I hate it here

At the beginning of the year, things seemed full of promise. I was starting my dream career as an editor for a company in Grande Prairie. I had moved into a great apartment that was much bigger than I had expected and it looked like I was going to have a relationship with Heather, who really helped me go through some tough shit during the holidays.

Fast forward three months later. Because of the cuts with the CTF and a year long delay for the project that I was hired to do, I lost my potentially break through job. Three weeks after I moved here, after intense communication, Heather decides to hook up with someone else. To top it all off, turns out the apartment that I was renting had mould in it and I had to suffer through months of loud construction and de-carpeting as well as hearing domestic abuse next door. So, faced with living there, and getting a shit job in hopes that I’ll eventually get work in the future (which isn’t looking great as the CTF cuts have affected Canada’s biggest shows like This Hour Has 22 Minutes and Air Farce), I’ve moved back home.

I hate Fort St. John. In elementary school a friend called Joe Brooks remarked that it’s a black hole and no one can escape it. It’s true, sadly. Whenever the shit hits the fan in my life, I return and lick my wounds. The smells, the sites, the people all remind of me defeat, that I’ve fucked up again. I hate it here. Last time I came here I had something to look forward to in the summer, Pearl, but now there’s nothing for me to look forward to, besides going to a college in a city infested by red neck fuckheads. I can’t wait until I get buried in my work again. At least then, I don’t have to think about that shit.

Ah well. I guess that I can think of it as a forest after a forest fire. Trees grow again, among the ashes. Hopefully, in the end, it’ll turn out for the best. Here’s hoping.