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She doesn't mean to say the things she does. But somehow the words slip out and she sees it all in her eyes: I thought you were supposed to love me regardless of what I looked like, momma. She drops her daughter's gaze and continues picking up. "You know I'm right," she says. "If you continue eating the way you do, you won't fit into your prom dress. And it'd be a shame." She walks to the door, thinking that the only thing that's shameful about their exchange is the way her little girl's cheeks got red and she self-consciously adjusted her body, hiding her body. "I love you," she promises, leaving the room immediately, lest she heap more doubt and self-hatred. Whoever said being a mother was easy? They were lying.

How irresponsible would it be if I never come back from Montreal in June? Like, on a scale from one to ten, where one is "model daughter/friend/employee" and ten is "irresponsibly immature and self-centered"? 'Cause I can see myself "missing" my return flight home.

Life. Made.

But then I remember that I fall fast and hard like a rock you'd throw into the water, quickly sinking deeper and deeper. I remember that falling never, ever creeps up on me all of the sudden. I remember that I know - without a sliver of doubt - when I've fallen as soon as it happens, but can never see it coming. I remember that I can't stop it from happening and it literally leaves me short of breath like those times someone jumps out of corners to scare me. The feeling is exhilarating and frightening and, yes, even addictive. When I remember how I fall, I know I'm not falling in love and I can breathe a bit easier. Because falling in love has never been a positive experience. It's always ended and it's always hurt and it's always meant months and months and months and months of hurt.

Being self-aware enables me to really know myself. My thoughts and fears and desires. Even the ones I wish weren't mine. But it would be easier to live in denial. To ignore that I'm so stubborn I often ruin things that I love. To forget how much I fear the sting of rejection. To deny that I do want someone that knows me inside and out in my life. After all, there's truth to that old saying, "Ignorance is bliss."

It's Janis and Wyatt's annual Christmas party. I'm quite stoked, actually. It will be great seeing my girls. Not to mention all our other friends, hahaha. What I'm most pumped for, though, is playing dress-up! I know I could dress all girly and do my makeup and hair all fancy whenever I want to, but I never have a reason to. My mother would say that that's silly. That we dress the way we want to and you should dress up if you feel like it. I agree with my mom. Really, I do. But it takes so much energy. And this is that awkward moment I let you all in on a secret: I'm a scrub. Truth. Bomb.

He knows he's done for the moment he sees her. Wrapped in a towel, apologizing for walking in on him in the kitchen, flushed and embarrassed, hair a mess of curls, he's frozen. "S'okay," he says, smiling, laughing really, at the sight of this flustered girl. His lips keep twitching, a nervous habit, and the laughs just keep coming. This girl will hate him by the end of the night, he worries. She manages a weak nod and makes a direct beeline to what he guesses is her room. "What's so funny, man?" asks Mitch, coming back from getting his jacket. "I think I just embarrassed your sister," he answers, trying so hard not to burst out laughing, again.

She hasn't seen him in over three years. She remembers their last encounter - she didn't know it then that it'd be their last - with the bittersweet aftertaste of someone who's left too many things unsaid. And it frustrates her. Her cowardice. His silence. Her love for him. His indifference. All the would have beens and could have beens outweighing what she knows deep in her heart are should have beens. She sighs, stirring her coffee and reveling in the fact she's in New York. It only took her three years, but she's made it. She slings her bag over her shoulder, secures the lid on her to-go cup and stares at her feet as she exits the Starbucks. She should have paid attention to where she was going. "I'm sorry," a masculine voice says, taking all of the blame. "No, it was totally my fault," she has yet to look up as she brushes the drops of coffee off her jacket. She knows it's hopeless; knows you can't brush liquid

