Thoughts at 4AM

Love makes me shudder with unabashed emotion.

Trembling at the amount of control it has over me.

I am powerless to it.

“Why are you crying?”

“Because I’ve had a moment of mental clarity.”

I cry when I’m frustrated,

when I’m shocked,

when I’m happy.

I’ve never cried eureka before.

Sick Sad Love

As we embraced,

You put your hands on my waist,

And I felt myself sink into you.

 

My body responds to your touch –

striving for that electric pull,

Spark extinguished.

 

Floundering under the weight of memory –

rose coloured and golden,

I want it to be pure.

 

We are submerged in comfort and nostalgia,

Thrashing against chains that bind us,

Enslaved by this false Love.

 

You press your mouth to mine,

Sharing in the same substance that keeps us alive,

Can you tell my tears from ocean water?

 

The pressure builds,

My mind cloudy with blood and water,

And you like that it’s slowly killing us.

Being a pretty girl sucks

My friend told me I could write a book of my life. I don’t know if that book would be very interesting, but a post on a website may be.

Here’s a taste of the year so far: the company my parents worked for went bankrupt in December and my mother was forced out of a job she had been working 25 years a month later. My father is still working for the company, but as a day-to-day thing, and there’s no stability there. Thus my mom was forced to find a job in order to keep the household going by mid February. Sounds like an unfortunate scenario, right? Well, it gets worse. The company they worked for was founded by my grandfather – on my mother’s side – and it was brought to our attention that my mother was getting paid significantly less than her male siblings in the business and other employees who worked below her. Obviously, as a family business, you would expect her to be treated differently. Wrong. Nepotism apparently doesn’t float with my grandfather… Or it does, so long as the relative is male. I mean, most grandparents are sexist, right? They were brought up in a different time, yada yada. But for it to be so blatant in my mother’s pay grade was ridiculous. On top of the fact that other men in the company, who worked under her, were still paid more – it broke my mother’s heart. You have to understand, she does everything for her parents. But maybe, as the only female and the youngest of three, her sex determines their expectations and requirements. I know my mom secretly knew for many years that this was going on, but I think she wanted to believe that her father had her best interests at hand and was actively trying to help her, not hinder her. Obviously, this created even more bad blood on that side of the family, which I didn’t think possible.

But yes, to be working over 40 hours a week at an unpaid internship while freeloading at her parents’ home – makes a girl feel real guilty. Granted, I contributed what I could, yet with an hour’s commute to and from work throughout the week, I was limited to working just on weekends. Now, the crisis has subsided and my mother works for a company that truly values her hard work. Not to mention, pays her better than her previous job. It’s not the same though, and she’s still struggling to adjust. My father, on the other hand, has donned the title of entrepreneur. We’ll have to see how that pans out. So now everything at home has changed and certain benefits we reaped from the family business is no longer. The gas situation is a tough one. Tough in that we now have to pay for gas and thus need to budget it into our weekly spendings. Yes, I guess I was [am] a princess. Oh, and then when I realized there was no place for me at my internship, I had to make the decision to leave and find real employment. I was very fortunate and sent my resume to maybe three companies and interviewed with two. I got the second job and have been working there for four weeks now. Benefits kick in after my 90 day probationary period, I get eight paid sick days, two weeks vacation, and an actual salary – I have an adult job! My first adult job, to be honest. I did what a lot of kids do – I graduated high school, completed four years of undergrad, and found employment within the year after graduation. Although the time in between graduating and this job sparked a lot of existential thoughts, I’m pretty impressed with myself. And happy, which is the most important part.

