Confessions, Life, Work

Home Sweet Motherfucking Home.

On Sunday, upon finishing my day of coffee-slinging and cappuccino crafting, I raced home to change out of my odorous uniform into something a little more street-worthy. I had a date with an apartment viewing and I intended to dress to impress.

Located near St. Clair W and Dufferin, the apartment is a sweet little slice of big city heaven. One bedroom, a good-sized bathroom and a full kitchen, all-inclusive (including internet!) and only $750/mo. The owners are a married couple living upstairs, and they’re some of the nicest people I’ve met since I came back to Toronto. It might not be a large space, but it’s big enough for me and beautiful enough to keep me happy.

I wanted it bad.

This entire year has been about me asserting my independence and taking control of my own life. Whether you believe it or not, I used to be quite different from the woman writing to you now. Sullen, quiet and filled with self-loathing, I would create drama in my life and then whine about the misfortunes that would befall me in the wake of my extensive bad decisions. In the last twelve months I’ve managed to check my own reality and figure out exactly where I was going wrong. Finally moving out on my own without relying on family to assist me is HUGE. It’s the final piece in the jigsaw of my mental health.

Monday afternoon they called my references, Ricky the Boss Man and Lesley Shaw (you know who she is — the best former landlady/roomie ever!) Both of them gave me stellar reviews, and when I got home after work and checked my email, I had a pleasant surprise.

I’ve. Been. Approved.

Now all that remains is to swing by with first and last and sign the lease. I’ve got my very own fucking apartment, and it was the first one I actually went to see. I move in January 1st.

I just can’t wait to get off the fucking couch and sleep in an actual bed.

Speak freely.

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