don’t drink and ride the CTA.

If I didn’t know what FOMO meant, this week I’ve learned the meaning. While I continue to freeze my ass off and wear more layers than humanly possible, my hometown peeps are frolicking around South Beach like a bunch of wild animals enjoying every #MMW & #WMC event possible. Can I even hashtag on here? IDGAF. Vogue just hashtagged on their cover.

But enough about Miami and all of its current gloriousness. Today was rough in the CHI.

For starters, I fell on my way to the bathroom this morning. FELL ON MY FACE. I fell because I tripped over a BOOT. A problem I have never had to encounter because wtf wears boots?! Not me, until now. It’s all I effing wear. Every. Damn. Day. BOOTS.

OVER IT.

Irregardless, I decided to walk out of my apartment with an open mind because today is Thursday and that means it’s practically Friday, which means FREEDOM. Except what I experienced shortly after going under ground was not freedom. Moments after entering my train stop I became trapped in the freaking spinning thing that lets me into the train terminal. How is this possible you ask? I have no idea, but it happened. IT HAPPENED TO ME. I was trapped in this tiny jail for about 60 seconds until someone else came up behind me and had to set me free. Que pena.

Then the work day passed and it was time for happy hour, which is my favorite hour for obvious reasons. Drink, drank, drunk, now it’s time to go home.

The only problem is, the moment you switch up my routine (and add alcohol) in a new city I GET LOST. All my life I’ve heard the dangers of drinking and driving. What they failed to teach me was the dangers of drinking and getting on the train…because it’s confusing as SHIT. Leave it to me to get on the wrong train and freak out with a nearly dying phone.

Sigh.

blue

 

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