Now that my home life has stabilized (albeit extended family drama, but who doesn’t have that?) and I’ve found a career-job, it’s time to plan flying the coup. But now I’m faced with questions I have never contemplated before: where do I want to live? How much rent do I want to pay/can I afford to pay? Who do I want to live with? Etc. This is a hard one since I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. What I do know is that I don’t want to live alone and I want to live walking distance from work. These two facets make everything a little more difficult though, since I have no friends who want/can move out with me and the housing market near my place of work is rather high… That’s not all. I want to become independent of my parents. Entirely. But what my dad has offered me, well, it seems like too good an opportunity to pass up. He’s suggested taking out a mortgage on our home and buying a condo on my behalf. I would then pay off his debt in monthly ‘rent’ installments until he completely owned the unit. And once we reach that end, we’d decide what to do next. But that means I’d still be under my parents thumb and I really don’t want that anymore…

On top of everything listed thus far, I have been exploring having a social life – something I didn’t really do when I was in school. And man, how exhausting. I started dating someone at the beginning of 2015 and we spent all our spare time together. As such, I neglected my friends and I’m really trying to make it up to them now. Something that only really dawned on me when I started seeing someone was the fact that the majority of my friends are male. Many of these male ‘friends’ had expressed interest in dating me before I had gotten together with my now ex-boyfriend. They respectfully kept their distance when I was seeing him, but now that I’ve been single – for roughly two months – they’re circling me again like vultures. This leads me to the title of this piece: being a pretty girl sucks. I have had many platonic relationships crumble because I did not reciprocate the romantic/sexual feelings of my ‘friends’. And yet I kept those guys around because it boosted my self-confidence and made me feel desirable, even though I did not want to be desired by them. Incidentally, their friendship is becoming a burden to me and it’s not the kind of relationship I want to have with my friends. Severing ties is difficult, but what’s the point of chasing after liquid? Once you catch it, it slips through your fingertips.

Now I’m caught up in a modern romance and seeing someone new. There seem to be many ‘rules’ that accompany this dating scene. And whether or not they’re a product of the times or a transition into something more adult-like, I’m struggling to understand it all.

New beginnings

2016 has been a ride thus far and I have no intention of stopping.

I started the year off in a romantic relationship with my best friend. We celebrated our year anniversary on February 22 and broke up March 7. It was tough and I experienced my first heartbreak – it was excruciating. Hugging yourself to keep from breaking terribly into many tiny pieces… But it was the right thing to do.

I finished a three-ish month long internship for a post-production editing company in the downtown core. My life consisted of waking at 6:30AM, commuting for nearly 1 hr on the most frustrating of transit systems, working a 9.5 hr day, trudging home, and eating showering sleeping. Repeat. It was exhausting, but I loved it!

I’m 23 now and over a week into my first real job. And by real, I mean, an adult job with benefits and everything. Quite exciting.

I also started seeing someone new…

Damn, time moves quick. It’s April already and the weather wants me to take a step back –

why is there snow on the ground?

Falling in love with the idea of love

The girl who said yes the first time

Always said no the second time

Until she fell in love.

She judged her friends for succumbing to their passions

Only to fall for such wiles all the same

Because she was in love.

~

You speak to me in words

But I look at you with feeling.

Yet the words are empty,

Devoid of meaning,

And I find myself sedated with the deceitful promises

The sweet nothings,

Until I am consumed to completion.

Oblivion never looked so sad.

~

October 20, 2015 – He said, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

~

I want to love somebody who loves others, not someone who only loves themselves.

~

I’m scared of being alone. That’s what makes me cry. Not hurting him, but being alone. And the fear. He’s selfish, inconsiderate, unreliable, forgetful, and incapable of the easiest of tasks. Told to fuck off by his hands – pushing me away. But pulling me closer; caressing my head, kissing my neck… My mind a blur. I can’t deal with his schizophrenic ‘love’. That is, if we can even call it Love.

I think I want to go…

~

It just doesn’t feel real when he’s not here.

~

I want someone to make a movie of our life starting with the man who said “forever”.

~

“It’s perfect,” he said, about my ring.

“It’s never been perfect,” I thought

– about our relationship.

Pink Ghetto

I was born in this pink ghetto,

nested between white, plastic bars – I cannot leave.

I see above me planes and trains and cars and spaceships –

all going somewhere, somehow, somewhen.

