Tirty-Tree and a Turd, Tanks

Ireland is breathtaking and ancient and cultured and lively and wet (in all senses of the word). And it stole all my money.

Well, I guess I gave them my money pretty freely . . . as long as pints kept appearing in my hand.

I spent the past week wandering around literary Dublin, tripping on cobblestones in heels (because I saw Irish girls walking on cobblestones in heels, so I thought I could, too . . . and then I remembered that I suck at balance), and generally drinking and being merry. I walked along the River Liffey like James Joyce, flirted with Oscar Wilde in Merrion Square (he turned me down for Marcus), and fell in love with Yeat's brother Jack at the Irish National Gallery. (Seriously, Jack Yeats is an incredible painter. I can't believe he's not focused on more.)

I surveyed the Book of Kells at Trinity College, drank with my buddy Lauren who's studying there, and rambled about thesii and life with her like good drunken college students do.

Marcus and I took a day trip to the fishing village of Bray, where we had coffee by the seaside and watched people walk thier little dogs. And later took a 2-day trip across the island to the seaside city of Galway, which was gorgeous and romantic and filled with great bars.

I love Ireland, and I'm glad I was decked out with my triskel tattoo before I embarked. Seeing that symbol in the Book of Kells and on street grates all over Galway was an awesome connection to a part of my heritige that I've only been in touch with through the goddess and harp.

However, as my tattoo is behind my ear, Marcus seems to think its an on-off button of some kind and pokes it often. This irks me.

As does my empty wallet. Tanks for the good times and the Guinness, Ireland.