Moving on.

So, the upcoming weekend has the distinction of being the occassion of my fifth move in six years. Now, that moving sucks goes without saying, but I'm a little extra nervous about this one for a couple of reasons other than the usual stresses and pains-in-the-ass that come with the territory. First off, this move marks my first foray across the river, which is a pretty radical departure. I've been a downtown denizen for nigh on a decade, so I'm generally apprehensive about the change of scenery. This is amplified by the fact that I'm leaving downtown's empty, garbage strewn streets for the comparative hustle and bustle of the south side. Now to some, that would seem like an upgrade, but not to me. See, I generally hate people, so the more people I have to deal with, the unhappier I am.

To compound the issue, the neighbourhood I'm moving to is frequented primarily by the kind of people I hate the most: namely LuluLemon-clad, giant baby stroller pushing yuppy breeder fucks during the day and, by night, drunken, obnoxious ballcap wearing suburban douchebag meatheads and their Playboy Bunny tramp-stamped paramours. This rabble is especially in evidence come summertime, when the hormones fill the air like mosquitos, the wife-beaters and flip-flops come out and winter belly rolls are released from their down-filled restraints and seared into the retinas of unwitting and unwilling passersby. In other words, I’m moving into the heart of asshole country right at the start of asshole season. Fuck. (Compounding the usual assholishness will be the NHL playoffs, which means any Oiler victory will be followed by a veritable hoedown of hooting, hollering, honking hillbillies, accompanied by the omnipresent hovering of the police helicopter. Fortunately, the Oilers are playing Detroit which means the window of opportunity for victory celebrations should close in, oh, about a week.)

Of course, my favorite pub in the world is now less than a block away, as are a plethora of record shops, cafes, bakeries and other amenities that downtown lacks, which is really what was behind the decision to cross the river in the first place. Nonetheless, it’ll take a lot of weed to get me through the weekends, since I’m fairly certain that the condo board (which doesn’t even approve of barbeques on the balcony) will most definitely frown on the hurling of Molotov cocktails onto the street below. Bummer.