I’m still here. Still in
Ottawa, still away from
Toronto.
Venk is being
sued. Ten thousand dollars, they want, for the damages incurred in the fire last
May. Seven hundred a month. He doesn’t have the money to fight it, nor does he have
a legal leg to stand on, so he’s most likely going to have to pay up, or
declare bankruptcy.
For obvious reasons, he cannot put up a
Jairus at the moment. If and when I go, It’ll need to be with a few thousand banked first, so that me and
Jes (and
Charles, if he’s coming) can do for ourselves.
Fuck.
…
It’s not all that bad, though. I’ve got a few contacts here that might be able to get me a fairly decent job… Maybe something at
Nortel, or some such. In any case, money is good, and money is necessary. I can’t stay where I am very much longer… It’s making my
ego vanish.
Maybe get a one bedroom on a month-to-month basis, until I’ve managed to save up enough for a move to
TO. We shall see.
…
The
rave sucked ass. Big ass, too.
The only
Hell’s Angels sanctioned
dealer at the party was giving out bad
bad pills. To anyone and everyone. He was the only major dealer, too, so everyone who did any kind of drugs got bad ones.
There’s nothing quite like sitting down, and realizing there’s a grown man crying under your chair, or trying to go to the washroom and seeing a lineup of people who need to throw up.
The dance floor was just a big mess of
stumbling,
screaming,
crying, and
prostate costumed ravers. It was a bad,
bad scene.