A Bare List of Necessity
I have a habit of sitting at the flux point of several bouts of media. The television on (one of the five channels, but silent), music (essential), and the computer (laptop, donated by my father last Christmas); and then there's the window, the cats, the clunk-thunk of whatever is going on above or below me.
Presently, I reside on the second floor of a three floor, three apartment, house. It has been a joy. Mind you, private. My friends (the posse as well as the Troops, excepting only the scant few within spitting distance) will not come to the East End. My lovely, solitary, apartment, has remained that for 19 whole months. Interlopers are rare and few.
It's not as if I don't want visitors; it's mostly that none are available. The East End, for any who might me reading this outside the mega-city of Toronto: it is really, really far from the West End (where most of my friends reside)... not physically, but psychologically. You'd be amazed.
(This distance, ironically, has not stopped those same friends from insisting that come out at a moment's notice, to the other side... drunk or not, high or not, because "that's where It's happening". That cab fare I paid out of personal negligence is nothing compared to what I have spent over the past winter, relocating at the last minute.)
All this is about to change. I move come July. In with Ms. Montieth. I have no idea what to expect from this change. The decision to make it came out of a quandary both personal and public: first off, I need a change -- the old job is done, the cat is almost grown, and I miss being close to people I'm close to (although there will be casualties: my darling Comrade; as well as the surrogate-nonsexual-hetero-boyfriend); also, I need to save some money, if plans are going to come to fruition; and, at the end of it all, I am missing a sense of newness that I have become somewhat addicted to. Time to shake things up.
Shaken up is what I'm going to be if I pull this next 10 days off. I have to pack, organize movers, wrangle a couple of grace days from Landlord (heaven forefend he has found someone for the 1st) as Moving Day falls on Canada Day, which is a long weekend... which I have to work, and so can't realistically move before the 3rd; and before all that, it's Pride.... P.R.I.D.E. for fuck's sake!
I may be doomed. But I'm ready. The whole weekend off, funds low but functional, we're going to see if all those licentious, lascivious years of training can't get me by.
Cute and desirable outfits. Check.
Clean cute and desirable outfits. Check.
Vodka. Check.
New sheets. Check.
White wine. Check.
Cat food. Check.
Beer. Check.
Air in Bicycle Bria's tires. Check.
Magic Pixie Dust. Oh, yes.
I think we're good to go. It's time to turn off the images, the stereo; close the computer.
It's time to go out and play.
Make a story, make a living.
It's as good a motto for summer as any.
Presently, I reside on the second floor of a three floor, three apartment, house. It has been a joy. Mind you, private. My friends (the posse as well as the Troops, excepting only the scant few within spitting distance) will not come to the East End. My lovely, solitary, apartment, has remained that for 19 whole months. Interlopers are rare and few.
It's not as if I don't want visitors; it's mostly that none are available. The East End, for any who might me reading this outside the mega-city of Toronto: it is really, really far from the West End (where most of my friends reside)... not physically, but psychologically. You'd be amazed.
(This distance, ironically, has not stopped those same friends from insisting that come out at a moment's notice, to the other side... drunk or not, high or not, because "that's where It's happening". That cab fare I paid out of personal negligence is nothing compared to what I have spent over the past winter, relocating at the last minute.)
All this is about to change. I move come July. In with Ms. Montieth. I have no idea what to expect from this change. The decision to make it came out of a quandary both personal and public: first off, I need a change -- the old job is done, the cat is almost grown, and I miss being close to people I'm close to (although there will be casualties: my darling Comrade; as well as the surrogate-nonsexual-hetero-boyfriend); also, I need to save some money, if plans are going to come to fruition; and, at the end of it all, I am missing a sense of newness that I have become somewhat addicted to. Time to shake things up.
Shaken up is what I'm going to be if I pull this next 10 days off. I have to pack, organize movers, wrangle a couple of grace days from Landlord (heaven forefend he has found someone for the 1st) as Moving Day falls on Canada Day, which is a long weekend... which I have to work, and so can't realistically move before the 3rd; and before all that, it's Pride.... P.R.I.D.E. for fuck's sake!
I may be doomed. But I'm ready. The whole weekend off, funds low but functional, we're going to see if all those licentious, lascivious years of training can't get me by.
Cute and desirable outfits. Check.
Clean cute and desirable outfits. Check.
Vodka. Check.
New sheets. Check.
White wine. Check.
Cat food. Check.
Beer. Check.
Air in Bicycle Bria's tires. Check.
Magic Pixie Dust. Oh, yes.
I think we're good to go. It's time to turn off the images, the stereo; close the computer.
It's time to go out and play.
Make a story, make a living.
It's as good a motto for summer as any.
Comments
xo!