The reality of my much too high rent for my much too small basement suite constantly calls me towards someplace—anyplace—better, warmer and cheaper.
New career: mail order husband
By Matthew Fraser, Editor in Chief
Some mornings I wake up and I’m tempted to drop everything and just ride off into the distance. Well, maybe not into the distance; more like sell everything I own at bargain prices, stuff a bag full of clothes and my laptop and fly to somewhere tropical and live out my days.
Right over my desk, above my lamp and behind my monitor I have a world map. I might stare at it one day with maddening intensity, just wishing to teleport to somewhere on it. The little black letters taunt me with promises of places so nice and yet so far away. The map is close enough to touch but the reality is beyond my reach.
Ever since I realized that I’ll probably never be able to afford a house or even an apartment in Vancouver, this daydream has seemed all the more tempting. When I walk around my neighbourhood or the surrounding areas and see row after row of wallet-breaking housing, the urge to escape almost chokes me. The reality of my much too high rent for my much too small basement suite constantly calls me towards someplace—anyplace—better, warmer and cheaper. I’ll abandon the rain and the price in a heartbeat for this dream in a faraway land.
I can just imagine myself on a beach somewhere, or maybe in a rainforest. I could have a small garden where I grow yams, and a bunch of chickens I’d be nearly too sad to eat. Hopefully, this new country of my dreams would have a vibrant culture and tons of great food too.
I’d probably have to learn a new language and whatnot but that’s ok. Being bilingual is supposed to help prevent Alzheimer’s and dementia anyways.
I know that there are—or at least once were—mail-order brides, but has there ever been a mail-order husband? Is that a thing? Can I make it a thing? I dunno who the presumptuous wife would be paying but I’ll give my own hand to a tropical wedding for but a few shekels.
Ah well, I might just have to set my sights on marrying a rich divorcee who only wants me for my supple, young body. I’ll hang out at the right trendy bars and restaurants, go to a salsa class or something; basically, just get out of my shoebox house. Sugar babies are still a thing right? I think I’d make a halfway decent trophy husband. Maybe she’ll own a company and have to fly around the world for business trips; I’ll come sometimes and stay in bed the rest of the time. I’ll get out of the country more often that way I think, plus, money comes fast and loose when it’s someone else’s.
However, I might just have to make peace with a vacation or something like that. Maybe a weekend getaway to Tofino will do. Probably not, but I gotta be realistic. Money is a finite resource and time is running further and faster away from me than I care to admit.
