Reunited, and it feels so good.

Inspired (okay, damn near ripped off) by this entry over at Bacon Grease

Dearest Chicago,

I know it’s not cool to be the first to say this, but I think I love you. Really! I want to have your little Chicagoland babies.

Chicago? Will you be my Lovah.

Love you always,

Tweets

Guess what? I love this city. I'm pretty sure Chicago feels the same way. And I can't stop gushing about it to everyone.

We’re in that amazing phase where you’re falling in love, but you don’t want to admit it to yourself because you are afraid you’ll jinx it. The phase where you spend hours just looking at public transportation maps and just marvel: I can get anywhere I want to and never hop in a car.

I’m not one to brag but my Lovah put a CVS across the street from me. And a little dive bar at the end of the block. And I can frequent both establishments in my pajamas if I so choose. If I want a Chicago-style hot dog I can get an AUTHENTIC one—at almost any hour of the night. There are the 4 a.m. Thai take-out places. The Cuban bistro. The quaint Ethiopian restaurant which serves its beer in glasses slightly larger than Dixie cups. And since 6 long months of miserable cold weather is beginning to transition over to lazy warm afternoons, the whole of Chicago has decided to leave their cramped apartments to just be outside. There are people everywhere. It’s like Chicago has up and thrown a party for me.

But what I love most about Chicago and our renewed love, I haven’t felt this pressure to live up to an unattainable perfection—ahem, I’m looking at you, Dallas. You drift in an anonymous sea of strangers who are all at the same time exactly like you and nothing like you. Every day on the bus a cacophony of languages ring out. (Although some are just a tad too loud on the cell phones behind me, but don’t get me started.)

And don’t get me wrong, Chicago is not without its flaws. Alley noise at 3 a.m. Silent farters on the bus. Overzealous horn honkers. Parallel parking. Meanie cashiers. And that distinctive smell of urine, day old feces, Old Spice and vomit that graces the deep bowels below the city in the subway. (Which to be honest this is the first relationship where I have plunged headfirst into the bowels of anything, so who’s to say this isn’t typical of all my loves.)

I’m also not implying that I'm without my faults. Some days I am just not in the mood to deal with you, Ranting Homeless Man. And some days I long for some man to hold open the door for me again. (STILL a feminist! Don’t get any ideas!) But we put up with each because it’s TA-WU WUV.

Chicago offers me a few million things to do every day. Even if all I do is watch a marathon of America’s Next Top Model, I really just can’t get enough of this city. The sights, the sounds, the people and the pace of it all. I love just getting caught up in it. And yes, the cashier at CVS may never remember my name, but that's its charm. The kind of anonymity that makes me feel like I can be somebody.

Oh Chicago, let’s run off to somewhere exotic, and get married. (But come right back of course.)