For context: This piece was written when I lived in Dublin in the Fall of 2024.
People ask me if I feel any different now that I live in Dublin. I do; I feel better than everyone else.
Life in Dublin is great. The second I arrived, I dyed my hair red and waxed my armpit hair into two four-leaf clovers. My best friend is named Carla — I met her in Irish Culture class. She makes delicious marshmallows.
Carla is quintessentially Irish. She wears a hat with a gold buckle on it, and she walks with her toes pointing outward. She reminds me of someone, but I’m not sure who.
I drink Guinness in gulps instead of sips now. At Trinity, a student’s lunch is two pints and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. Carla doesn’t like crisps. Now that I think about it, the only thing I have ever seen her eat is marshmallows. Every day, she dresses head to toe in green. Maybe she’s a climate activist.
My social life is “craic.” Carla and I attend open mic slam poetry every Monday (she exclusively speaks in rhymes). When the night ends, Carla clicks her heels and tells me she has to run home to her pot. It makes sense to me that Carla’s a greenie — it is about the only thing that can explain her antics.
It rains all the time here, which feels magical. I think Carla might be magical. I once saw her fart, and a bunch of gold coins fell out of her pant leg. I don’t know how they got up there — she’s only three feet tall. Her colon must be the size of a ballpoint pen.
Oh. Wait.
UF PRISM 