While going through my email, I saw a slew of emails from my former program advisor at school. She'd forwarded us some information on a contest for a novella. Now, I've said this millions of times before, but I'm a coward. Yellow livered. Rubber spined. Squeamish. The fear of rejection for something as sacred as my writing is terrifying. And I know. Okay? I know. Every single one of my professors warned us that we'd face rejection more times than we can count. They guaranteed it. And it's that certainty that cripples me. Why would I, a girl who for all intents and purposes avoids the very idea of confrontation, submit myself to rejection? It goes against my very character. But the braver, determined side of me is pissed off at my unwillingness. It's losing patience and has started pacing and glaring in my direction. I get it, Self. I get it. I should fucking woman up (HA!) and face my fears. Just because failure is certain, doesn't mean I should let fear di

And y'know when you keep insisting you're all right and happy and beg them to stfu, but they keep repeating that you're wonderful and amazing and have nothing to worry about 'cause your happy ending is just around the corner? Like... Why can't they take a hint? It's really weird, but I'm happy. Really, really happy. I'm not restless and frustrated and disillusioned and angsty. I'm not miserable and lonely and annoyed. I'm not listening to sad music and journalling in my personal journal and comparing my life to the lives of others. Even when I was in Montreal, I can honestly say that I wasn't as happy as I am now. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the fact that, despite the stress, anger, frustration and monotony of my work, I feel appreciated. Or maybe it's the fact that, despite living at home and being perpetually single, I'm at peace with myself. Then again, I could owe it to the fact I do not have any romantic aspiratio

I have three -- THREEEEEEEEEEE -- concerts lined up for December. That means that I didn't meet my concert quota for 2011. Boo. BUT, on the plus side, I still had fun at those shows! :)

And it's scary only because it shows me how fucked up my coping mechanisms are. I realized yesterday that I tend to eat in relation to my heart. When I first fell in love, I was healthy. Eating the right foods, exercising... taking care of myself. But after my heart was broken that first time, I stopped eating. Literally. I lost my appetite and became afraid of ingesting food. For some twisted reason, I thought that eating would make things worse. And for the following three years after that incident, I struggled with an eating disorder. The second time I fell in love, I took even better care of my body. I felt good. I loved eating and was afraid of skipping meals for fear of falling into my old patterns. But when it came time for the inevitable end... my eating habits changed. I was lucky I didn't fall into another eating disorder, but it's very telling to me that every time things don't go well romantically, I stop eating. Add to that the fact that there are times in

She had her suspicions. Come to think of it, she always did. Sometimes his gaze would linger on her, his eyes traveling up the swell of her breasts almost shyly, as though his gaze was one sweet caress. Other times he'd lightly push up against her in their crowded kitchen, muttering an insincere apology. And then there were those times he'd walk around their small apartment, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, smirking whenever their eyes met. It flattered her, sure, that her hot as fuck roommate found her attractive, but she didn't know how to proceed. Was it, for all intents and purposes, really a good idea to approach her roommate and confront him about their assumed mutual atraction? Would that ruin the naturally comfortable rapport that they have? Or, would it really work in their favour if they gave in to their animalistic urges and had coitus in the kitchen... the way she imagined whenever she felt the heat of his body pressed against her back? It was a real proble

Sometimes I get this overwhelming feeling that all I'm doing is in vain. Like every single thing I write is crap. Like I'm never going to fulfill my dreams. It doesn't help that I seem to be seeking validation for the things I write. I used to write because I enjoyed it, but now? The joy comes from people praising my words. The use of a period or comma. What the hell happened to me? blah blah blah Sorry for hosting another segment of the Marcela Loves Whining !

I mean, NBD. Not like anything will come of it... but still. I iz excited.

Ojala no me importara. Pero si me duele cuando no le importo a la gente. Ojala fuera asi de talentosa como otras. Pero estoy llena de ideas comunes. Ojala Ojala Ojala

I can't help but idealize people in my life, so when they finally do something to disappoint me, I find it unbearable.

An ego boost in a diminutive package.

