Hold on, dear comrades, a much-needed break is near. Those lazy days in bed with nothing to do but consume hot chocolate and eggnog by the gallon while indulging in mind-numbing programming are almost here. December is looming large
I’m at a marvelous point in life where I am financially self-sufficient but still short of that next step—when one settles into a real job and can truly start making some decent bank.
Somewhat ironically, there is an occasion often lost in the hurried commercial changeover between Halloween and Christmas.
One of the first notable stories revolving around our Prime Minister Elect Justin Trudeau is about his new residence. Twenty-four Sussex Drive has been the home of Canada’s prime ministers since 1951, and Trudeau is now refusing to move in until proper renovations have been made.
People can be dirtbags. We’ve all had the jerk who cuts in line, takes up several seats on the bus, or thinks the entire sidewalk belongs to no one else.
I come from a family of avid readers. My father seemed to have a new novel on the go, whether it be complete garbage or a respected work, almost every day.
I wasn’t a big fan of Thanksgiving growing up. It was that holiday that wasn’t really a holiday. A day that all the adults made a great hubbub about, but one that a child has difficulty seeing the value of.
I often like to believe that karma is actually a thing. What goes around comes around. He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword. Pick your cliché.
Apartment hunting is awful—not that the sentiment is in any way shocking to anyone who has ever had to undergo the arduous process.