Life

Couch Surfing Is So 1992.

There are few things in life as satisfying to me as packing all my shit into bags and hauling it to a new place to try and start my life over again (and again and again). It’s a wonderfully vicious cycle, really. I move, I make friends, I fuck shit up, I pack up and move again to repeat everything in a new setting. This is the first time it’s different.

At the end of November, I found myself in Canadian Tire faced with several different choices of hand trucks. The cheapest one was $35, the most expensive somewhere in the neighborhood of $200. I had no real idea what my particular needs were, seeing as I’d never actually attempted a move such as this and had certainly never had a need for a hand truck. After much deliberation and debate with my mother (which included testing those babies out by freewheeling them down the aisle), I settled on a bright red convertible model for the tidy sum of $99. In addition to the typical upright version, the handle pops out for easy conversion to a flat hand truck. This is how I manhandled my belongings to the Newmarket GO Bus Terminal on December 1, with the help of my mother and some ratchet tie downs. After my one trip to Canadian Tire, I naturally consider myself an expert on all things handy.

If you’re a Justin Bieber fan (and you probably aren’t if you’re reading my blog), then you would have been well aware that he played a concert in Toronto on Dec. 1. I had been blissfully ignorant of this fact until my bus got stuck in traffic that seemed to go on forever. After arriving late and having to chase after the bus as the driver began to pull away, taking my belongings with him, Ashley and her bf helped me cram my stuff into his car and we drove back to their place. Once again I’m back to crashing on a couch and living out of a suitcase, and life couldn’t be any sweeter. The hunt for a sweet ass bachelor pad is on.

Roommates could be considered a rite of passage. Most people share their very first apartment, and I’m no different. My first roommate was pretty kick ass (shoutout to Lesley!) but I’ve also had my fair share of nightmare roomies. I can’t tell you how many times one of my former co-dwellers brought home douchebags from the shittiest bar in our part of Toronto and proceeded to blast music at four in the morning as I nearly smothered myself with my pillow and groped desperately in the dark for the nearest breadknife. One of my favorite exchanges with this girl involved me politely asking her to keep it down because I had to be up at 5AM. Her eloquent response? “OKBYE.” She then proceeded to turn the music way the fuck up. Little cunt. The next day when she dragged herself to work and attempted to be friendly with me, I bit her head off for being such a giant bitch.

I did NOT regret leaving that apartment.

The next couple years were spent around the St. Clair W and Vaughan area. I shared a two bedroom basement apartment with my sister that specialized in free laundry and complimentary black mold. (That shit will kill you, folks. Be sure to check any basement apartments you’re considering for it before signing anything.) My sis and I are great friends and the first year was pretty much smooth sailing, until my life derailed and I started bringing home all kinds of trouble and drama. (Ash, you’re a freaking hero for dealing with that nonsense and I’m incredibly grateful we’re still friends.)

After our lease expired, Ashley moved in with her fella and I moved in with mine. That was… interesting. I shared a two bedroom apartment with my bf, his father and his brother. Three dudes versus one extremely emotional, hormonal female. Big fun, as I’m sure you can imagine. I can’t even begin to accurately convey how many times my bare ass hit the frigid toilet water at 3AM. Thanks, gentlemen.

As a modern woman with a deep need for space, I ended up freaking the fuck out and running away to Keswick. All of this has led me to the conclusion that I. Must. Live. Alone. Completely alone. I need at least four hundred square feet all to my fucking self so I can have the space I require to create. When there’s too much conflicting energy in one space, I find myself completely blocked. Out of respect for those around me, I can’t up and softly play music in the wee hours of the night as I attempt to compose coherent, poignant lyrics. I feel silly, and I feel like my creative energy wanes. If that sounds a little too feng shui for you, DEAL WITH IT. It’s the truth as I see it.

Do you have any idea how many affordable bachelor apartments are available in Toronto? It’s an overwhelming number and I’m the least decisive person I’ve ever met. I’ve got at least twenty apartment links bookmarked in various folders and I’ve really got to narrow it down a little before I start calling to book appointments. And if I want to move in January, I’ve got to get a move on already (no pun intended).

So forgive me if I seem a bit scatterbrained and if there’s a long lapse of time between posts. I’ve been bouncing around far too long and I’d really like to find a place I can stay in for a while. Maybe try that whole “home” thing. I might be a beach babe at heart, but I’ve had enough couch surfing for at least three years.

Speak freely.

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