Hello, everyone (or maybe just you).
This is my new journal of sorts, a place where I plan to let it rip. Not write perfectly—rip.
Ironically, it’s taken me nearly eight months to fully commit to this small endeavor—proof that I rip too little.
Thus, I present to you…
Here’s the backstory:
In 2016, I moved to Buena Park, a small Chicago neighborhood on the coast of Lake Michigan, sandwiched between Uptown and Lakeview East.
For two years, I slept in the dining room, with only one electrical outlet for my shit and a spider-owned chandelier hanging over my bed. In the summer, it was always 78 degrees, never above 60 in winter. My window faced an elementary school playground which strictly curtailed nudity. And in the mornings, the ten minute commute to the Sheridan “L” stop faced down a wind tunnel that could fold your lips back.
It was an apartment striped with melancholy and discovery…and the building was on Bittersweet Place.
So that’s how this blog—which will assuredly feature commentary on the gray area between life stages—got its name. (If I hit you over the head with a cartoon hammer stamped “symbolism,” I couldn’t make the connection any clearer.)
Thanks for stopping by.