So, I bought a condo. Ahem, a loft (but I pronounce it lauuuuft, in the way I bet Alexis Carrington would), a year and a half ago. Here's the thing about making major purchases roughly 547 days before you have to start paying for them: you never remember how much you paid, how much you owe, what those bloody maintenance fees are, and you're never prepared for what a kick in the balls it is when your debts catch up to you. I much prefer to rent. I just write one cheque per month that goes to some magical place inhabited by the elves and fairies who keep my apartment toasty warm and somewhat free of roaches. (There was a minor thing last year; it was my filthy neighbour's fault; I had him evicted.) Also, everyone was all, "oh, it'll be at least two years before it's ready," and "you'll be lucky if you ever move in," and "don't worry about the money." (That last one was courtesy of my parents who pronounce 'money' like normals would 'Ikea monkey' or 'Rob Ford.' I don't know where they thought I'd magically come up with this money since I haven't earned a steady paycheque in over six years. But, you know, semantics.)
The move-in date is really near. Like, really near. Like, I have to start getting boxes and stuff, and packing and stuff, and writing cheques neither my ass nor my bank account can cash. It's moderately scary. All I can say about Christmas this year is SHAMPOO SAMPLES FOR EVERYBODY! Hell, I'll see if the bank will accept high-end beauty products as payment. Bring back the barter system, I say.
I've got a new couch lined up, and I bought a fancy vacuum cleaner. But that's about it for furniture. So, if more than three of you come to visit, rest assured the hardwood (ok, it's laminate, but it's good laminate) you're sitting on is devoid of dog hair because DYSON.
Wish me luck, guys. I've never been good with this 'adulthood' thing, or that whole 'earning money' schtick. But please come visit. And when you do, bring leftovers.