Got a haircut, still don't got a real job

These days of unemployment are spent how they should be: on patios and dancing at bars, drinking homemade sangria with friends on the balcony, taking long walks through parks and city streets, buying bikes in Kensington, sleeping in way too late, eating out once a day, spending money I don't have and reading through entire novels in one sitting.

The only punctuation is the job interviews. Today, I went in for a second interview at another non-profit organization and spotted the notes from our previous meeting on the table. "Outgoing" was written in bold letters next to my name.

When I went with London to help Alex pick up furniture, early in the day he insisted that I take a picture of this sign (as he often does on our travels--forget pictures of the scenery or of us together--he's all about the signage) in our rented U-Haul. He thought it was hilarious. How could anyone be so stupid as to drive into any of those things?

Oops. (Alex says he functioned fine before he met me. That may be true, but it's times like this that I think he really needs me.)

I wore pink to the McClung's launch party. What can I say? I'm a bad feminist.

Oh, and we also had a dance party that was difficult to rival. Bad, bad feminists.

And the night the TTC strike started, I went to Circa for the first time. It was okay.

Natty and I have been revelling in post-school stress in the same fashion. The only difference is she gets paid.

These days, I'm started to get bored. The weather got chilly again, dancing Jesus is gone and I finished reading Into the Wild. These days, I'm wishing that I was in Iceland. Or employed. I'll take either one.