Am I finally living the life of a writer?

So I've been unemployed like so many others in America, but I have a job that is beginning on Monday. I came to New York city today, expecting the apartment that my friend help me secure would be livable. My friend, this wonderful woman with impeccable taste, is someone who I trusted emphatically. I assumed the place would be nice.

My assumption would have been wrong!!!

What a DUMP! The whole place was like a hallway. It's an attic apartment, slanting roofs, I could fit a couch in the living room and doubt my sleigh bed would fit in the bedroom cause of the slanted ceiling.

So, I'm picturing myself in this hole and it depresses the shit out of me. But then I think of stories of how famous writers and artists have survived living in the most meager of situations, allowing life to take them where it will.

I'm sorry, but if I were going to do that, I would rather do it in Italy on a freakin' hillside by a grape vineyard, not in an attic shoebox in the Bronx.

So I think I'm going to embrace my inner writer/artist and suck it up until I can find something that will make me happier.

For now, a roof over my head and a place to keep my crab is sounds pretty good.