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greener grass 2014-11-12 -- 10:43 a.m. Now is the time. The time to write and reflect and work it out. When you're in the shit, that's the time to write. I haven't written in so long, as if it was some juvenile exercise in futility. But here I am, and it's the only thing I can think to do. How much more should I subject myself to this fate of uncertainty, this rigamarole of money/no money. I complain a lot, but if I didn't have someone feeding my money every once in a while at times in my life, where would I be now? Maybe my dad was right, I should have been a banker. A banker with a house in Etobicoke or Scarborough, a backyard with a wood fence and a giant TV. What's happening to me? Have a house and two kids used to be the most boring aspiration ever and now it's a status symbol. A luxury. We're all just waiting around for something to change, to happen. It's like 2008 was our Armageddon and now we're in this dystopian version of events. It just keeps getting worse. But that's no way to think of things. It's Toronto that inspires that kind of mindset, I think. The brutalist architecture bearing down on me and the way everything is so ugly. The limited opportunities. Or am I romanticising London? Probably. But goddamn I can't remember liking it here.
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