Pros Money Health benefits Money Good work environment Money I'm doing something that was in my field of study Money Cons I feel restless I feel underappreciated I want to write, not edit, dammit! Too busy to take any breaks Working overtime... again I feel trapped My job is making me second-guess my abilities as writer I resent my boss The mess at work makes me feel like I'm in over my head

Nothing coupley, she was just warming my hands up. Anyway, we went to order a slice of pizza at Funky Pickle and the dude behind the counter asks if she's paying for both slices. Janis turns to look at me and says, "Guess he thinks we're together. I guess we do sound like a couple with me ordering right after you!" to which the guy answers, "Oh, you guys aren't together?" No. We're not. Point is, I think it's ridiculous that just because she ordered immediately after me - and that we're holding hands - people ~assume that we're an item. Are women not allowed to be affectionate with one another? If so, I must have missed the memo...

Once upon a time, there was a really anxious text editor who was crippled by her feelings of inadequacy. She thought she was not fit for writing. That she was not suited for proudly bearing the title of "writer." That she was better off doing something like editing, instead. It was nonsense, really, since the girl was a fabulous text editor and she had a real imagination. The problem was, that whenever inspiration struck, she'd put her hand to paper, but her fingers would cramp up. Her mind would go blank. A fine sheen of sweat would grace her forehead and her body temperature would rise exponentially. It wasn't really her fault, you see. For her darling Muse, Darla, was too chicken-sh** (pardon the French) to let Marcela's finger muscles relax. To let her mind drift away on a paper sailboat. To let her body feel calm, cool, collected. So, one day, Marcela did the unthinkable. The unforgivable. The most dramatic thing an aspiring writer could do. She fired her Mu

The 24th Annual Edmonton International Film Festival started this weekend and I went to the screening of Sisters & Brothers , which was written by Edmonton-born director, Carl Bessai, who was all kinds of happy over having the movie screen in his hometown. I was very proud and happy to watch the film. Not only was the entire film improvised and low budget - something that was clearly obvious, given the limited shooting locations - but it was extremely well-acted and well-executed. The stories flowed seamlessly and the tone of the film was never lost on its audience. Funny scenes were funny. Sombre scenes were sombre. And hella awkward scenes were hella awkward. Now, our boy Cory? Extremely enjoyable to watch. Basically, he and Dustin Milligan played two brothers. Older brother Justin (Cory Monteith) has found fame being a Canadian mega movie star in Hollywood, while his younger brother, Rory (Dustin Milligan), has recently come back from Africa after a failed attempt at fam

Eleven years ago today, I had my heart broken for the first time. It's a bit surreal how detached I am from a pain that ultimately caused a shortness of breath I can never fully get over, as well as an eating disorder, which, luckily, I was able to overcome thanks to therapy and the world's best support system. But when I think back on that September morning, when I remember how sure I felt that everything was going right in my life - after all, I was living in a real-life John Hughes' movie - I pity myself. And self-pity? One of the most pathetic feelings a human can experience, let me tell you. But the boy was worth it. I remember knowing him better than anyone else. Seeing him through these completely naive, but very discerning pair of fourteen-year-old eyes. I knew then as well as I know now, that what I felt for him was real and special and pure and once-in-a-lifetime. But I do wonder, especially now that it's been eleven years of failing to breathe

Oh, boo. Boo, boo, boo, boo-bee-boo. It's that restless time again. And, predictably, I'm currently suffering from the "Woe is mes". Ugh. It's pathetic and aggravating and I'm so unbelievably annoyed by my antics. It's just being insecure isn't something you can turn off. If it were that simple, I wouldn't be writing here right now. Anyway, I'm restless. And angry. And really bloody jealous.

It's in desperation that you go to his house. It's been days since you've seen him and the distance is making you question your sanity. Your once dignified anger has dissolved into painful regret and no matter what you do, you want to make things right. Damn him! Damn him and his soft eyes. Damn you. Damn you and your weak heart.

It's sad that I still remember, isn't it? You'd think that after ten years, I'd forget...

One note and I'm transported to specific events in my lifetime. It's like magic.

