So let me guess, you're one of two-thousand people over the age of forty from eastern Canada who's currently residing in my home town to chase after the big wages offered by area oil-patch conglomerates during a temporary, but acute labour shortage. A shortage that's currently being addressed by fast-tracking foreigners willing to do exactly the same things you do, but for half the money. Day after day, you trudge through cold muck, schlep greasy equipment around, drool over the pinup girl in the filthy lunch room, complain that $1000 / month is too much for a room in a bungalow, and wonder if your back will hold-up long enough to rake your way out of the consumer debt trap you volunteered for back when you were young, dumb, and full of cum. Twice divorced, your $32 / hour barely covers the alimony payments toward the seven children you never see, and whatever you don't spend on rent goes into pints of beer and casino gaming sessions?
Upon making a new acquaintance, the introductory conversation at the pub will generally unfold somewhat as follows:
Plaid Jacket
So, what do you do?
Me
You might as well ask what don't I do.
Plaid Jacket
Oh... so you're a jack of all trades then?
Me
Nope. I'm an unsolicited freelance writer with zero prospects.
Plaid Jacket
How do you live?
Me
Quite well, thanks. Yourself?
Plaid Jacket
I'm a ticketed journeyman ___________ working for _________ right now. Where do you live?
Me
Here in town.
Plaid Jacket
How much rent do you pay?
Me
I don't rent.
Plaid Jacket
Oh... you're from here then?
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