I am a living version of “been there, done that”. Traveling will get you places other than your original destination, like getting a parking ticket with only a few bucks left.

Have you ever noticed how going to rehab makes people feel like they’ve gone through complete hell, back to our artificial earth, then back to their complete hell again? I won’t take pity on those people. It’s got to be at least ten times worse on the other side, watching someone go through it and then just going back to what they checked in for. If you’re one of those people, don’t expect me to respect you for trying. Like my friend, John. I met him over 120 days ago and over 400 miles away. Now, I can’t even listen to his band’s music anymore without feeling sea sick. Shit’s tough.

Now I’m 400 miles west in the young town of Chicago, stuck sick and nostalgic in my hotel bed, thanks to Scotty. He had been so sick for the whole month of February, but one night he took me out for breakfast at Cosi downtown. You could tell he felt better, at least, evident from his shave and his fresh pack of Parliaments peeking out of his coat pocket.