What I hate most about my current state is that I feel like I can't do anything. Can't keep a friendship. Can't write what I want. Can't communicate. Can't make pretty things. Can't inspire those around me. Can't and, therefore, won't fulfill my dreams. It's a terrible state of being and I hate when I get like this. No amount of pushing and doing will give me confidence and will give me courage. I'm weakened and pathetic and I feel as though I should just throw in the towel already. How I wish I was stronger.

She was getting tired of the pitying looks; eyes pinched and lips drawn to form a frown. She hated that look; hated giving it, seeing it, but mostly, she hated receiving it. She didn't need their pity. Her sister had been dead for over four months now and she was doing better. It was easier getting up in the mornings and she no longer felt like the world was slowly closing in on her, collapsing over top of her. Life went on, she soon learned, whether she was all alone in the world or had her sister for company.

Usually, I dream of people I've seen once in my life. It's random stories not really belonging to me, and only sometimes, do I make a cameo appearance in my own dreams. It's always been this way. Once, I even watched Disney's The Jungle Book in its entirety as I slept. My dreams are just... random. There was a time in my youth when I was boy crazy; every boy, man, dude that crossed my path was carefully regarded and studied. I just really liked looking at them. As creepy as that sounds. So it follows that I would crush on several men in my lifetime. Feel the rush of seeing them, replaying our encounters like a never-ending loop. But I have fallen in love twice. A product, I'm sure, of my propensity for "boy craziness", combined with my annoying ability to form sentimental attachments to anyone who's open and earnest. And of those countless crushes and two men whom I've loved, I've only dreamed of one; but the sad thing is, my dreams unsettle me

I've had an incredibly great day today. I've felt happy and full and thankful . The rain tends to do that to me. It's been raining all day and my smile has kept growing with every gust of wind, every drop of rain... Something about rainfall relaxes me. So while I'm incredibly annoyed at my brother-in-law, I can't deny that I'm happy. But, just because I'm happy doesn't mean I'll soon forget his words. Oh, boo.

J'suis plus que pathétique. Demain, la célébrité que j'aime le plus au monde va être à Montréal. C'est à dire que deux des personnes plus beaux au monde (selon moi) vont être à la même ville. Merde.

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

Have you ever felt so discouraged you don't know what to do anymore? Like, you could be weepy and depressed, but there's a part of you that knows you literally have no right, so you spend all of your spare time wallowing in self-pity so that no one in your life knows the extent of your issues? That's me. Right now. And it's so stupid because no one should measure their self-worth by others' opinions. Let alone the success of others. //embarrassed.

Yes, I'm bitter. Yes, I'm angry with myself. Yes, I'm fucking angry at you. I try to forget about you and your fucking perfect perfection, but every time I log onto facebook (something I rarely do), the reminder of your flawlessness is ever present. So. Congratulations because every single other guy I ever meet will probably never measure up to you. You with your sweet words. You with your scary intellect that intimidated me sometimes. You with your 6'2" stature that made looking at you feel like looking up at someone on a pedestal. You who spent his evenings at home. But only when I did, too. Why can't I ignore all of this? I'm prone to forgetting--more like living in denial,really--so why can't I forget you? Why was admitting that I had fallen for you so much easier than voicing my fears? Why couldn't I deny you ? I hope I never fall in love again.

Feeling insecure about my appearance and things like that is totally okay. Well, it's not okay. I mean, I don't relish feeling insecure, but it's a fact of life. We're not going to love the way we look 24/7, nor are we going to be happy with what we're given. Would I like smaller boobs? Hell yes. Would I rather be 5'5" than 5'? Definitely. But can I change those things? Nope. (Unless I got a breast reduction and/or wore heels every day. No, thanks.) And to be honest, I don't really want to. I am what I am. And, in the event that I meet an incredible man someday who'll love my huge boobs and tiny stature, I know acceptance starts with me (cheesy, yes, but very true). But when I start doubting my dreams? I don't think my heart can cope. Again, I'm scared. Scared I won't fulfill those dreams, scared that I'll miss my chance, scared I'll never do what I want to do. Just scared. And I know that it's irrational. I mean, it

She didn't think heartbreak would feel numbing. She'd always assumed it would feel like she couldn't breathe. Or a heart attack, at least.

