There's one for yes, continue this, there's one for yes, continue this, and there's one for write about other people at a brand-new location God-knows-where, so I think I'm going to continue this, though maybe with interludes about other people such as this one:

No, actually, I haven't seen any other people for awhile. Chicago is big and cold and lonely. There's just something about a climate that prohibits sitting out on the lawn that makes people seem rude. They rush past you to get to their warm car, and who can blame them? but it still stands that they rush past you.

There's something about the sky being darker than the ground. Snow and a constantly threatening storm. I rush past people, too. I rush past them to get to Potbelly Sandwich Works, which, in my opinion, is a better destination than a warm car (even). I want everything on mine. The sub guys on the line behind the counter smile like they're welcoming you to their home, like they're inviting you to come sit by the fire and eat their homemade rabbit stew. If there's one thing I'll miss when I leave here again, it's the pride Chicagoans have in their food, and the concurrent fact, somehow, that they sell it for cheap. Maybe they feel guilty charging their honored guests. Who knows?

Okay, I was in Victoria's Secret, and I was there for two reasons: one, to buy a bra, and two, to give myself the most massive amount of culture shock possible all at once. The windows reared in front of me like giant horses with posters taped to their bellies, posters of stretched out women showing me ALL of their skin and tiny, wavy, shiny triangles of material in bright orange, bright pink, bright, bright, and the eyeshadow and their legs that were taller than me and curled around other women's legs that were also taller and me and I thought... how is this legal?

I didn't think this because I think it shouldn't be - legal, I mean - but because I've spent so long being the sluttiest person in Jayapura just by occasionally wearing V-neck T-shirts, and I'm so used to looking down at myself every 20 seconds to make sure that no part of my armpit is showing, because that would be provocative...

A girl next to me holding an armful of lacy, flowery bras started talking to me about how she wanted to buy ten of them, but... 'all of them seem to show up under my clothes! Look at the butterflies. The butterflies are definitely going to be popping out under something white. And under black? Do you think this lace beige pattern's going to come out under black?'

'I think so, I mean, look at it,' I said on complete autopilot, because nobody in Indonesia would ever talk about their bras showing under their clothes, or wear something that might threaten to be thin enough to show a bra. It occurred to me right about then that I don't remember how women are supposed to talk to each other, and it occurred to me stronger later when an employee insisted upon measuring me before I bought anything, at which point I fled in terror. I think I need more time.