2009-08-09 - 12:32 a.m.

Cough, wheeze, and sniffle just a little. We're blowing the dust off of this tome and picking up where we left off.

It's August 8th, 2009 and the winds have blown me back Via Chicago. It was inevitable I suppose, but that's not to say it didn't take a ferocious effort to pull myself from the gravitational/comfort-inducing lull of Como.

We've nested in a cozy, yet spacious two bedroom up on the North Shore in breezy Evanston. Our landlord Damien is a Florek-esque character with a heavy Lithuanian(?) accent who's sense o' humor meter is slightly skewed towards broken. We can never tell if the guy is being funny or just being foreign. He did score us an A/C unit fo' free, so regardless of his wacky antics, I'm going to chalk him up as boffo in my book.

Law school still looms on the horizon, a comfy one week buffer separates me from orientation and the insanity to follow. Surprisingly, I'm completely devoid of any kind of anxiety... whether I should be concerned or not, I haven't decided. Either way, I am ready and excited to face the challenges that school will offer me, since they have yanked me away from the office/dead-end at the SHC in Columbia.

Speaking of Como, I look back fondly on most of the friends I made and subsequently said farewell too. However, I'd be lying if I didn't say my ego and pride swelled at the thought of leaving a couple of fuckheads behind. Those fixtures of Columbia find themselves anchored in place, victims of a couple of bad decisions or just handcuffing anxiety born from self-envisioned mommy and daddy issues. To you fine folks who continuously reminded us that we wouldn't make it, I tip my hat, brandish a bony middle finger and say "Cheers. Enjoy your mid-mo town. I will venture out into the world and we need not cross paths again."

It sucked, being ostracized and harangued simple because we were in love. To hear the weezy cackle of one harlot, a husband trapping baby machine, tell us that we wouldn't make it more than a month, and then to have it seconded by a "nose"-y self-promoting attention whore, was an obstacle that most couples would have balked at. Maybe you're available to shoot our anniversary photos?

And boys, just because your wives wear the pants, that's not say you aren't to blame as well. You turned your backs, rallying around the intangible bond of "brotherhood," disregarding the infidelity and emotionally calloused behavior that drove her form his arms to begin with. Don't forget boys, I was there. I walked and lived among you for years. I know firsthand just how it all went down. You pointed the fingers, you placed the blame, and in the end, we were still able to climb out of the chasm and leave it all behind. Biting out tongues, until now. Enjoy the town. You won't be leaving anytime soon. The rest of the world is big and its very scary, so I don't blame you. We'll explore it and let you know how it goes so you don't have to leave the comfort and allowance given to you by your folks.

Yes gentlemen and "ladies", we survived. And perhaps you should be the recipient of some gratitude in that you gave us a problem to overcome, an obstacle to circumvent, a puzzle to piece together. Something that would being us closer. But I guess that's how we work. One cog supports the other, working in tandem to push the machine forward, achieving and succeeding in light of the shit flung our way. Jo has dug her heels in, opted to play the role of sugar-momma, bringing home the bacon while I study my ass off in the pursuit of higher education. All I can offer in return is a life of easy living and plenty of time spent with our children. Somehow, I think it will be enough :)

Tomorrow morning, we're going to walk the picturesque mile and a half to have breakfast with some family. Sure, we could drive, but the weather is lovely, the neighborhood is a throwback to simpler times and the mood is lighter than it has been in years. So we'll put pavement under our sneakers and take our time, relishing in the thought that we finally made it. We finally rolled the dice and came up winners.

This journal is officially reopened. Browse the past if you will, but try not to pass too much judgment. You'll read tales of Dave, but know that he was left behind in Como. The man who prints these pages is a different one entirely, a pseudo-young man with a lot to look forward to.

Hi, my name is David.

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