And to top it all off, I'm getting sick.

So, I've managed to whittle my hours down to less than 50 per week.
Wait. Have I even mentioned that I'm working yet?
With the advent (and donation) of a 1994 Ford Ranger, I literally "ranged" (haha) my way to Camrose, where I spent 14 hours a day wrapping funriture (rather than plain "furniture"), moved matresses (using strength, rather than fecund momentum) and watched as the unwashed, uneducated, uninteresting Camrosian masses waggled, waddled, and belched through the doors of Furniture Furniture Furniture, buying drunk what they'd probably buy sober.
That was probably the highlight of my week in sub-hickdom: the guy who came in shitfaced in a taxi, bought $700 worth of junk stereo equipment and entertainment unit, and then haggled stinkily with the salesman to take eight dollars off the price. He was our best pal, he declared, reminding us that the store was just about empty (which was quite a surprise to all the other customers there), and that we'd have nothing to do (other than pick up the stuff he'd tipped over) if he left. I've got to hand it to the salesman who sold the crap to this guy, though... he put up with more than I would have. I suggested calling the police, but since three of the other employees had gone to school with the guy, they suggested I go arrest some of my own friends.
Anyway, I'm back in the City of Oil now, working at a different furniture store for far too much money (it'd be a $9/h job in Halifax--here it tops out at $22.50 during stat holidays), avoiding social interaction (I'm too tired and sore to be interesting) and waiting ---so desperately waiting--- for that first paycheque to come in. News came in that my rent cheque had bounced, my phone is going to be shut off, and Employment Insurance, my sweet summer lover, was calling for her alimony payments from our harsh breakup in December. Luckily, I've skipped town.
Also on my plate is a somewhat intriguing but not particularly attractive second interview with the Vulcan Advocate. Vulcan, for those of you unfamiliar with Star Trek, has nothing to do with Star Trek. Rather, it's about 3/8ths of a town somewhere south of Lethbridge. The position pays $4000 more than the poverty-level wage per year, requires me to run two newspapers, and offers up to two weekends per month off. Those would be the weekends where I'm not writing 15 stories per week.
Ah. And I'm getting a cold. There are so many kids here, and so many dusty, dirty pieces of furniture, and so many dumb, slow-working teenagers, that I'm constantly exposed to a barrage of filth and biota. Add to that the fact that there's nothing green in my parents' fridge that is still safe to eat, and you've got a recipe for chronic fatigue. Or scurvy. It would help if they ran their pantry the way I run my pantry-- only buy the bare minimum so that you can afford to pay rent. No meat. No starch. No processed foods. Unfortunately, that's most of what they buy. For example, on the menu tonight was leftovers, something greenishly leftover, and macaroni and hotdogs. Don't get me wrong, I ate it all, but I don't think it's going to treat me right.
Wah wah. Free food. I know. I shouldn't complain. But it's fun.
I've called Halifax quite a few times in the last few days. I really miss it. Everyone is having more fun than me. Last week they played "drunken asshole bowling." Basically, this entailed all bowling in the same lane at the same time, and seeing who could get kicked out the fastest. Good-old easy-going Oceantown mentality won that battle--nobody cared. They played, they drank, they took a cab home. What was I doing at the time? I have no idea, but it involved a mattress. I was either carrying it or sleeping on it, because that's all I'll be doing for the next month.