Random Channel Surfing

Ten years ago, I was in the middle of planning my temporary move to Montreal. I was both excited about the move and anxious about living away from my family and friends. It was exhilarating and I was very optimistic about the temporary relocation. When I talked to Nicolas (the guy whose lease I was taking over) on April 4, 2008, I didn't have a clue that I would undergo as much as I did when I lived in Montreal. It might not seem like a whole lot to an outsider, but Montreal living was my first real taste at complete solitude. It was the first time I took a bite out of life and understood what it meant to be an adult. It was also the first time I fell in real love. I've mentioned my past loves on this platform. From First Him through to Third Him, I have detailed how my love for these men shaped me into the woman I am today. Well this post isn't going to be about them. No. This post is going to be dedicated to that moment in time when I genuinely felt in love with mys...

He was pretty fantastic. And that's not me putting him on a pedestal, really. I know I have the tendency of doing so (see: Hims 1 through 3), but I was actually pretty aware of my feelings and actions when it came to him. I say he was fantastic because he was inquisitive, and kind, and understanding, and honest, and considerate, and measured. He was great. Really great. The kind of great that reminds you of what you want in life; the kind of great that makes you impatient and impulsive and (dare I say) ready. He was the kind of guy I've written about in the past . I say "was" because, well, I think things have officially run their course. And while part of me is super sad that this is over before anything really happened, another part of me knew it was inevitable; the same sad ending to the same serial episodic tv series of my life. Heroine meets boy; they flirt; they date; it ends; end scene. And I hate that I didn't want it to end--if this was inevitable, wh...

Going through this blog, I know who I was smitten with by the content of the things I would post. First Him was for the first few years. I know this because the first few years are littered with posts in which I confess to starving myself or wanting to escape Edmonton because everywhere I looked, there were memories of him. Second Him was from the summer of 2008 and onward. I was constantly fretting over not seeing him, or seeing him, or knowing he would never feel the way I did. But liking second Him wasn't only about him per se; liking and thinking about him was also tied to my one true love: Montreal. Montreal is the one constant in my posts. My love for this city has never wavered and you'll find posts sprinkled throughout this blog as odes to the city; it may just be my one great love, seeing as I've gone through bouts in my life where I hardly notice men, but my adoration for Montreal is ongoing. I had a bit of a break from getting random crushes on men when I...

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...

These last few weeks have been cloudy, windy, and oftentimes rainy. Ideal weather for a heat-hater like me. So I've taken to listening to my "Rainy Weather" playlist on my iPod (aptly named Marcela's Mix - It's Raining! It's Pouring! Her heart is sooooaring! ) on constant loop. It has rainy day classics such as "Singin' In the Rain", "I'm Only Happy When It Rains", "Águas de Março", and some less-rain-heavy songs like Coconut Records' "West Coast" and Radiohead's "House of Cards"; songs that personally remind me of the gloomy weather for reasons. (For instance, I saw Radiohead live when I was in Montreal at Parc Jean Drapeau. It was an exterior venue and there was a torrential downpour all concert long; ideal setting for a rain-raver like me.) And the more I listen to this particular mix, the more I realize that I associate the rain and clouds and wind with Montreal. The more I realize that ...

Three days. That's it. Just like Montreal. I'm a cliche, yes, but I'm a cliche with a timeline. And three days is enough for me to purge all this sadness. Three days is enough for me to get over it. Montreal will always be there My hope will always be there   Just because things didn't go the way I'd hoped, doesn't mean my life is over. I have to get back up and try again.  Try Try Again. 

So September 5 was first Him's birthday. That's was why I was all emo thinking about "His" song and all that.** It amazes me, actually, how much space he occupies in my head. I truly don't understand how someone who, for all intents and purposes, was a blip in my life -- a mere plot point -- can still mean so much to me. Even now, years later, when I'm fairly stable and extremely happy and and and and just excited for the future, He's just... there. It's not right or fair to me. And yet I can't stop myself from remembering the exact shade of his eyes, or the way he tied his shoes -- much less the way I felt when things were exciting and happy and my gullible soul fooled my willing mind into believing that he cared about me just as much as I cared for him. Ah, to be young and stupid again. To believe in earnest that all we needed for our story's happy ending was the right timing. I mean, I knew we both felt something. I knew we both cared ab...

I hate going onto someone's blog and seeing it covered in ads. Meet local singles! Lose weight fast! Pretty dresses for CHEAP! And I don't hate the ads because they're flashy and tacky. No. It's because I know these ads are custom-tailored for me and my preferences and are, therefore, a reminder of things I already know and don't need reminding of. They're smug ads. They're abrasive and the one I saw today was so eerily in-tune with my life and recent conversations I've had these past FIVE days that I'm starting to think an internet sprite is hovering somewhere close to me and is whispering my secrets into the ears of some internet demon and they're set on ruining my life. Yes. I am dramatic. But this odd coincidence crawls under my skin, wriggling and embedding itself in my brain, making me question everything. I mean, is this blog ad a sign ? I gave up believing in signs when I lived in Montreal and learned to distinguish between what ...

