2008, it couldn’t be any better. Good friends, good drinks, good music. What more could you want?

While walking out of the train station this morning and listening to New Young Pony Club obsessively, thinking of ideas for my 21st birthday, even though it's 10 months away...

Some random fool grabs my arm, and not gently, but rather aggressively. I jumped, because, and if you know me to a personal affect that only few do, I have issues with this kind of stuff.

Random Fool: Hey.

Me: What? (even though I'm well-aware of what he said, but I figured maybe he would get the hint by my frightened expression and scowling face)

Random Fool: Can I talk to you?

I pull my headphones out of my ears, begrudgingly.

Me: Why?

Random Fool: I just wanted to have a conversation.

Me: Why?

Random Fool: Can't I just have a conversation with you?

Me: No.

Random Fool: Why not?

Me: I'm on my way to work. I've got to go. And you grabbed my arm.

The Random Fool continues to speak but I'm not listening because I'm frustrated. My heart is still beating, and I understand that situations like these are, at least partially, my own fault when I listen to music. And today was especially significant as I encountered a crazy on the train, and therefore needed to block out as much background noise as possible. But, who does he think he is, grabbing my arm like that? I've written about it in the past, and in detail, but I'll say it again. Just because a man likes the way that you look does not give him the right to touch you. It doesn't work like that. Ever. It wouldn't have even been so terrible if he had tapped me on the shoulder, but he grabbed my arm. You know the only people who have grabbed my arm aggressively like he did to get my attention, my parents. You know who this random fool wasn't? My parents. I'm generally not a mean person on the street, but man, something just wasn't clicking for me today. And I know that I can often come off as an extreme case, but I don't think anybody can understand what it's like unless they have been physically grabbed, coerced, etc. on the street beginning at the age 8 ("Because, damn, you don't look that young!"). I have never felt my age. I have always been insecure. I don't need some random fool's validation. Period.

Random Fool: What's your name?

Me: Brittany.

Random Fool: Krissy?

No, Random Fool. Not Krissy. This only made me even more pissed off.

Me: No.

I walk into Borders. I don't see him for a minute. Then, he follows me in.

Random Fool: Can't I just talk to you?

Me: I can't believe you just followed me in here.

Random Fool: You think I followed you in here?

Me: Are you really that interested in French Vogue?

Random Fool: You're not gonna give me a chance?

Me: Think about how this whole situation started and then you'll get your answer.  

I don’t have patience for tourists. Actually, that is not true. I don’t have patience for tourists who don’t know how to control their kids. Better yet, I don’t have patience for parents in general who don’t know how to control their kids. Of course I understand it was hard for my parents, my mother especially, as most of the criticism towards a child is directly related to the child’s mother.

But seriously?

These parents rather shock me. Last night, over Thai food and chocolate chip cookies, my friends and I discussed the ever-apparent downfall of actual parenting with the new crop of parents today.

First of all, as a parent, you do not ask your child to “please” do something. They are your child. They are three years old. You are the adult. It is your responsibility to tell them what is right and wrong for certain places and times. You don’t say, “Matt, can you please sit down over here?” One, you are saying “please”, indicating to the child that your request, and it is just that, is of the same caliber as, of, I don’t know, “Can you please past the salt?” or “Can we please go to the toy store?” meaning, a no is quite possibly the resulting answer. Two, these parents are asking their child, requesting that they do something rather than just telling them to do it.

Let me play the scene out for you when I was a child.

Imagine a young me, hair not permed, clad in a baby blue polka dot dress and pig tails in my hair at a restaurant.

“Brittany, stop that!” my mother would exclaim. If I felt especially brave, I would test her authority. But this happened rarely. On the occasion that this courage might have occurred, I would have ignored her or began to formulate a protest.

“Did you hear me? I know you don’t think you’re going to ignore me. Brittany, get over here and sit down!” my mother would say, in which case, I would very clearly hear her, not ignore her and get over there and sit down.

Simple. As. That.

I just don’t get these parents bargaining with their kids for their right as an adult. Kids are not adults in little bodies. You need to parent them, not try and be their friend. I mean, seriously. Grow the fuck up. And get your kids under control, so, I don’t know, I don’t have to re-type my paper because your son wanted to play with, and subsequently pull the power cord for my laptop out of the wall because it was fun. Damn.

Sometimes I wish I had gone to Northwestern or U of Chicago, if only to not feel like I'm in high school. If you live in the city and are under the age of 25, or go to Loyola, DePaul, Roosevelt, Columbia, or SAIC, you are bound to encounter one person that knows someone you know. That's just how it works and it's strange. It's strange to add new friends on Facebook and find you have a friend or two in common. Like, nothing is ever really fresh. Someone is always someone else's old roommate or classmate or they DJed together or got high together or met randomly at breakfast or something. It's always something. A friend is having a party in his loft for Halloween with his other roommates and they've invited something close to a thousand people. I wonder how many of them I will know, in some context.

Reading is a solitary pursuit, even a lone passage to a separate world. Yet to read in public, amid strangers, gives it another dimension. Sometimes the city speaks to the page, or the page seems to open up to people passing by. An outdoor reader shares the pulse of a timeless urban conversation between the world and the written word.

Reading this article articulates my exact sentiments about the end of the summer. Not that so much was not done, which always seems to be the case, but the fact that those perfect moments of solitude will soon be loss to the bustle of time in school. I'm already starting to feel the wear of exhaustion as I begin my internship and work at the same time. As the year progresses, as I begin classes and organizations and volunteering, those quiet periods of time spent in a park, in the warmth of the summer sun will be gone. A sort of desperation washes over the city when it gets cold in that we all understand and know that this is what you must face as a citizen of the city, and yet, it still takes you by surprise, and it makes you yearn for the days that weren't all spent outside, like you had promised the winter before.

I first started reading at Millennium Park during my freshman year, when I felt as though I had no friends, and, not because I didn't understand the truth of college life, but I didn't feel as if I was really living the sort of life transformations that had always been romanticized in film and literature about what it means to be young and willing everything. Now, I like to bring a book or two and a notebook, because, being amongst the people of the city and the buildings that clamor above makes one feel nostalgic, or if not nostalgic, at least reflective about their day to day interactions.  

On the Outdoor Book Tour, the Word is Spreading