GTA Week 5: The Cosine Phenomenon and My Caffeine Rambles

Toronto in the summertime is an eclectic yet distasteful mix of Urban Outfitters model wannabes and so-called “ratchet” culture. If you’re not walking around in flowy linen pants, wedge sandals, and crochet crop tops (without a bra, no judgement, it’s a lot comfier) then it’s daisy dukes, spartans, and ill fitting belly shirts.  Naturally, with it come popping up the official notices on my facebook newsfeed that No, apparently I’m not allowed to make fun of you when it’s 30 degrees out for your poor fashion choices and the decision to walk around with your pants undone and pulled down over your underwear so you can show off your sparkly new belly button piercing.

No, of course I’m not joking.

Fashion faux-pas aside, life in the 6ix is an interesting series of ups and downs, where life starts off on a high…and then steadily plummets downward, only to get better again, and then get worse and so on and so forth.

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On the bright side, I can always use more pie in my life yuk yuk yuk!

For example, last week was Victoria Day weekend which meant HALLELUJAH I DON’T HAVE CLASS ON MONDAY.

What that also meant was SHIT I MISS AN ENTIRE LECTURE BEFORE OUR FIRST TEST NEXT WEEK.

In the meantime, however, it also meant FUCK YEAH LONG WEEKEND.

While in reality that meant GODDAMNIT I’M WORKING 30+ HOURS OVER THE LONG WEEKEND AND HAVING TO DEAL WITH LOTS AND LOTS OF TOURISTS.

But finally that also meant YAY MY FRIEND CAME TO VISIT.

And of course when she left there was a lot of I’M SO SAD AND LONELY WHY DON’T PEOPLE LOOOOOVEEEE MEEEEEEEE.

In hindsight I realized that I was pms’ing really hard that week. I’m also surprised that I don’t have whiplash yet.

On an unrelated note, here are some pictures from baking school (I mean, that’s why I’m here, aren’t I?)

As you can see, I am now a professional-grade baker.

Who am I kidding, it’s been three weeks since class started and my hand is cramping from the hours of piping practice they force us to do during downtime. Never again I say! Also I’m fairly certain I’ve developed a permanent twitch in my right eye from all the coffee I’ve been drinking to wake up in the morning. #caffeineaddict

But since I’ve now been here a month, it’s time to move on with my life. And I mean that quite literally, I’ve been apartment hunting for two weeks and had a few interesting experiences.

The first place I visited, a basement apartment in the Kensington Market, looked promising. Three bedrooms, short walk to Chinatown, UofT, heart of downtown, sounded pretty good!

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And it even looked pretty good!

What I learned here is that looks can be deceiving and that I don’t want an overweight, pot-smoking, face-piercing basement dweller as my roommate, nor do I want to live in an unfurnished basement with a very small window and an odor suspiciously reminiscent of previously smoked week that has been left to rot.

Lesson learned: if the description doesn’t say “fully furnished”, you will need your own furniture.

The next place I looked was fucking fantastic but I was only able to move in at the beginning of July. Mildly problematic since I would have to vacate my current apartment as of June 4th. So back to Craigslist I went, frantically searching for a place just for the month of June.

What I learned there is that people are selfish bastards. They think that because you just need the place for a month you are probably desperate (check!) and therefore are willing to pay any sum (check!) because you’re probably searching for a place at the last minute (check!) since you don’t know how to manage your time (check! check!) and have just a few days to move (not really but in the spirit of things, CHECK!). A shitty room that would normally go for 600 would be 850, a beautiful room would go for 1200. There would be no haggling or bartering bags of wheat and goats for cheaper rent. TORONTO DOES NOT CARE FOR YOUR STRUGGLE, MORTALS.

I may have been desperate, but I wasn’t THAT desperate. So I persevered, found a couple places, met with an investigative journalist who liked to have different people stay with him each month. Was less than impressed with the apartment and, when asked to sit down for a chat, felt condescension. Something that I’ve been experiencing more and more lately from men not so much older than I…

(BEING CONDESCENDING MAKES YOU LIKE LADY CATHERINE DEBURGH. DO NOT BE HERE. SHE IS A PHONY. HAD SHE LEARNED TO PLAY THE PIANOFORTE SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN PROFICIENT BUT DID SHE TAKE THE TIME TO LEARN? NOPE.)

Luckily for me, the couple that owned the house I would be moving into were not only extremely lovely,  but also cared about the well-being of their tenants. And after the hazardous-to-my-health-basement in the Kensington Market, a brightly lit, fully furnished, renovated, three story house in the Annex was some bloody good luck.

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