It isn't official yet (I'm still hemming and hawing over the reality of it), but the place I think probably I might live in for-sure-this-time (unlike the past two places that I'd settled on) was discovered last night. I called tonight and left a message firmly declaring my intentions towards this amazing place.

So far as I can reckon, the building (a high rise) is on Prince of Wales, and the apartment is on the twenty-sixth floor, no less (that is to say, it's on the very top floor), in the swanky "Chateau Royale." Tres chic. The view is horrifying. They have a huge forty foot balcony, and you can see, like, Russia from there. Tee hee -- well, actually I exaggerate, but only if you take into account the curvature of the earth. If you're one of those flat-earth society types, you can quite honestly take my word for it. Russia. Yup.
Let me just point out now that flat-earth people know perfectly well that the earth isn't really flat. They just steadfastly take that position and hold it in the face of all contrary evidence because they know how greatly it vexes people like me.

I suppose if you will indulge me in yet another digression, I ought to point out the fact that this will so not earn you a place among the honoured dead.

In any event, the surroundings are quite nice -- you have the experimental farm, and Vincent Massey Park, and tons of other Agriculture Canada land, and Carleton, so it's lush and green. The room itself is big, and strangely enough, I'd be living with Smiths Falls refugees. They read my web page, and found out to their surprise that I hailed from the same origins as they. I have no idea who they are in terms of my own little experience, since they left S.F.D.C.I (Smiths Falls District Collegiate Institute) the year I entered grade 9, but they seem like reasonable and pleasant girls. They're grad students at their various universities, firm but understanding non-smokers (I explained that the majority of my social base is on the tobbacco weed, among others), clean, nice, etc. etc.

There's a pool and other such ammenities of posh living, too. I'm still a bit timid about the rent ($365 + $35 average utilities, and for sure I'll need my own phone line... three people, and at least two modems), but I'm not likely to find a place I like as much for much less than that, and anyway, Mother OSAP will likely be kind to me this year, and presently they're even talking about trying to get the money together to extend my term at work for another couple of weeks (maybe till mid-September), so if I can find some way to accommodate both school and a couple of weeks of employment, all should be well.

Now that this headache of real life living is at least partially resolved, I can afford to be moody and depressive again.

Dang.

A u g u s t 7

In fact, I saw a great place last night. The view from the balcony would eat your soul. The veerrrry top floor of a 26-story high rise, and about a fifteen minute walk to school. I'll tell you about it later, just as soon as I tell them I'm going to take it.

A u g u s t 5

I never do figure out where exactly all my time goes to. It's like if someone else gets ahold of your bank card and pin number. There has to be a secret reserve where all my free time is being siphoned away into, and it's being used to allow gaggles of bored Kanata teenagers to swarm other Kanata teenagers for fifty cents of pocket change. I guess the part that bothers me is how I could use my own time for far more petty and mischievous ends, if only I had access to it. A lot of it defeats description but, trust me, I'd enjoy it.

So far this weekend, all I've done is spend a lot of money I don't really have. I mean, I ought to but, frustratingly enough, it isn't really there. Which is what I found out only when I tried to buy groceries with it. I cheefully gave the cashier my bank card (for sinful, instant, keypad-produced electronic money really is the most painless way to shop, since you don't have to fork over large and precious bills, but instead instantaneously have them whisked out of reality, out of sight), but there were, as the machine told me, "insufficient funds," which means that the check I'd deposited last week for a modest but adequate sum hadn't yet cleared (at least, this is what I'm hoping). So technically I have a decent, modest amount of money to tide me over until the big fattie of a $769 check visits me on Wednesday, but I only actually have $8 that can be withdrawn (and no bank machine would bother to dispense that amount, and no interac transaction that small is worth the service charge) until Tuesday or Wednesday, when hopefully the first check will clear, since of course then I have to deal with the waiting period for the next one. I'm being paid with guaranteed government checks that ought to clear instantly, but such is the lot of full time employment that I can only do my banking after hours at an ATM, or on weekends.

The moral of the story is that the people who run banks are jerks.

Luckily, I had with me a friend who lived nearby, and he ran home and lent me the $75 to pay for my groceries. Normally I would have felt like an idiot, standing there, waiting and waiting, but I think this time I was entirely too irritable to care. Like, after everything else I've been through this month, the fact that my money isn't "my money" yet only seemed to fit.

