Tag Archives: unemployment

How to get kicked off a couch

Be me, today.

Okay, that was bad.

I’ve been staying on my friend’s couch these days, and I told her from day one that whenever she wanted me out, I’d be out immediately.

I thought I was going to be here for a week, but her and her roommates were generous enough to let me stay for two months. She told me today that she talked to her roommates and was wondering if I could find another couch. It’s finally time to go.

I get it. Even though I don’t have much stuff with me and am here only half the time, having someone living in your communal area gets old after a while. If I were the one offering space, I wouldn’t care so much about the zero rent aspect of it, but having someone sprawled on my couch when I want to watch a movie would bum me out. So much.

I get it, but why do I still feel hurt? They have all been so nice to me, and I never expected to stay here forever, and I also told her at the beginning that I wanted somewhere to stay “until she kicked me out.” So I knew this was coming. I did this to myself, actually.

I guess I overestimated the thickness of my skin. It’ll pass. I need my own place.

I found a place on Craigslist that I can sublet for $300, which is an amazing price for downtown Toronto, but amazingly still over-budget for me. I’ll have to make it work. Hopefully I hear back from this one!

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Mid-winter unemployed person rant

I haven’t found a voice for this blog so I never know what to write, despite having lots to say. My sister can tell you. She’s my only friend right now, and so she hears a proportionate amount of my mind vomit, which would be all of it.

Maybe I just don’t like my voice, and so I don’t write. Or make friends. Or wash my hair every week.

Anyway, essentially, this is the news: I arrived in Toronto on the 19th of January, and my friend has been letting me sleep on her couch ever since (thank God). She lives downtown, so I’ve been spending a lot of my time walking around, handing out resumes. No bites, except for a couple corporate (blegh) interviews (you know that means they went really well), and today: I scored an uber part-time job. I should be happy, but should I really? With an earning potential of $330 a month after taxes?

I’m also soul-searching, as always. I tell myself that this is an admirable thing to be doing and that I’m one of the few who are “awake” and that is basically the only thing that gets me through the day. If I’m wrong about any of this, shhhh.

I did realize that I really have to focus my energy on what I want, if I ever want to get it. I’ve been paying attention to my jealousy, because it’s supposed to tell you important things about yourself. The problem is that I’m jealous of pretty much everyone.

I’m jealous of musicians, actors, novelists, comedy writers, stand-up comedians, improvisers, life coaches, entrepreneurs, and anyone at all who has their life together, which is confusing because then I’m tricked into thinking I want to be things like doctors and nurses.

… would that be so bad?

Anyway, I think I’ve narrowed down my field of career interests to things that are creative. I want a creative career, and I haven’t, up until now, been able to admit that to myself.

I want to sing. I want to play piano.

I want to write books, TV shows, films.

I want to make movies.

I want to paint or draw or something.

I want to be on stage. Doing what? Beats me. (Oooor maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I want to do comedy and improv, but to say that’s what I want is so scary because I’m so bad at it.)

When I get confused and overwhelmed by everything I want to do, I try to clear the table by asking myself what my passion is, and what I spend my time doing anyway.

Well, here’s the thing: I don’t have a passion. Okay, I’m sure I do, but I can’t answer this question as easily as it’s meant to be answered. I haven’t had an obsession with singing or acting or whatever since I was a toddler. I’ve come to have serious beef with people in interviews who say “Well, I’ve always been a ___. I couldn’t have imagined doing anything else. People always told me I would be doing ___. I love my life. I have been chosen.”

What did I do? I dabbled. A lot. And I was good at some things. But I wouldn’t say that dabbling itself is a passion of mine, because I’m extremely frustrated at my lack of skill at anything.

And what I spend my time doing isn’t a good indication of what I should be doing, because I hate that I spend all my time on the computer or on Facebook or wondering what I would love to be doing.

When I finally do carve out time to practise the things I think will make me happy, I get super anxious, especially when I sit down to write fiction. So much crap comes out, which is actually probably my 14-year-old self’s backlogged ideas rearing their crappy little heads.

Okay, so I know this is all common for people my age. While it can be soothing to hear that sometimes, it just mostly doesn’t help at all.

I also know that passion comes from passion, so it’s my job to make passion with what I have, not to find it in something external. But I alsoalso know that as a human being, I’m entitled to a couple crybaby moments in the face of something difficult I have to do.

Anyway. Progress? Maybe.

I still get tricked into thinking I want to be a real estate agent when I see one in a suit, buying a round of drinks for his friends, though.

So really, I don’t know what I’m doing.

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