Girl, You'll Be a Hobo Soon

I've been looking for somewhere else to live recently, seeing as my flat's about to be sold, and all. I've got six months at the outside, then I'm out on my ear. Bloody brilliant. It's difficult to find a good apartment downtown, see. The decent places all cost a fortune, and the rubbish ones cost the same. To make matters worse, whenever somewhere good does open up, they get lots of applicants all trying for it. Although my current landlord can vouch for my reliability, as far as paying the rent goes, my precarious financial situation's a hell of a black mark against me. The fact that I'm rarely in good enough health to show up for an interview with the landlord is another. Add Stella, and you've got a recipe for disaster.

In spite of all that, however, I found somewhere perfect, a larger flat than the one I'm in now, and for two hundred dollars less per month. It's on Beach Avenue, overlooking False Creek. It has a lovely, airy balcony, and tall picture windows in every room. There's a convenience store and a mailbox right across the street, and a sandy beach two hundred yards away. It's wonderful. It's ideal. And, starting this month, no new leases are being given to people with pets. Had I moved this month, Stella and I would've been in, no problem. Next month, no way. Unbelievable. In most buildings, Stella wouldn't even count as a pet. The one I'm in now, for instance, doesn't allow cats, dogs, or birds, but a rat in a cage is all right. I should've "forgotten" to mention her till the lease was signed! "Oops! Really? Oh, but it's just a little rat. It'll be no bother, I promise."

Alas, alas! Why must these things always happen to me? It's not so bad when the way's rocky from the start, and I know it's going to be an uphill battle. This time, I was sure I'd get a new apartment without too much trouble, so the disappointment is ten times worse. I'm worried, as well. It's been years since I've hunted for accommodations on my own. Mother found this place, of course, since I was still in Sweden at the time. And when I moved there, my ex took care of all that sort of thing. Before that, I'd been living in the same place for ages, on the ninth floor of this very building.

My best chance now, I think, would be to find yet another flat in this complex. Moving up or down a few floors might be quite easily done. I probably wouldn't even have to hire any movers, if I had a couple of days to drag everything over. Meeting the landlord would be easy enough, too, since I'd only have to ride up in the elevator.

Of course, all the apartments here are at least a thousand dollars per month. I'd been hoping to take a bite out of my rent, since I'm being turfed anyhow. I could probably find a studio flat somewhere for about the same price as the one-bedroom I'd wanted on Beach Avenue, but then I'd have nowhere to store things. Plus, the whole landlord-interview problem would rear its ugly head again.

Oh, pish. I don't know what to do. I was supposed to have this place for two years, dammit, and it'll just have been one tomorrow. The timing couldn't possibly be worse. Moving is expensive, and I'm in the worst financial shape I've been in since I got here. I've got loads of work to do, as well. Looking for flats is a waste of time. The whole moving process is a waste of time. Can't they see I haven't got any time?

My mother, she always gets on the phone and harangues me for, you know, not saving for a rainy day. Thing is, though, I did. I bought about a hundred cans of soup when I first got here, and I started an RRSP, and I put twenty-five dollars a week in my ordinary savings account, to boot. The sun shone for a while, and I added noodles and rice to my hoard. I watched the interest mount up on my savings. I was prepared when the clouds blew in, and one rainy day followed the next. I ate up the soup, and the noodles and the rice after that. For dessert, I swallowed my savings account. The RRSP was next, and now there's nothing. Nothing, that is, but a thunderstorm: I've got to move.

The only difference between me and a hobo, or so I'm told, is that I have a home--except I don't, really, since my lease has just been broken, and I'm being squeezed out. I don't want to be a hobo. All I can tell myself, I suppose, is that I've been worrying about money all year, but I've always found a way. I'll figure out something this time, as well. If I don't, I'll be a bum, and we can't have that, now, can we?

Bugger. I'm too tired to think. I've got nothing; my mind is a complete blank. On the plus side, that means I might just be able to catch some zeds soon.