There's a somewhat marked difference between living on your own and living on your own, and it's really best differentiated by whether your parents are willing/capable to float you through University (and beyond if you're one of those) or not. I moved out west at the literal drop of a hat - without preamble or foresight, based entirely on the overpowering volition to get away and see something else than the bloody stagnant Ottawa valley. I had about 2, 000$ in my pocket, hadn't paid tuition beforehand and went to University as broke as can be expected from someone with the poor decision-making skills I seem to revel in. I worked three jobs, snuck onto Lethbridge's mediocre bus transportation system (or indeed, found marvelously brilliant ways in which to spend little-to-no money without ever shucking out the 600$ for a school-term bus pass - like dumping unfathomable amounts of change which in fact only amounted to like 65c), drank Black Label or the local college drinkery's patent-blended swill, knew every drink special of every day of the week, and hadn't even started smoking yet.
I can't help but look back on those halcyon days with a kind of gleeful enthusiasm, despite the gross financial miscalculations I made, and even though I am much less comfortable now it was probably still worth it, well, in the Jungian sense I guess. Actually, Carl Jung would probably fork the evil I at me from across the street in those days (I really just wanted to use the word Jungian, fuck it, nobody reads this). Well, fuck him, too. In order to finance (ha, finance) my way through post-secondary I took out a $10, 000 bank loan (a student loan) - OSAP was and is too inept and bloated a financial aid institution for me to rely on, since I had no money to speak of and needed rent money pronto). And well, this "get out of jail free" card sank me through enormous binges, fraternal initiatory ceremonies, groceries, and occasionally books. I ashamedly will admit I borrowed from my parents back then, but dammit, I was the only child gone away for an education and the next-up was wholly devoted to work-place alcoholism with the military on a full-time basis in Ottawa. Of course, in January I'd bled that vein dry, and had to take out another one. And then another.
I was never raised in a rich family, or even a comfortable one in that sense - the phantasms of debt, bankruptcy, and poverty stormed above our kitchen table like Mordorian thunderheads - putting my parents at ferocious odds with each other - especially on budget night, a word that became synonymous with divorce and foster-home on Webster's dictionary of "words kids hate overhearing". And yet, the littler things - like watching The Simpsons in its earliest inception on a 13-channel (and I mean 13 buttons people) television the width of my laptop computer screen, the Nintendo my aunt and uncle gave us, and the once-in-a-blue-moon trip to Macdonald's - seem brighter in colour by suns than the worst of times. I can't say I've ever been materialistic and probably never will be, I don't need a new car or tv or, well, really anything except books and something to write with to live in contentment. When I was formerly moving to Newfoundland I was overjoyed at the prospect of saving up enough money to make a down payment on a brightly-purple coloured shanty stacked on top of itself like a closet with four-walls and raising a kid in a cramped and cozy little swamp.
Still, $30, 000 of student debt for two years worth of university is awe-striking and imposing spectre to banish. It's also a fuck up. Had I properly saved money (or read The Wealthy Barber before I was chewing on my fucking belt) during my year-plus of work-up training I could've banished the shit out of it and then had my tour-money to play around with as I pleased.
Today I was about to leave buy myself lunch for the first time in two months, found out Insuralife had stricken $26 from my bank account, putting me into overdraft again. So in a half hour I'll be enjoying two unseasoned, expired chicken patties I'd forgotten about long-since in their corner of my minuscule freezer instead of a Reuben at the Arrow & Loon, which is my defacto pub due to its silly walking distance from my front door. Last night I managed to whip up canned beans and corn with steak spice. Things are somewhat.. different these days, and the options are scarcer. When I moved in to my little hovel in the Ottawa Glebe I had the foresight to do a disaster-grocery - we're talking underground bomb-shelter type food-stuffs and now I'm watching my supply of canned foods dwindle. I managed to cover last rent, and have since been ignoring the ringing of my phone and waiting for any income that can get me some bread.
Now granted, there are people who're far worst off than I am and have burned far more bridges, but this is a bitter spoonful and a bit of a learning experience which is why I'm ranting about it now. The worst I'd been off was a week in University where all I could afford to do was pushups and visit the food bank. The difference now is the horizon is much farther off these days, and other questions - like what I'm going to have to do to set myself back on track - are echoing a little louder. Me and my second-youngest brother (who's as bad at making decisions as yours truly) weren't doing much but smoking when we had 'em and waiting out the storm. I'll remember distinctly being stranded in Nepean with nothing after a job interview with Iron Horse security, where we had to sneak onto the 95 without being challenged lest we walk back my house near Lansdown at night through Ottawa's spectacularly shrieking winter. There's a point where your friends ask you to come out to the bar, try and guilt you even, and the anger sets in - because they don't seem to understand what you mean when you say I'm broke, the $20 they offer you for Jaegerbombs would be better spent on groceries, and there's something frightening about being that broke and hung-over.
