Once again, I find myself with the conundrum of finding a place to live. It’s not that I was kicked out, or anything. My landlord is bringing his parents from El Salvador, and well, he wants them to live with him.
I can understand that, and I appreciate the fact that he at least gave me enough notice. But for me, it sucks.
On one hand, I guess this place is the nicest I’ve had, so it’ll be a sad moment when I pack and move. On the other, moving right out pisses me off. Not only the actual hauling of boxes upon boxes of stuff (ok, ok, I don’t have that much stuff), but all of the intangibles that revolve around moving.
Where am I going? How far from work? How far from a supermarket, a laundromat, an LCBO? What will my neighbors be like? How noisy, nosy, smelly, clean/dirty will they be? Will I wake every day to the tune of dumbass kids playing hockey, or some chump that rides his motorcycle to work AT 7 IN THE FUCKING MORNING? Will they be alcoholics, drug addicts, gang members, or Christian fanatics? Will I be able to smoke in my new place (to tell you the truth, I hope not – I’ve found I smoke a lot less since I moved in here)? Will I be able to have a pet? Will there be a big enough kitchen? A place for my bike? Will the shower provide a decent stream, or a mere trickle?
I’ll find out soon enough, I guess.
Oh, another thing I hate about moving: notifying everybody and their mothers of my new address. The bank, the government, the idiots at Bell and Rogers, family, friends…
Such is the life of a nomad.
The Iceberg.
