Eskimos are always asking me where the party’s at. Normally I say out behind the fish cannery, but now I’m pretty much thinking it’s my yurt. I know last time everyone came over there were concerns about my yurt’s negative energy and that all the Burger King in my compost pile was attracting bears. But those days are over. I’ve embraced the space, and with the help of a little improvisational Feng Shui, my yurt is the jam. Never before has living off the grid been so tasty.

The first thing you’ll notice about my yurt is the improved ambiance. Notice how the natural lighting draws you in. It’s one of the most important sources of positive energy. It symbolizes joy and warmth, and chases away the voids left by darkness. And it was easy to do because those unsightly garbage bags on my roof were hiding gaping rot holes. You and the rest of the tent city council were right to suggest I weatherproof my portable canvas dwelling, but in this moment I think we can both agree that these tattered portholes let in a stunning amount of chi.

Speaking of stunning, remember how my yurt used to smell? Like a hot gym sock marinated in fish slurry? And you and the rest of the “yurt police” said you could smell it all the way from the drinking glacier? Well as you may have read in my weekly Yurt Alert, I’ve learned the importance of using plants to purify the air. I know of a meadow where wild roses bloom, whose petals I may sprinkle in little woven baskets throughout my yurt to improve air quality and aroma. But the meadow is super far, so until I get my second wind I’m spraying these Duraflames with Glade. It helps remove negative ions and occasionally conjures up visions of Chi Lin, the Chinese unicorn symbolizing good health. Other times it conjures up a cartoon version of my stepdad, which symbolizes transformation and shouting. I appreciate your look of concern, but Feng Shui teaches one to embrace the yin with the yang.

I see you’re noticing the flow of my yurt. Yes, it used to be quite a mess in here. “Like a literal manifestation of the Terrordome,” I think you were heard to remark. But as you can see, it is now the epitome of frugality. That’s because the great ancient Chinese science urges one to “clear out the clutter,” and imagine positive energy flowing through one’s yurt like water. Well, good news: because I didn’t move my yurt out of the flood plane this spring, like all the yurt jerks on the bluff were yelling at me to do, my circular tent with the comfort of a cabin succumbed to a deluge and took most of my possessions with it. So as you can see, my yurt couldn’t be more immaculate, and I can safely say, without the aid of visualization, that chi flows through my yurt with impassionate rage.

The few things I did save have been redistributed according to this Bagua Map I drew up to better harness my yurt’s energy. There are eight different sections, or guas, of my yurt. Over here is my career gua, where the energy from my unemployment checks is highest. And over here is my Abundance Gua, where I keep all my rations and a wealth vase, containing the very last of my treasured items. And this empty area here represents the past, where I used to keep the compost pile, before the bears got into it.

You’re enjoying my yurt, I can tell. Oh no, you’re vomiting in my wealth vase. No, it’s okay. That Glade sneaks up on you. Would you like to sit down? Perhaps on the laundry pile in my love gua? … No? … You have to be going? I understand. Can expect to see you at my yurtwarming this evening, say nine-ish? … You’ll be out behind the fish cannery? … No, I get it. A little yurt goes a long way.