Well now seems as good a time as any to do a little Toronto update.
Despite having only been here for three days, the city is really starting to feel like home. Exhibit A: I've already lost my wallet on public transit and recovered it within 2 hours. Exhibit: I've already tripped over gravity. Not fallen down, but lunged just so as to jar my back enough to remain in child's pose in the YMCA quiet stretching room for a good 56 minutes.
I've already seen two apartments. Well, the first one was technically rented by the time I TTC'ed my ass down there, so technically only one. Shaddup. In the end, I think it was all for the best as my immaculately ruined collection for discounted designer clothes didn't really match the melted lime Popsicle and immigrant families congregating around the front entrance. The second place was better. Obviously. It was on a lovely side street in the village (yes, I'm trying to rediscover my love for teh ghey) and was only half the size and $250 more in rent than my current place. Not bad! Not great either, though. At least the current tenant who showed me the place was cute and also a GLBTTQIX;3& community member. We even had a bonding moment over our shared purchase of a Superstore 'Japanese' screen. Not enough of a bonding moment for afternoon delight, but I would guess that sweet lovin' would have gone down had the next other potential tenant not shown up and had I not grown gills from the copious amounts of sweat dripping down my pits from all that lovely Toronto humidity. Damn other potential tenant...
Job-hunting (the dowdy, not nearly as fun cousin of apartment-hunting) has also commenced with resume polishing and cover letter compositions a-go-go. I've found some meh-looking jobs to investigate and hope to secure something for mid-August as quickly as possible. There's just so much welder/linecook/surrogate cow impregnation work out there for which I am waaaay too overqualified. There are also, apparently, several positions which I am not qualified. Evidently, Bay Street is not ready for sound financial advice from a 25 year old music graduate. I'm-a call antisemetic, homophobic gimp-hating shenanigans on this one.
More later. Passing out in a pool of my own sweat now.