Touchdown at O’Hare International Airport. White-knuckled the entire flight home from my vacation in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.
Fucking Chicago. She has opened her labia to ensnare me once again into her yeast-infected cooze.
People are standing outside the terminals at Arrivals. All of them waiting. All of them watching with wide eyes and craning necks as cars surge past in three different lanes.
There is a short blast of a car horn, and someone in the crowd waves their hand spasmodically in the air. A vehicle decelerates only slow enough to jump inside after the passenger door if flung open while the car is still in motion. An act performed as if by a Navy SEAL running a drill.
A few seconds pass and the pickup lane becomes clogged with other vehicles. A cacophony of horns echo throughout the terminals. No matter what city you live in, an impatient car horn is distinct and unmistakable.
Peace and serenity were drained from me the very moment that I stepped through the automatic sliding doors of the terminal and outside in this madness. Now, the high-octane hustle, it smacks me in the face. And as fast as it does, so I am back in the skin that I wear in this cursed metropolis.
Each return from Colorado is more difficult than the last.