Oh that splattery mess on the wall? Those are my brains from when my mind was blown.

You know what just broke my brain?  The fact that we just got out of a play, hungry and thinking about Indian food, and came home (yes, home I say) to hommde curry made from scratch by John Crowley, who runs the hostel.  I remember slumping against the door after Sean announced this enormous and generous gesture in the threshold of our room, and then staggering downstairs like a zombie to accept such a gift, all the while shouting confused and awestruck thanks to John.  What had we done to deserve such consideration, such effort?  I am a mere puny human who has occupied this room, caused pluming disturbances, and smuggled tea mugs.  I do not know what thanks will be sufficient exchange for such an honor, but I know that I will no longer correct myself after reflexively called the Armagh Youth Hostel “home”.  It is truly my home.

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