The nicest thing a guy can ever say to you is "you have beautiful aspirations/dreams". That right there proves that he values your mind more than anything else because it shows that he believes that you are fucking capable of meeting all of your goals and that he believes in you. I really wish he'd stay out of my mind.

Seriously, whenever I read things in which Jay or Eon say that things are "better than ever" in the band, it makes me sad. How bad were things when Pat was in the band?

She's in a cafe, trying to get some work done before she has to go to her afternoon class. She's sipping on her chai latte, diligently copying the notes she borrowed from last week's class. She hates depending on someone else, but when you're as weary about illness as she is, a tickle in your throat warrants staying home in bed. There's no use risking a cold, or worse, a flu, for the sake of education, right? She's currently highlighting an important part of the text, when she hears the first few bars of the one Travis song she's never been able to erase from her iPod. The one song that holds more meaning than any other song because it represents him and her and what they shared that entire year and it's all just too much for her in that moment. But instead of changing the song--scrolling to the next one or even shutting the damn thing off, as she's done in the past--she sets her highlighter down and listens to the words one last time. God.

I love my best friend Mel (she's the one who introduced me to Glee, after all--actually, it was more like she conned me into watching Glee for the first time, saying it would give us something to talk about during our weekly phone calls. But she quickly lost interest in the show, while I'm still completely obsessed...Thanks a lot, Mel...), but boy is she scatter-brained! Before I went to Cali, I called to see how she was doing. Mostly, I asked "When are you coming home" and "Will you be free for my sis' wedding." The girl said, "I dunno when I'll be home, but yes. I'll be there for the wedding. I'll get back to you, though, on my return dates, kay?" Weeks have passed since then. No note. No email. No facebook message. Nada. She texts me today to ask if we can chill. MELISSA. TODAY IS GLEE DAY! YOU KNOW I'M NOT FREE ON TUESDAYS!

Chantal's engaged. I wonder if I'll get invited to the wedding. I was reading my old journal entries today and ... I miss her. She was a great friend. A bit disloyal and a tad too wrapped-up in popularity, but she was good to me. Especially when it mattered. I hope she and Tarek have a wonderful life together.

Dunno whether to be thrilled or... apathetic. Or terrified. I keep losing all of this weight and it's cool and all, but I'm so worried that I might start counting calories again. That's how it started last time. I lost an enormous amount of weight in two weeks and I... couldn't... wouldn't... stop. Weight loss is like an addiction and that... that terrifies me.

... and the kid got HOT. I feel dirty. Hahaha!

I met with the girls tonight, since Nix and I are off to Coachella and Jenn's birthday (BIG 2-5!!) is the 18th. We all met at Janis' apartment and her parents were there; I haven't seen Mr and Mrs B since Janis moved out, so it was nice to catch up a bit. And, incidentally, we got a nugget of wisdom from Papa B when he heard Nicole's gripes about dating in our twenties. "Young, dumb, full of cum." Then again Mr B has always been a firm believer that the four of us should only date guys 28 years old or older. I think it's ageist, to be honest, but the man swears that, being a male himself, most men don't grow up until they're 28 and even then, it's sketchy. I'm happy I'm not his daughter.

Is it normal to feel sad as often as I do? I'm a fairly happy, cheerful, optimistic person, but there are times... oh, lordy. There are times when all I want to do is cry. And cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry . And you could argue it's hormonal, but sometimes, if I'm being 100% honest, I know it's 'cause I'm lonely. I feel as though I know every one in my life as well as I know myself--if not better. I know their fears. Their aspirations. Their favourite colours. Their biggest fear. I know how to read them well and can tell when they're upset; know the right things to say to make them smile; know the wrong things to say to hurt them (which if I'm being honest I have never done. I'm grateful to be a naturally kind person--and I honestly don't mean this in a self-absorbed way. I am lucky. Not everyone considers others' feelings...) But no one knows me that well. Not even my own pare

Des fois elle se sent comme si le monde entière est contente sauf elle. Des fois c'est comme si elle n'a pas de raison pour y être contente. Et des fois, elle ne veux que d'autre chose que de pleurer. Pleurer jusqu'au moment qu'elle est aussi de contente que les personnes qu'elle vois à la télé ou sur l'autobus.

