You know, I was thinking. I've done a fair amount in my life. I'm not saying that I packed the days but I've done some stuff. I've overcome some obstacles. Ten years of steady employment.
Before that, I was unemployed, no benefit money, and living in a squat.
I was thinking about this because somebody on another forum was asking for help with finding work for her boyfriend. They're immigrants from Canada. The girl works but not the guy. He applied for benefits but was told that the girlfriend makes too much money. So she's worried and posting a message. She's desperate for help. Please help my boyfriend find a job or else we might have to move.
You don't have to move. You're making enough money for the two of you. And he can look for work anywhere in the whole of Scotland just from where he's at. Or just up and move. That's a perfectly valid option. The world is a magical place full of opportunities.
This guy is getting his dick sucked on the regular and his girlfriend is going around cyberspace saying, "Oh, we're poor immigrants down on our luck, please help us." Are you kidding me? That's the downtrodden immigrant hard luck story these days?
It's outragous. Who was sucking my dick in the squat? This shit pisses me off. You're not in a bad predicament. You're in a loving, stable environment, the two of you. One of you makes enough money to support the other. If you feel that moving is the best option for you, move. You have that luxury.
I didn't have the luxury. I was stuck in London. I had £0. You need money to move. I was trapped there for years. No internet. No computer. No girlfriend shaking her big titties in my face.
I remember speaking to a girl off of Tinder. Also Canadian. Also a downtrodden immigrant, at least according to the modern definition. Used to teach, didn't like the job, so quit. Now she has two jobs: working in Wembley Stadium as a food vendor and doing bicycle tours of London to French tourists. She was French-Canadian.
She was living in a flat. "How many flatmates?" I asked. "One".
One flatmate. She had two jobs and one flatmate. It was obviously enough to live quite well in London. But she was telling me how hard of a life she has.
"So you're just eating ramen and peanut butter sandwiches?" I asked. "No, no. I don't believe in that. I eat well."
I wasn't shy about expressing my view that she's not a downtrodden immigrant. She didn't like that. And she was a strong, independent woman so she didn't talk to me after that. I guess that she wasn't so hard up that she had to rely on a man to help her. She's probably long since gone back to Canada. Paid for the flight herself.
I lived on £55/week when I firt came to the UK. That includes rent of £45/week. That £10/week had to stretch. Food, transport, clothes. Well, I didn't buy clothes but I couldn't think of a third thing.
I ate nothing but peanut butter sandwiches. For years. That's what the harsh immigrant life is about. And I lived in over-crowded hovels. Nobody was offering to take me out on a date. Buy me dinner. Suck my dick. Show me her titties.
This is the real deal. Nobody gave a shit about me. Flatmates didn't care. Family didn't care. Job centre employees didn't care. That's what hard immigrant life is about.