Fear and Loathing In Chicago

Muggy and slow in the Windy City. Taxi drivers need their ickets punched to get in and out of the slow moving pick-up lanes of O'Hare. How is this Securing the Homeland? I've promised myself lots of booze tonight, but the blue laws here make finding a Liquor Store a necessity - and it's 1.25 walking miles from the hotel whose 4 elevators creep up and down the meager 8 flights like undecided old people at an turn lane, stunned by the need to rethink their best route to the grocery store. I remain bitter. The walk to the liquor store procures my favorite beer, but only Warm. I am so desperately in need of the brain-fogging effects I am tempted to drink it warm. The refrigerator in my hotel room is one of the vicious pressure sensative ones, that send out alerts to a horde of well-trained krav-maga fighters who will pummel me if I try to assert that I ddin't drink THEIR booze, I merely removed it to make room for my much cheaper boose. I thought about red wine, but jerking off in a hotel room with one fist around your cock and one around a bathroom glass of merlot paints an unmanly picture.

I long for dawn.