I'm leaving in ten days. Ten glorious days. It's scary, but exciting and I can't wait to spend 9 lovely days with my most favourite person in the world: Nicole. If you could only understand how much this girl means to me, how much her friendship has helped me grow, how much we've grown since we first met one another in the second grade, you'd understand how much I love her. She's funny, self-aware, attentive and loyal. She's my best friend. It's funny, but most of my life-changing experiences have happened with her; she really is the Steve to my Doug (the Butabi brothers are our spirit animals). I can only hope that this trip to California adds to our memories. *SQUEAL!*

One of my absolute favourite things is reading reviews for other people's work. Reading how happy or inspired or awed someone feels after reading a particular work of literature fills me with happiness, inspiration and awe. There are so many naturally talented people out there and --- and oh, how I wish I were one of them.

It's the worst feeling in the world when you realize you're not as over someone as you thought you were. And maybe I'm not quite over him because he was my first, well... everything . Kiss... love... everything. It does suck, though, because he never felt an ounce of what I felt for him. I know he liked me, sure. I know he thought I was the--and I quote--"nicest girl in the world" and that I made him want to be a better person. But what he felt for me? Nowhere near what I felt for him. So, when I realized I was over him--that I'd somehow gotten him out of my system--I felt free and managed to feel actual butterflies swooping erratically in my belly for someone who's name wasn't... well, his . I started dreaming of someone new. That made me happy and I felt normal. What girl doesn't get over the first guy who breaks their heart, right? ( Masochists, clearly. But not normal girls. ) And I mean, it SUCKS that he--the second boy I loved--also bro

She hasn't eaten a full meal in... god. She doesn't even know. All she does know is that her annoying friends keep leaving snacks in her locker and that her Health teacher has been eying her curiously all month long. So what , she screams in her head. I lost over ten pounds and all people can do is worry? This is going to help her feel better. This is going to boost her confidence better than anything else. This will guarantee her happiness. And as she measures out a quarter of milk and fists a few bits of cereal in her hand, she suddenly loses her appetite. It's not so much about how she looks in the morning, she tells herself, but the fact that she's learning discipline and sacrifice. If those around her don't realize that, then they're the ones with the problem.

It's as though the person --- be they a friend, acquaintance or complete stranger --- who's upset or distraught is connected to me emotionally. And it makes sense. I'm beyond sensitive and my heart always breaks whenever I identify with someone's sadness. I just wish that suffering wasn't necessary. But then I remember that if we only felt happiness and joy, we wouldn't really appreciate or understand how beautiful those emotions are. It's cliched, I know, but it's something I don't think about often. Anyway, it's bedtime. Early day again tomorrow ;)

OK. So I realized that I'm too old for the bar. When I went out with my friends for Dave's 26th birthday, I knew I wouldn't last long. And it's true. I got there at 9:00 and went home by 11:45 with a pounding headache. Granted, I've been working ridiculous hours at work (6:00 to 8:30 most days... kill me... please.), but at the same time, I was out with my friends . People who never fail to light my days with sunshine and make dull situations FUN. Anyway, our group played pool, drank beer (coffee for me) and the bar got progressively crowded. I started noticing that the dudes were cute, but young and was bemoaning the fact that I was tired when I should be up for some fun times at a bar, instead of craving the comfort of my bed. I mean I'm 25, not 50! So, after my ranting, I had to go pee, so I made my way to the bathroom, only to be stuck in a crowd of people on my way there. So, I'm pushing my way through, saying my "excuse mes" and "pardon

