In which I owe Christian more money than he deserves...

Stupid pay-per-blog rule. I'm out $40 while I'm in fairly dire need of apartment-startup funds. My bad, I suppose.

Is there a full moon or some sort of vicious cosmic alignment underway? Seems like improbably vast numbers of my friends are going through trauma of one ugly sort or another right now. Pets are dying left and right, professional dreams are being dashed, and romantic disillusionment rears its foul head at nearly every turn. Too many people I know are having a really bad year so far, almost entirely in ways that I can do nothing about.

That said, this morning I went apartment-hunting, a none-too-meager feat given my 6AM bedtime last night and the accumulated toxins of Sanctuary. 2 hours of treading the West End did clear my foggy head, and I think I even found a decent 1-bedroom just off Davie Street for a mere $995 per month. It's nothing palatial like my last digs in Vancouver, but I've reluctantly accepted that those salad days are long gone, or at least on hiatus.

As for whether and for how long I want to stay in Vancouver... that's another matter entirely and fodder for another post. At the moment, I need sleep more than I need to pour my heart out. G'night.