Money's a god damned bitch. I'm at a point, post-Afghanistan, where I have no fucking idea what I want to do in life - and the only thing that feels right is going back to University. Crossing my fingers I'll be able to afford it.
I can't help but look back on those halcyon days with a kind of gleeful enthusiasm, despite the gross financial miscalculations I made, and even though I am much less comfortable now it was probably still worth it, well, in the Jungian sense I guess. Actually, Carl Jung would probably fork the evil I at me from across the street in those days (I really just wanted to use the word Jungian, fuck it, nobody reads this). Well, fuck him, too. In order to finance (ha, finance) my way through post-secondary I took out a $10, 000 bank loan (a student loan) - OSAP was and is too inept and bloated a financial aid institution for me to rely on, since I had no money to speak of and needed rent money pronto). And well, this "get out of jail free" card sank me through enormous binges, fraternal initiatory ceremonies, groceries, and occasionally books. I ashamedly will admit I borrowed from my parents back then, but dammit, I was the only child gone away for an education and the next-up was wholly devoted to work-place alcoholism with the military on a full-time basis in Ottawa. Of course, in January I'd bled that vein dry, and had to take out another one. And then another.
I was never raised in a rich family, or even a comfortable one in that sense - the phantasms of debt, bankruptcy, and poverty stormed above our kitchen table like Mordorian thunderheads - putting my parents at ferocious odds with each other - especially on budget night, a word that became synonymous with divorce and foster-home on Webster's dictionary of "words kids hate overhearing". And yet, the littler things - like watching The Simpsons in its earliest inception on a 13-channel (and I mean 13 buttons people) television the width of my laptop computer screen, the Nintendo my aunt and uncle gave us, and the once-in-a-blue-moon trip to Macdonald's - seem brighter in colour by suns than the worst of times. I can't say I've ever been materialistic and probably never will be, I don't need a new car or tv or, well, really anything except books and something to write with to live in contentment. When I was formerly moving to Newfoundland I was overjoyed at the prospect of saving up enough money to make a down payment on a brightly-purple coloured shanty stacked on top of itself like a closet with four-walls and raising a kid in a cramped and cozy little swamp.
Still, $30, 000 of student debt for two years worth of university is awe-striking and imposing spectre to banish. It's also a fuck up. Had I properly saved money (or read The Wealthy Barber before I was chewing on my fucking belt) during my year-plus of work-up training I could've banished the shit out of it and then had my tour-money to play around with as I pleased.
Today I was about to leave buy myself lunch for the first time in two months, found out Insuralife had stricken $26 from my bank account, putting me into overdraft again. So in a half hour I'll be enjoying two unseasoned, expired chicken patties I'd forgotten about long-since in their corner of my minuscule freezer instead of a Reuben at the Arrow & Loon, which is my defacto pub due to its silly walking distance from my front door. Last night I managed to whip up canned beans and corn with steak spice. Things are somewhat.. different these days, and the options are scarcer. When I moved in to my little hovel in the Ottawa Glebe I had the foresight to do a disaster-grocery - we're talking underground bomb-shelter type food-stuffs and now I'm watching my supply of canned foods dwindle. I managed to cover last rent, and have since been ignoring the ringing of my phone and waiting for any income that can get me some bread.
Now granted, there are people who're far worst off than I am and have burned far more bridges, but this is a bitter spoonful and a bit of a learning experience which is why I'm ranting about it now. The worst I'd been off was a week in University where all I could afford to do was pushups and visit the food bank. The difference now is the horizon is much farther off these days, and other questions - like what I'm going to have to do to set myself back on track - are echoing a little louder. Me and my second-youngest brother (who's as bad at making decisions as yours truly) weren't doing much but smoking when we had 'em and waiting out the storm. I'll remember distinctly being stranded in Nepean with nothing after a job interview with Iron Horse security, where we had to sneak onto the 95 without being challenged lest we walk back my house near Lansdown at night through Ottawa's spectacularly shrieking winter. There's a point where your friends ask you to come out to the bar, try and guilt you even, and the anger sets in - because they don't seem to understand what you mean when you say I'm broke, the $20 they offer you for Jaegerbombs would be better spent on groceries, and there's something frightening about being that broke and hung-over.
Money's a god damned bitch. I'm at a point, post-Afghanistan, where I have no fucking idea what I want to do in life - and the only thing that feels right is going back to University. Crossing my fingers I'll be able to afford it.
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