As I mentioned, I liked the place I saw the other night. It was awfully expensive, in that after hydro and cable and a telephone (and I expect to have to get my own phone line. My room is already connected to the main phone line, but somehow I doubt there will be any way to peacefully split a phone line among three people, and at least two modems.) the rent will likely average out to $400 a month. I will cope though. My search is probably at an end, and that's fine with me.

Oh, and get this.. the roommates are named Kerri-Ann, Kim, and Karen. Karen is the girl who will be leaving. Her room is dark green, and large, and slightly better laid-out than the one I'm in now. They're about the same size, but the new will be slightly larger, and it's squarish, versus mine, which is a big rectangle. Also, I somehow think Kerri-Ann, Kim, and Rob has way more panache. If only because our initials won't spell KKK. We probably won't hate each other, I hope. I haven't met both of them yet, but one girl is nice, and quiet, and the other has a tidy room with a big orange cat that sleeps on her bed, so we assume she's probably really sweet and really nice.

The apartment itself is quite large. The kitchen is reasonably nice and modern, and the living room looks cozy. And heck, there's TV, so I won't have to live without my Babylon 5 (audible relief). I personally preferred the first place I wanted more, but Broken reassures me that at least she likes this place better (I needed at least one other person's advice), and I admit that I'm being foolish by continuing to love an apartment I can never have again. Like an ex-girlfriend.

I'm fidgity. I still haven't heard from them (I called yesterday and left a message declaring my intentions), and I have this fear that someone didn't get my message, and perhaps will end up giving the room to someone else -- "Oh well," they'll say. "Rob never called us back, that thoughtless bastard. Guess we'll just have to let you have the room, Kandi." This is an unfortunate time of year for relocating, since now is the time that the students return, foraging for places to live themselves, creating all kinds of competition for cheap accomodation with roommates.

It's also possible that the room won't be available as early as I need it. I'm not really sure. The thing is that the room was still occupied when I saw it on Friday. You know, bed, furniture, clothes and all that. I don't know if that just means she's leaving a little later -- like this week -- or if she's not leaving until the end of the month, which would, of course, have to suck, since I have to be out of here by the tenth. But we'll talk about Plan B later.

Meanwhile, I'm coping by packing. I've only actually packed two or three boxes, but my walls are utterly, utterly bare. All my posters and papers that hardly left any bare space when they were on my walls are in one lonely box (plus a giant roll of posters), and in spite of the clutter on my shelves and on the floor, it looks desolate already. The part that makes it really difficult are the memories. Well, actually the tape is the trickiest. I mean, you have to peel it off just everything. The tape wad in my trash is bigger than a guinea pig. But the memories too. Everything in my room has its own story -- part of my layout's purpose (I'd say most of its purpose) is to inspire awe and curiousity in my visitors, thus leading to endless conversations and investigations. I love watching people poke and prod in my room, and explaining all the little knickknacks and posters and papers I've collected. Everything here is really personal and special to me.

For example, it was hard putting away things like my gigantic tower of Jolt cola cans, and the Crow poster I have on my wall, because of their association with Phil, my first girlfriend. She used to come over on Saturday nights after work, and we'd spend the nights together, drinking the Jolt she brought from the little store beside her residence building at Carleton; and the poster was a gift from her for that Christmas. Usually I'm terrified of running into her (and she of running into me) because we both have a lot of painful memories and guilt attached to our breakup (our friendship ended because she couldn't deal with the guilt of having hurt somebody so much, and it was easier for her to just cut the ties). At the same, our encounters downtown or at school are often a game of chess -- the two of us vying for the social upper hand. Whoever has the most friends present and runs away wins, and whoever is alone and runs away loses. In a way it's like just trying to impress the other person with how happy and social and outgoing we are -- how healthily we've moved on from the past. One time she sat down in front of me and started smooching with her new boyfriend, and on their way out I felt sly and started smooching out with my ultra gothy friend Sean (whose photo you can find in here) as they walked past us.

But in spite of the pettiness, I don't actually dislike her. I'm one of these people who is uncomfortable with destroying all of the bond between two people when they breakup. I do "want to be friends afterwards." At the time I was certainly angry and hurt, but I don't think I ever stopped caring about the person she was when we were together, and certainly I never hated her. I like to think that she doesn't hate me, or regret what we had. Like the fact that we lost our virginity to each other... in this very room. Another painful memory. So many things in here remind me of her, or of Lucretia, or Lilith... like, this is the room where my relationships happen and fall to pieces. As much unhappiness as happiness is being packed into each box, and handling each of my possessions, one by one, only drives them home even deeper as the time spent on packing gives me all this time to think.

And my big empty room is lonely.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

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