Eat your hearts out, Maru and Sockington.
We do not live like hobos; I have been packing up boxes of books and whatnot which I’m putting into storage soon. Naturally, Ginsberg assumed I was finally providing him with his Dream Home. Full disclosure: his favorite box is one we absconded from our old apartment building while moving TWO YEARS AGO. He loves it more than any sort of proper, posh, perfectly soft and comfy cat bed. This is the part where I crack open a Miller Lite and put on some soap operas and tell you that we’re just being ironic hipsters. Which is such a pack of LIES.
Upon receiving some news sort of leaning in a positive direction as to how my fall will go (it’s as if I just received good polling numbers, so if you’re working in the White House I’ll understand your confusion) I got very excited, and started uploading pictures and singing some Madonna, because that’s how we celebrate at Ginsberg’s House. We sing “Lucky Star” in the style (as it were) of “Justify My Love”. Take that, Gaga.
Fingers and toes crossed!