This week I pointed myself toward Chicago. Seventy-nine degrees in Illinois sounds pleasant on paper. In reality, it’s a slow-cook sauna wrapped in humidity, the kind that makes you question your deodorant’s life choices.
I drifted into the suburban Midwest – a land where Trump, God, and golf make up the holy trinity. I came for family, but was quickly pulled into a three-day bender of golfing, backyard parties, and tequila sunrises that bled into tequila midnights.
Somewhere in the chaos, a children’s birthday party and a baptism got wedged into the itinerary. By the end, my liver had filed for early retirement and my soul was wandering the parking lot looking for Jesus.