I'm trying this new thing where I put on a random CD or playlist and writewritewrite. I want to see how melodies and harmonies and rhythm and lyrics and themes affect my story. Alter my syntax. Change me . So I'm trying this out and, in the process, I'm drowning in these memories of you and me. And it's silly how much I remember. Like the way your eyes crinkle when you smile and when you speak and when you just are . And the way you say certain words with this ridiculous accent and intone certain parts of one word but not the other, your voice filling me completely and raining down on me, making me smile just as every single rainstorm makes me smile, filling me with incomparable joy, never mind the fact that even your nonsense is articulate and persuasive. Or the way you'd always smirk at me; proof that my feelings for you were as clear to you as they were to me, a trophy in a glass case for you to admire or deny at your leisure. I'm convinced you knew the ext...

She used to hate the Killers. Something about Brandon Flowers and his eye makeup would make her cringe inwardly. She'd smile politely when people would talk about how "epic" their sound was, would nod her head when people would go on and on about how "life-changing" their music was. But when they would ask for her opinion, she would be blunt: "they're overrated." So it came as no surprise to her, really, when it turned out that he - the first boy who'd nudged the dormant butterflies in her tummy awake with his smiles and his laugh and his jokes and him - was a fan. He'd gaped at her upon hearing her real opinion about the Killers. It wasn't that she's a snob , really. Okay. Yeah. She was. Is. Whatever. She is pretty snobby about the music she listens to. Looks down on anyone, really, who has less-than stellar taste in music. But that all changed when she fell in love with him . She couldn't think less of him if ...

He's always whistling. The happy boy with the dimpled smile and tousled sandy hair. She knows - without a doubt - that he's in a bad mood if she doesn't hear him whistling first thing every morning. It's like a mood thermometer; helping her gauge how he feels. She's often surprised - delighted, really - when she wakes up to hear him whistling in the kitchen. Hear his whistle coming from the bathroom, sounding over the rush of water. Hear his whistle from his room as he dresses. It comes as a surprise, even if he whistles all the time. And every time she hears his whistle, her heart pinches and the flutter in her stomach bubbles up into a laugh. It's just so surprising, the way he makes her feel. He just makes her happy. He's just so infectious.

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.

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 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" (...

It had been a long day at university. Too many assignments and too much work to do at his internship... he was swamped. He lugged to his computer and signed on to his university account. He was expecting an email from his Prof concerning his dissertation on the importance of physics in aviation. Sighing, he typed in his information. He rubbed his stomach absentmindedly and enjoyed the calm in the apartment. He smiled a bit, remembering the last time he was home alone. Looking at the computer, he clicked on his inbox. The first thing he saw was her name. He blinked once. Twice. Shook his head and clicked on the name; his heart pounding hard against his chest, making it a bit hard to breathe. Realizing he'd been holding his breath, he forced himself to breahe in and out; the air coming in out in a shaky sigh. Hey, I haven't talked to you in a while. How's life? He could almost hear the way her soft voice hesitated before inquiring after his life. She'd always b...

The first time she sees him outside of their apartment, she hides. She can't take seeing him outside of their domain. What would she say? What would he say? Just the sight of him makes the tireless butterflies in her stomach go into overdrive. Their nervous energy accelerating her heart rate, causing her to sweat. So, when she spies his 6'2" frame in the distance, his chestnut hair shining in the bright sun, she tugs at her friend Camille's arm and crouches close to the ground. There's no way he is seeing her out in public. She ignores Camille's glare and incessant nagging, as they crawl through the grass, making their way out of the park and onto the city's complicated metro system. Once they're seated in one of the cars, Camille rounds on her. Quirking an eyebrow in annoyance, she says one word: Spill.

It's been one week, six days and 12 hours since I landed in Australia. It's been fun, but there are times I kind of wish I was somewhere else... A place with cobbled streets, Francophones, +20 Celsius weather and great bagels. I don't know what it is about Montreal, but whenever I'm somewhere having fun, my mind instantly goes back to Montreal. My love for this French-Canadian city possesses me. Le lame.

... but I'm right where I started with my Montreal love affair. I can't wait until I have enough money to haul all of me (books, movies, possessions) East. To live in Montreal. To breathe the French-Canadian air that always smells sweeter than the pollen-infested Edmonton air.  I went to Point à Callière and checked out the Love Exhibit. Little did I know that this exhibit would prove what I've secretly known for a year: I'm not the first person to fall head over heels in love with the city!  I'm a Montreal cliché.

I saw Lyndsay today. It makes me happy knowing that we two (and I suspect that Krystina, too!) are working towards moving here eventually. Why oh why can't Tamara and I switch bank accounts?!?! I'd gladly take her $20'000... Though, she might have a problem with that...

I am restless and cranky and tired and very bitter. I am lashing out at my parents and sister, best friends, coworkers and STRANGERS... Those who met me last year would be amazed at how different this Marcela is to the one they once knew. I don't know if this change was caused by my permanence in Edmonton or the fact that I am falling into a very comfortable routine of working a 9:00-5:00 job... Is this what I wanted? Am I being entirely ungrateful for questioning all of my good fortune... for wishing I was somewhere else...? Last year, I was in Montreal. Esta noche (hace un ano) hablamos de mi primo. Pienso que fue el momento en cual me enamore de ti. pinche idiota.