And I wanna ride them.

I can ride them, but I cannot pilot them.

I can straddle them –

feel the vibrations and pulsations between my legs,

but not in my hands.

My hands are unworked.

I should. would. could not tame them,

make them bend to my will –

But their will is greater.

Those with the scruffy faces, the hard hands, the Idontgiveadamns.

Rather, I am forced to give a damn –

to give a care.

I bend under these expectations,

Bend and bend and bend and

snap. they would

between the walls of this pink ghetto.

Underestimating how strong I am.

I was born in this pink ghetto.

Nested between white, plastic bars – I cannot leave.

But one day

What is Adult?

In loose terms, the law states that a person ceases to be a child around the age of 18. Legally, said individual is recognized as an adult.

A friend and I had an argument today over “what is Adult?”. This discussion took a nasty turn; what with his hands shaking and my ears turning bright red – but that’s besides the point.

The term adult is unpalatable. I can roll it around in my mouth: ay-dull-t, and it still seems meaningless. Even eighteen doesn’t make sense. Eight-TEEN. Teen – teenager. Nineteen. TEEN. The teen persists for another two years. Twenty – now that’s an adult number. But really, does a number dictate maturity? In my opinion, being an adult is being mature. But, what is maturity? And how can you measure it? I think it’s fair to say that people vary in maturity levels, but what about adultness? Can we calculate how adult person X is next to person Y? I don’t think so. Eventually people start using the term to refer to others and even themselves.

Because I said so. Because I’m the adult. Being an adult entails accepting responsibility for your decisions and actions. Like a title, it grants you certain benefits and burdens. “Well, I can’t behave that way anymore; I’m an adult”. “I can watch that R-rated movie because I’m an adult”. “I can choose to marry whoever I want – I’m an adult”. There are a plethora of adult criterion, yet no passable definitions. And why do we feel the need to call a decade of individuals ‘young adults’ and all those older than 30 ‘adults’. It is all very confusing and maybe – because I am not really an adult – I can’t know.

Trying sex

I wish I could become sexless and nobody would want me. The truth is, the guys squirming in the friend zone have it tough. But what about the girls on the other end? Why are they the offenders and blamed for not reciprocating such feelings? My count is three… I think. Three guys I deemed ‘friend’ who left when I refused to open my legs.

The only difference between boyfriend and friend is that I would be physically intimate with one and not the other. Otherwise, friendship – a platonic relationship – can be just as strong as a romantic/sexual relationship. I have never had a boyfriend. I have never felt strongly towards anyone to the point of pursuing a more meaningful relationship with them. I don’t believe in getting into loveless nothings simply because that’s expected of me. I tell myself that I don’t want to be tied down. That I have more important things to think about, like my two jobs and final year of University. But really, I should just come clean and say “yes”. Yes, I would like a boyfriend. I would like to find that person I trust with all my being. Who causes me physical pain when we are apart. To kiss and share all my insecurities with. I would not feel pressured into having sex with them. I would want to have sex with them. I would love their flaws and they would love mine. There would be no awkward silences. We would become each other. I want that. I really do. I just don’t know how to find him.

I could make due with a friend. A friend who doesn’t turn on me the second I refuse to sleep with them. Who, after sharing my insecurities about relationships with, would not exploit them and make their unrequited love feel like a fault of my own. Why is it even called unrequited love? These boys don’t love me. Or maybe they do. I’ve been trying to see it from their perspective and maybe, maybe they love me. But it feels like more of an infatuation: the impenetrable girl they could add to their roster and brag to their buddies about. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just date one of them. Fuck it – let’s try this out. Let’s pretend I love you back and we can make out, share ice cream. It will be so. much. fun. Or maybe I’m just terrified of sex. Of being bad. Of being ugly. Of being exposed – naked and vulnerable – the way I do when I type these entries.

