Random Channel Surfing

I thought my roommate in Montreal was 6'2" perfection. This might not be a surprise to most people who know me in real life, but I've never fully admitted to the feelings I felt for him on this blog. This blog is a public venue, so the things I write on here are the kind of things that I'd tell anyone; they're not embarrassing or revealing. I feel comfortable posting the things that I do because I never divulge too much information. But some things I keep to myself because I feel that they mean too much to me. And that's why I never explicitly admitted the feelings I felt for my roommate on here. To admit on this blog that what I felt for him was intense and overwhelming was a truth I did not want to acknowledge publicly. I felt as though admitting my feelings for him online would somehow break confidence. Would somehow betray  me   and him . I'm a somewhat private person, which is why I shy away from sharing the names of most of the dudes in my life, s

My sister and niece went back home to Germany yesterday and I've had a sad feeling in my heart ever since. Everywhere I look, I see signs that they were here. Every memento they left is a reminder of their absence. I honestly didn't think that I would miss them this much. Update: I just crawled into bed and found a thank-you card and Toblerone bar from my sister. *cries* I miss her so muh-huh- huuuuuch !

I had a fight with my middle sister today. It wasn't so much a fight, but rather an instance in which a truth she told me -- a truth I'm aware of and repeat to myself on a nightly basis -- hurt. And isn't that the worst? Isn't knowing something -- a truth, a fact -- down to your bones one of the most soul-crushing things in the world?  The truth hurts because it shines a flashlight on a murky part of life, illuminating every dark crevice to show us the ugly creatures that are hell-bent on ruining our realities with their mere existence. The truth hurts and my sister spoke of this truth and boy.  It seared me. I repeat I already knew this truth. Have been aware of it for months. But to know a truth and to have someone else tell you that truth is another thing. Because having someone else voice this reality grounds it; gives it credence; validates it. Because having someone else voice this fact reinforces a certainty you wish you did not know. It's hard for me t

If you had to choose between a semi-permanent state of indecision and settling on a scary decision, which would you choose? It's been a little under a year since I realized that all my Pollyanna humming and hawing has more to do with my complacency than actual happiness at the state in which I am. It was a really disheartening realization since it made me feel like a phony; how could I believe -- to my very core -- that I was happy with my life, when all I felt was "meh"? So it's been close to a year of soul searching and spending money trying to figure out what I want. It was money well-spent and I feel that I've improved as a person; nothing life altering, of course, but enough for me to realize that I have a lot of room for improvement in my life. And the one thing that sticks out in all my soul-searching and investing in myself is this: I need to make a change. A radical change. My move to Montreal didn't happen in 2012 like I'd planned; I still

In you I found my first regret.

-Someone who will dare me to do things I'm afraid of doing on my own. -Someone who will remind me to be kinder to myself. -Someone who understands --- at a base level --- my disjointed thoughts. -Someone who calls me on my bullshit. Always. -Someone who understands that I'm prideful, willful, and afraid, but accepts me anyway. *sigh* In reality, I know I should be this person for myself. I should dare -- nay, DOUBLE-DARE -- myself to take that trip to Guyana by myself or to submit that pitch to x magazine. I know I should be the one who changes my way of thinking and will stop the negative thoughts before they take root. I should be the one who understands the source of my restlessness. I should be the one who calls me on my bullshit, and I spout/think a lot of bullshitty shit, so it's a full-time job, let's be real here. And, in reality, I should be the one who knows that the people I love understand my prideful, willful, scaredy-cat ways, but love me anyway.

My eleven-year-old nephew has his first crush. The girl's name is Sarah and they've been buds since the first grade. She's one of his good friends, "one of the boys." Most days, he plays with her at recess. Most days, he'll bring her up in casual conversation: "Sarah has that sweater" or "Sarah's favourite Harry Potter book is Prisoner of Azkaban ." It's equal parts endearing and heartbreaking to hear the shyness in his voice, to see the tenderness in his eyes. Equal parts. It's endearing because this is my nephew; I changed his diapers, made his bottles, kissed his boo-boos, and read him bedtime stories. To see him experience his first crush is oddly humbling; here is this boy who's experiencing love for the first time. Every time he brings her up touches my heart; warms me from the inside out. Reminds me that love comes whether you want it to or not; it has no agenda. It's heartbreaking because I know how this p

Do you ever think back on your educational experience and remember that ONE teacher who believed in you and genuinely thought you were going to achieve so much when you grew up? And do you ever want to find that teacher and thank them because it's their kind words that you think back on whenever you're feeling unsure and under-appreciated and genuinely terrified that your life is going nowhere? Right now I'm feeling like I should look for Mme. Dallaire and thank her for every kind word she said to me. I want to thank her for every parent-teacher meeting, every good grade. Because she's the first person who told me I could write. Sure, Mme. Vincent and Mlle. Jacques loved publishing my stories in the FLG newsletters; sure, Mme. Paula and M. Marc pushed me to join the advanced English classes; sure, Mme. O'Brien often let me write my own assignments because the ones she gave us were never all that challenging for me; and, sure, M. Dvorak loved hearing my crazy analy

If my life were a novel and 2013 was the year of my character development, then logic dictates that 2014 has to be a year of action and plot progression, right? That's  if  my life were a novel, which it is not. Regardless, to ensure that I maximize my potential in 2014, I've already decided I'm going to break my bad habit of talking down to myself. Like I was telling Janis a few days ago, I am getting better at being more caring towards myself, but I still struggle with my initial reaction after I do something unsavoury. I am getting better at it, though; I rectify my choice of words and correct my language. So, when I say, "That was dumb", I now take a pause and say, "No, that was not an ideal reaction, but at least I was honest." Further, I decided a few months back that I was going to learn how to drum this year. So, for my birthday on March 4th, I'm going to gift myself with some lessons. I took vocal lessons in my teens and really enjoyed t

I liked it. It was a great start to what I think will be a terrific year.