Portland

Alexander, on Portland.

Alexander: Zagat is still relevant here.

Alexander, on love and Portland.

Alexander: I think this is the death of me — falling in love with a man on the West Coast and relaxing further into the blissful black hole of soft drugs and rampant socially acceptable alcoholism that is Portland.

Alexander, on Portland.

Alexander: The weather here is as tepid as the people and it’s resettling me into my malaise.

Alexander, on the sun in the east.

Alexander: I very heavily feng shui-ed my flat and in the process came to remember that the sun shall forever rise in the east. Maybe it’s the Yerba Mate, but I feel… well, not addled with malaise or cravings for non-vegan Haagen Dazs. Even Simon and Garfunkel aren’t eliciting their usual doldrums.

Alexander, the Pacific Northwestern absurdist.

Alexander: Once I came to accept the meaningless nature of existence, it was much easier to take pleasure in simple things. Now I’m content to see everything as my inside joke and watch the world burn from the comfort of the Pacific Northwestern Void that is Portland.

Alexander, on his mother.

Alexander: My mother is constantly one glass of Prosecco away from buying seventeen cats.

Alexander, on work.

Alexander: I just met someone who dabbles in my branch of ethically questionable academic pursuits. I am not sure if it will come to anything, but I perhaps just hacked a foothold in West Coast academic fraud.