Grandma Grunge

I’m going through a phase. I know it’s a phase because I’ve been in this head space before. My tastes are changing. I’ve been dressing with purpose and listening to particular music. What should I call it. This is rhetorical; no need for a question mark. How about… Grandma Grunge. Haha, I definitely like that.

My brother and I decided to label our fashion styles and that’s how Grandma Grunge was born. In high school, I prided myself on confusing stereotypes within my wardrobe. I’d wear something like black army boots, skinny black jeans, and an argyle sweater. Or my baggy KISS t-shirt dress, flare blue jeans, and Converse. I like black. Black something with a coloured something. I guess I was going for a punk(ish) look. I clearly didn’t pull it off.

I started thrifting when I was in high school too. I thought it was cool and frankly, I couldn’t afford (nor did I want to pay) for the clothing sold at regular retailers. I wanted pieces nobody else had. I wanted old, moth eaten sweaters that would make me look like a spider – boxy on top with long, thin limbs. Or, not as thin as I had thought.

I was on the pill for acne. It helped. Sort of. I no longer had a sea of little bumps across my forehead, albeit I’d get an occasional HUGE puss-popping pimple right between my eyebrows. My friends warned me that I may put on some weight, but I never found that to be the case. When I was swimming competitively, I weighed about 127 lbs. Once I stopped and stopped exercising all together, I dropped to about 123-125 lbs. I thought I looked good. I’d compare my flat stomach to other girls’ little poochy bellies and feel great about myself. But, then again, I had linebacker shoulders and needed to go up up up a size in pants to compensate for my big hips. Needless to say, throughout the majority of my high school and University experience, I thought that that was how my body was. Done. No changing. Hammered into that shape. Forever. But, October 2013, I went off the pill I had been on for nearly five years and simultaneously experienced quite a bit of anxiety. My eating habits changed and for nearly a week, I lived exclusively off fluids. I dropped from a size six at American Eagle to a size two. People I hadn’t seen in years would tell me I lost quite a bit of weight. My friends asked if I was anorexic. I’m not, I promise. I ate a whole bag of chips last night and I still look and feel the same. I don’t exercise. I don’t watch what I eat. This is clearly me, me off estrogen fuelled drugs.

So my body is a balloon – coming down from its helium high. Slowly, slowly deflating. There are days when that hole is taped shut. I’m a good weight. Any more and I’ll be too thin. But, there’s something obsessive about numbers. 115 is a nice number. 116 isn’t. 110 is even better. So, I quietly peel the tape off and watch as more helium escapes from the balloon. Eventually, it will go limp and be thrown away.

This metaphor is making me scared.

I still like my old lady blouses and black skinny jeans. I like my hipster glasses and my hipster bangs and my grungy boots and my grungy plaid shirts. I like Pop Punk and Alternative. I’m thinking about dying my hair pink again. Or blue this time. But, I also like my blazers and blue jeans. My blonde hair. My hemp bracelets. My crochet purse. My overalls. My Superman boxers. My black mascara. Indie. Rock. New Wave. Metal.

I’m going through a phase. I know it’s a phase because I’ve been in this head space before. My tastes are changing. I’ve been dressing with purpose and listening to particular music. What should I call it. This is rhetorical; no need for a question mark…

Estranged throughts

I take off my rings to type this story. I prefer typing to writing by hand. My ideas flow through my fingertips pumping away at lettered buttons. All this much faster than a clenched hand cramping from the hard impression of led on paper. My left index finger shakes. I don’t know why. The chances I’ll ever show this to anyone is slim, but it shakes anyway.

When I was fifteen, I went bungee jumping and when they hauled me back over the bridge’s railing, I placed my hands under their noses – palms down – and showed them my bravery. I willed my hands not to move; it was fun, but not scary. I was good. Then again, my left index finger shook. It was probably the adrenaline. Maybe that’s what it is now.

I feel a numbness in my chest. A kind of premature nostalgia. A longing for something that is yet to come. It’s all very romantic and makes my eyes sting and my throat tighten. These plastic trees make it hard for me to swallow.