death by guinness

So.

It’s been a perturbing month. I’ve lost my train of thought. Scratch that. I’ve lost my train of living.

I am particularly homeless for a while. Which is awesome. This week, it’s a lovely room in the west village. Next week, it’s Portland’s Pearl district. The week after that, I’m not particularly sure. The window I am presently staring out of overlooks the corner of Hudson and Perry, in particular the gold and brown striped awning of Citi Habitats.

Irony for you.

I’m two blocks from Magnolia Bakery. Which is fantastic and overrated. I’m half a block from the White Horse Tavern, where, in 1953, Dylan Thomas drank himself to death. So, at least there’s always that option.

Yet, like everything else in my life, save my tattoos and my parents, this is only temporary. Then, I hear there are lasers. For the tattoos. And not the parents.

I saw The Merchant of Venice last night at The American Globe Theater; my friend Robbie was a particularly good Gratiano. Then followed a lot of Guinness. I’ve had my nose stuck in a book for a while; it was a nice respite. today's headache, almost welcome. almost.

I wrote an eight-page research paper this week on chastity and women’s roles in The Tempest. I forgot to cite the bible.

It goes that way.