The Hunt
The open tabs on my browser alternate between apartment listings and job descriptions. I'm exactly where I started from a year ago, only a hell of a lot wiser to what it is to live in this city and with a very modest income. Modest, you guys.
You think you know yourself. And then you see yourself from the reverse of what you've known for so many years, in the upside down version of your life, and you're about to turn 34, and it's 45 degrees out. A lil extra weight for you to battle the urge to give up.
I haven't been able to write these essays as much as usual since moving here. I've started many and abandoned them quickly. I've been kind of cocooning myself for a sense of safety in my new home. Meh. Even condoms are only 98% effective. Here goes.
I just returned home from seeing a one bedroom basement apartment on Markham street between College and Dundas. Sweet spot. Beautiful house. Narrow access to the back, a maze, some hurdles, a drunk raccoon, and a very steep cement staircase to a possible lair worth 995 dollars apparently. That's 695 in Montreal dollars. I think I counted two windows, each the size of a loaf of bread. I think I identified some kind of pest poop under the kitchen sink. I think I saw what looked like the all-too-familiar sight of mousey mouse mouse munches and my instinct, from a place deep down inside me who is so desperate to find a place, any place, told me to pretend you didn't see it. Pretend you're not going to google translucent droppings later, pretend you didn't smell imaginary bananas, pretend you actually have furniture that could fill a place this size, even if it is tiny. Forget the amount in your chequing account. Don't think about that. Nod in agreement when future landlord mouths "First and last" in slow motion like you've been saving for this moment all year and absolutely make sure you give him the old flirty eyes as you hand over the most personal details of your life on 5 sheets of paper so he thinks you're def legit. Shake his hand. SHAKE HIS HAND KATIE! DAMNIT WOMAN! YOU DIDN'T SHAKE HIS HAND! Now he's definitely not going to rent to you. Another gun blast to the foot.
Tuesday I watched a woman seamlessly acquire the perfect apartment, my jaw wide open as she handed the real estate agent every possible fucking document ever fucking needed by anyone ever to guarantee perfection goddamnit, and I walked away, defeated. What is this city? What have I signed on for? What the fuck am I doing here? Do I need a lawyer?
"I'm going through changes" plays overhead as I write. Who knew second puberty could be more awkward than the first?
It's like my soul is finally developing pubes and a moustache for the first time, and the voice in my brain is cracking cuz it's not the voice I need anymore, youknowwhadddImeeeean? Change the tape, as my therapist says. Huh. That feels better.
Charles Bradley,
Katie
You think you know yourself. And then you see yourself from the reverse of what you've known for so many years, in the upside down version of your life, and you're about to turn 34, and it's 45 degrees out. A lil extra weight for you to battle the urge to give up.
I haven't been able to write these essays as much as usual since moving here. I've started many and abandoned them quickly. I've been kind of cocooning myself for a sense of safety in my new home. Meh. Even condoms are only 98% effective. Here goes.
I just returned home from seeing a one bedroom basement apartment on Markham street between College and Dundas. Sweet spot. Beautiful house. Narrow access to the back, a maze, some hurdles, a drunk raccoon, and a very steep cement staircase to a possible lair worth 995 dollars apparently. That's 695 in Montreal dollars. I think I counted two windows, each the size of a loaf of bread. I think I identified some kind of pest poop under the kitchen sink. I think I saw what looked like the all-too-familiar sight of mousey mouse mouse munches and my instinct, from a place deep down inside me who is so desperate to find a place, any place, told me to pretend you didn't see it. Pretend you're not going to google translucent droppings later, pretend you didn't smell imaginary bananas, pretend you actually have furniture that could fill a place this size, even if it is tiny. Forget the amount in your chequing account. Don't think about that. Nod in agreement when future landlord mouths "First and last" in slow motion like you've been saving for this moment all year and absolutely make sure you give him the old flirty eyes as you hand over the most personal details of your life on 5 sheets of paper so he thinks you're def legit. Shake his hand. SHAKE HIS HAND KATIE! DAMNIT WOMAN! YOU DIDN'T SHAKE HIS HAND! Now he's definitely not going to rent to you. Another gun blast to the foot.
Tuesday I watched a woman seamlessly acquire the perfect apartment, my jaw wide open as she handed the real estate agent every possible fucking document ever fucking needed by anyone ever to guarantee perfection goddamnit, and I walked away, defeated. What is this city? What have I signed on for? What the fuck am I doing here? Do I need a lawyer?
"I'm going through changes" plays overhead as I write. Who knew second puberty could be more awkward than the first?
It's like my soul is finally developing pubes and a moustache for the first time, and the voice in my brain is cracking cuz it's not the voice I need anymore, youknowwhadddImeeeean? Change the tape, as my therapist says. Huh. That feels better.
Charles Bradley,
Katie
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