An understanding of three languages A degree A single published article A group of friends who make me feel complete A heart that's felt the wonder of love twice A heart that's felt the dull ache left after (two) heartbreak(s) A successful recovery from an eating disorder There's probably more to this list, but at the moment, I don't feel much like celebrating. I'm not, in any way, ready for my 25th birthday. I thought I would have a lot more to show for my 25 years of life than what I have now. Wow. I sound like the world's biggest brat, but it's the simple truth. And that's not to say that I don't appreciate all of the things I've been through and all of the wonderful things I've learned or obtained in my life. I'm thankful for every single blessing I have. But at the same time... at the same time... it's so easy to feel nothing . When will I grow up? And I mean really grow up... Not this bullshit that I call "maturing" w

That absolutely terrible moment when you find out that the boy you cared about so so very much is now dating a girl who's equally obsessed with the band you introduced HIM to. I know I shouldn't care... I don't own Bedouin, but the fact that she likes--nay, LOVES them makes my heart hurt. I curse you, facebook. You let me in on things I shouldn't care about.

Just found a bunch of emails from Tamara in which we listed why HP rules over Twilight. We didn't finish our list, but here are the reasons. Reading over these, I miss her even more.

Hermione didn't need to jump off a cliff to get Ron's attention. The Yule Ball was a million times better than a lame high school prom. Butterbeer, Chocolate Frogs and even Hagrid's rock cakes sound more appetizing than deer, bear or mountain lion blood... *shutters* In Harry Potter, all wizards and witches have access to magic. In Twilight, only some vampires have magical abilities (mind-reading, psychic abilities, mind "blocking", fire/water/earth/wind control... you know, the usual) which APPARENTLY stem from some connection they had when they were human. What kind of human can control the elements?! Harry evolves throughout the whole series in a way that when he acts like a prat in Book V, readers are still inclined to show understanding. Bella remains a prat throughout the "saga." Speaking of "saga", "The Harry Potter Series" is not a pretentious title. "The Twilight Saga" is ridic and full of undeserving slef-flattery.

Mrs. Weasley is a strong, proactive mother, while Esme is a weak, passive mother. Harry Potter readers did not have to be taken by the hand to understand the series' ending. Twilight readers, however, were given a play-by-play by Edward. Gee, thanks for thinking we're morons, SM! Fred and George Wesley: funny, loyal, brave redheaded twins ♥ Jane and Alec: sadistic pawns of the volturi... creepy. Quidditch v Baseball. Come on, Stephenie. Make up your own sport. Harry is not a possessive, creepy (albeit SCRUMPTIOUS!) stalker. Ginny Weasley can live without Harry. And does, for a good portion of the series. Harry Potter is getting its own theme park in Orlando, Fl. What kind of theme park could Twilight offer? "Here, stand in the rain in a dumpy town in Washington. Enjoy!" The villains in Harry Potter all have a backstory. The villains in Twilight are simply surly, bloodthirsty vampires. Yay, imagination... NOT. There are numerous modes of transportation in Harry Potter,

If you get a paper cut, a wizard will use "Episky" to heal it... a vampire will try to suck your blood. Harry Potter makes people happy. Twilight makes people insane; no one broke up with her boyfriend because he "wasn't her Harry." There is an entire wizarding world in the HP series, while Twilight has vampires hide in the human world... or hiding in caves... or hiding in Volterra... Lame. Wizards protect Muggles. Vampires eat them...er, the muggles, I mean. It's much less frustrating following Harry Potter around, than Bella Swan. Speaking of Bella, Hermione Granger is a strong role model for young girls; she stands up for herself and her friends, and does not let the boys boss her around. Bella is... well, she's Bella. She's anti-feminist and is the poster girl for the worst abusive relationship in history. JK Rowling advocates good morals and values. Stephenie (that's really how it's spelled) Meyer hammers her readers over the head with h

So, Coachella is definitely a go... BUT, Nix and I still have to decide whether we're flying back on the 20 or 23, seeing as we're heading to Oceanside for some fun. Did I mention we'd fly back in a private plane? That's right. Private. Plane. Like... wow.

