Seven weeks of homelessness can get really to you. I know the friends who have graciously taken me in since I landed in New York are thankful they’ll never have to walk into their living room to see me lumbering around in my underpants again (until my big underpants jazz dance recital in February), eating all their food and making out with their sofa cushions. I finally have my own place again. And here’s the kicker: it’s my old apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

The girl who took over my place before I moved out West just decided to move in with her boyfriend, so I’m subletting the place right now, and moving in permanently in November. I only mention this because of how weird it feels: when I wake up in the morning, I’m right where I was two years ago. It’s like my year and a half in L.A. was just some weird dream, filled with fake boobs, Scientologists, and too much cilantro. But then I realize someone else shit is everywhere and the apartment looks totally different. It’s very Twilight Zoney. But it feels great to be here.

I now have a desk and a bed, and any number of surfaces to write on. If I go any number of days without posting here, flame me all you can and send the flying herpes monkeys after me. I’m excited to start writing again.

The other day, I was walking down McGuiness and spotted this graffiti that just warmed the cockles of my heart.

Brooklyn, how I’ve missed you so...