There was a man singing outside my window just now.

Nothing special, just singing. I like to say, "it's how we do," a lot lately, a line stolen from one season or another of 'The Wire.' I use it to vent my unease about some of Harlem's more peculiar/unsettling/annoying-as-fuck habits, while simultaneously appearing blasé and cooly collected: "It's how we do."

I can't seem to shake illness of one sort of another since moving here; currently in the throws of an awful hacky number. R250 seems to think it's fun to put me on the second floor, with occasional stints on the third, leaving me feeling relatively useless and eager to leave, but also hopelessly addicted to paychecks and free unlimited ride MetroCards. I think my present infatuation with The Office stems in part from my identification with Jim's heterosexual angst; whatever that means. I want to move to Brooklyn so bad. Columbia's Social Work program is alright, but I still am hungry for greater academic challenges and for a cohort with a more dependably critical curiosity - why am I never satisifed? (I turn my gaze to the Urban Planning school and the Seminary.)

But hey, it's how we do.

Note to self: this grand adventure deserves a narrative, not just a litany of whines from one among a nation of whiners - let's remember to do that, especially after the collapse of the endeavor which was supposed to document this year, P365. Come back here soon when you have something nice to say, alright, young man?