Courtesy of a racist sixty-year-old neighbor still living with his mother; a virtually nonexistent housing inventory due in turn to Jeff Bezos, Mt. Rainier, and murky multifamily home regulations; the less-than-shining precedent set by other groups of male, twenty-something renters; and a healthy dose of my own selectivity and procrastination, I have been rendered, once again, homeless.
I’m typing this in Shari’s, where I paid seven dollars for late-night wifi, warmth, and a place to charge my phone—plus bonus buffalo wings—after spending the evening in a library and showering at a gym. I’ll spend tonight in the Shari’s parking lot. Probably in the back seat of my car, once I stop deluding myself that this time, sleeping shotgun will actually work out. I’ll brush my teeth and change clothes at a coffeeshop tomorrow morning, and then I’ll face another day of working from home without a home.