I have a small-ish group of friends and we see one another frequently. These are the girls who've seen me at my best and worst, who know my fears and dreams better than anyone, including myself. But one thing they're in the dark about is my writing. It's not that I don't want them to cheer me on or that I don't dream of the day when they buy my first paperback and brag to their other friends about me (hahaha, I'm such a narcissist!), but I do dread the day when they see how terrible at writing I am. I feel like a sham 90% of the time I tell people I'm a writer. I don't think I deserve the title. And maybe that's why I resent editing so much. I know that try as I might to break into the writing industry, there's a small likelihood that I won't fulfill this dream. What then? It's stupid and insecure, but it all makes sense now. I now fully understand why I trust people I meet online with my "little darlings" (

His smile. His hair. His hands. His scent. His laugh. His voice . It was unfair that after all of this time, she still thought of him. Still woke up feeling empty and alone when she turned on her side, only to discover that their encounter had been in her dreams. She wipes away a stray tear and berates herself for crying. It's been years since they last spoke. She has no say, no claim, no anything in his life. He never chose her. Never would choose her. It was her fate and the sooner she understood this, the easier her life would be. At least that's what she keeps telling herself.

Angst: She lies in bed, sobbing uncontrollably. He didn't come home again. AU: He strummed his guitar and looked out into the audience, hazel eyes meeting green. "To the darlin' in the yellow dress, meet me backstage after this song?" Crack!Fic: He looked up from deep in the sea and watched as her yellow feathers skimmed over the water's surface. Crossover: "I don't need you to rescue me, Quinndependence," he grumbled as she set him down on the ground. "I'm sorry you can't take help from a super, " she quipped before flying out into the night. Death: It wasn't supposed to be this way. They were only 16. She was healthy. Parent aren't meant to bury their young. First Time: He brushed a strand off her face and looked deep into her eyes. "You okay?" he breathed. Fluff: They were in a crowded room, shoulder to shoulder in a crammed space. She felt a calloused hand wrap around hers and gave a quick squeeze. Humor: "

I really like Glee. But lately, even with my love for this show, I can't bring myself to watch certain episodes. It hurts too much. I wish I was writing the show---not because I'd do a better job, but because I'd be watching the story unfold the way I want it to. *sigh* I'm so mind-blowingly pathetic. But such is life.

She feels the rage in her heart and doesn't care when she yells at her mother, hurling insults at her. She knows that her anger is unwarranted (her mother was talking to her sister in-law and she shouldn't have gotten involved), but she remembers the things she used to say. The condescending tone. The advice to "eat less" and "to take a long walk after dinner, lest she want to roll ." She glares, hating every part of the woman in front of her, and she rushes to the bathroom. She feels the anger swelling in her chest. Feels the muscles in her stomach contract as she leans forward. Feels the acid crawl up her esophagus. Feels the vomit spring from her mouth. There's a reason she was angry after all.

Why did I have to get sick right now? HAPPY THOUGHTS HAPPY THOUGHTS HAPPY THOUGHTS HAPPY THOUGHTS Think HAPPY THOUGHTS.

I don't know what to do. I know I should do one thing, but a large part of me just wants to throw in the towel and give up. Is it even salvageable? Should I even bother? There's too much to fix. Too little incentive. Too much animosity. Why fix something that's been broken for so long?

Even though I'm over him, it still surprises me when I can remember all of the things I felt for him. The rush. The nerves. The unadulterated bliss I felt swell in my chest as soon as I saw him. Not even the knowledge of his political leanings saved my heart from falling. I hope he's doing well.

So 2011 is upon us and it's weird... I feel as though this year will be my LAST year to get all my loose ends tied and finally make my dreams come true. Guess the reason for this is quite obvious: my plans for moving to Montreal in 2012... NEXT FUCKING YEAR! Like... REALLY. Mont-fucking-réal! I can hardly wait...! I love that city more than is natural. And to live there? After years of wanting this more than any other dream... It's unreal. So this year, I'll be buckling down. Crossing those Ts and dotting those Is... Ensuring that nothing will detain me from reaching my dream. I can't wait!