Still in the old days I am I suppose. I'd made that 'How to Boil Rice' post with good intentions. I only just read about 2 hours ago though, that Google doesn't like anymore when you use the keyword repeatedly in articles. I'd thought that that was good. And especially how I write so scatter-brained, I found it fairly easy to use the keywords over again. But it seems now, only a day later, that Google has stopped indexing the page. Which I hope is not the case. So, I use the keywords a bunch of times,—but it works well I think—but I still demonstrate how to actually boil the damn rice. Google wants a mold it seems to me no doubt. You must play ball do you want traffic—of course, they have customers afterall. And there is always that big dog guarding the gate. It all relates.
That's one thing I hate about this town too, I'm reminded, the dogs. So progressive this place pretends to be, even so that they walk their dogs without a leash. This is never acceptable. Dogs are beasts. You can't control them. They can't control themselves. Your dog its whole life was maybe wonderful, no problems. But it has not seen me ever. They used to prey on my fear—they do say that they can sense it. But it's not that anymore. I make them uncomfortable now. Our eyes meet as they draw near and their owner lags behind, and it either makes them cower and whine, the mutts,—in a strage, sad, and helpless way—or they try to snap, like taking the offensive before it is me who is the one biting-out their throats.
It's that Chicago, like Kanye says, that keeps me scoffing at this place, this town. Now, I'm not from the actual city, Chicago—though definitely near on the scale of things. But immediately upon moving here,—west—I felt that Chicago in me. I am very calm, and relaxed, and patient—I'd thought. To Chicago people I am that. But here, they are calm on a grander scale. And arriving here, I felt how intense of a person I was, which I had never known. Movement I must have. I felt like cracking the whip on them all. And my favorite activity is doing nothing too, and I felt like this. It was schocking. It was that Chicago. It's that cold.
I saw Chicago perfectly last year. All over the country I was, cities all over. And then I came home. And I looked at Chicago freshly, like I had looked at all those new places, surveying everything I could. It was just the beginning of winter. And it was cold. And little flakes of snow fell in the wind. And the temperature was 15 degrees fahrenheit. And blue was everywhere—the cop cars, the lake. Chicago is just blue. And concrete. And wind. But concrete like nowhere else. Big concrete construction dividers. Chicago concrete it is, old, or new too, and cracked—and cold, being brushed now with the little flakes of snow.
It's that that is Chicago, that bone-chilling, stone-cold. And like it's the cold that makes Russians hard, it makes Chicagoians. It makes us rude. Kanye is extrememly rude I would say. But he doesn't care. That ice is in his veins,—or cold concrete it is, just scratching-round in there—always burning, and there's not a thing he can do for it. Deal with it if he's rude. And Russians I hear are rude, like they're dealing with peasants. And I preach my patience all day, but I've lost a lot of what I'd had. And I am mean anymore now, unapologetically.