I'm a pretty girl.
It's not vanity, or pride, or self-content that makes me say it. It's the fact that I know this, because people tell me. And all my life, I've always fought it. Fought the fact that I could bat my eyelashes or smile or flip my blonde hair and I would succeed in getting what I wanted.
I fought it by being a down-to-earth, logical, hard bitch. And it hurt sometimes, to not be loved, and to not be popular in high school and to have my friends flat out call me out on it. But at least at that point, I could stay rooted in the fact that I was more than a pretty face: I was intelligent. Smart. Successful. I was going somewhere.
None of my awards, none of my grades were achieved by looking good. It was all in what I was capable of doing.
Lately, I got my wisdom teeth pulled, which resulted in my face swelling up. I joked about going out in bars in that state, to see if my personality was really what people liked about me. And yet, it was a facade. I know that when I walk in a store and I smile and ask for information, people are happy to give it to me. And I know that I don't have to be quite as nice as people who aren't as good looking as me, to be seen as being just as nice. Because people are happy (and... almost relieved?) that I'm not a complete bitch. I have had a couple people tell me "yeah, but you're nice... and pretty?" as though is wasn't required of me to treat people with extra care, because I could get away with being somewhat of a bitch.
This is not the point, though. The point is that lately, I've been slipping.
For a year and a half, I have been totally, utterly, completely lost. The truth is that financially, academically and personally, I've had a very loose, slippery grasp on my life. Like a boat, my life hit a storm the second I moved to Montreal. It immediately took in a large amount of water, and I've been trying to empty out with a spoon ever since. Sometimes my boat is almost afloat. Lately, the edge has been dangerously close to the water. I can just say that having wet feet constantly sucks.
All metaphors put aside, I feel like everything is going downwards. My memory and focus are shot, my grades are spiralling out of control, and I recently flirted (flirted!!) with a teacher, because I knew he would do whatever he could to make me pass a course.
The point is that I'm no longer a smart girl. I'm no longer a bitch, either. Oh no, I'm the dumb blonde. You know the one that tries so hard, and is really nice and smiles all the time, but God, do you wish she could shut up? Oh yeah, that's me now. And some part of me wishes she could just let go. Let go of the act and the smiles and go back to being the girl who succeeds alone. And the other part of me thinks that smiling and flipping hair is so much easier.
Saturday 13 December 2014
Saturday 29 November 2014
Black and White
Ok, here's another one of my oh-so-insightful, tearful, I'm-so-deep-it's-dark posts. As usual, I'll try to keep it short, but I'll probably end up rambling.
I'm just thinking that every time a friend gets hurt, all the other friends rush in and comfort her and we tell her that she's so much better than the guy that hurt her and that he was a loser anyway. (Side note here: I just want to say that I don't enjoy bashing people simply because I've dated them, because I've actually spent a lot of time appreciating that person and if they're really total idiots, well that means I'm either an idiot (which I don't like being) for wasting that much time on them, or that they had me fooled, which I also don't like. So, no. Someone that you chose to love or like or appreciate is not a total idiot the day you decide it hasn't worked out. It just hasn't worked out. And you're losing something precious. And that's why you're broken-hearted. Except my friend who dated Butt-plug. No, he was a complete idiot from the start and you wasted way too much time on him. End of side-note.) And eventually, she gets over him, moves on, starts over again, because she forgets the pain and the agony of a broken heart and moves on. She can do this, because she knows she is not in the wrong. He was an idiot, and a jerk, and evil, and she does one of two things:
1) accept it, resign to the fact that he was an idiot and a jerk and evil, and move on, because she no longer cares: He doesn't deserve the energy that it takes to care.
2) forgive him, be the bigger person, and feel good about it. And then move on.
They move on.
I can't do that. I can't, because in my story, I am the evil. I'm the one who acted wrong, and there is no one around me that will or can convince me that I am not in the wrong and that I'm the one who should be doing the forgiving. Not even I can tell myself that I apologized and fixed things and that I'm in the clear. Because no amount of "I'm sorry"s can save your sorry ass when everyone else is either too hurt to hear or too happy to bother listening.
And every time I see someone posting a tweet or reblogging a stupid picture of a text with an apology or some form of "take me back, I was an idiot" and longing to receive that text, part of me wants to scream that they will never get that text, that they will never be on the receiving end of it, because it's not the kind of text that you send. And I'm saying it from the perspective of someone who should be sending it. Every time I see one of those pictures, I want to scream that I yearn to send one of them out, to apologize, to try to fix things. And if I can't fix it, to get a reaction of some kind. To get a chance to explain my motivation, my reasons. Because no evil does something for no reason. Even the most evil of evils had a reason behind what they did.
And yet, nothing ever ends well for the evil ones. And even though all the movies and the stories in the world prepared me, I wasn't ready to be on this side of the fence. And I certainly wasn't ready for things to not end well for me.
I'm just thinking that every time a friend gets hurt, all the other friends rush in and comfort her and we tell her that she's so much better than the guy that hurt her and that he was a loser anyway. (Side note here: I just want to say that I don't enjoy bashing people simply because I've dated them, because I've actually spent a lot of time appreciating that person and if they're really total idiots, well that means I'm either an idiot (which I don't like being) for wasting that much time on them, or that they had me fooled, which I also don't like. So, no. Someone that you chose to love or like or appreciate is not a total idiot the day you decide it hasn't worked out. It just hasn't worked out. And you're losing something precious. And that's why you're broken-hearted. Except my friend who dated Butt-plug. No, he was a complete idiot from the start and you wasted way too much time on him. End of side-note.) And eventually, she gets over him, moves on, starts over again, because she forgets the pain and the agony of a broken heart and moves on. She can do this, because she knows she is not in the wrong. He was an idiot, and a jerk, and evil, and she does one of two things:
1) accept it, resign to the fact that he was an idiot and a jerk and evil, and move on, because she no longer cares: He doesn't deserve the energy that it takes to care.
2) forgive him, be the bigger person, and feel good about it. And then move on.
They move on.
I can't do that. I can't, because in my story, I am the evil. I'm the one who acted wrong, and there is no one around me that will or can convince me that I am not in the wrong and that I'm the one who should be doing the forgiving. Not even I can tell myself that I apologized and fixed things and that I'm in the clear. Because no amount of "I'm sorry"s can save your sorry ass when everyone else is either too hurt to hear or too happy to bother listening.
And every time I see someone posting a tweet or reblogging a stupid picture of a text with an apology or some form of "take me back, I was an idiot" and longing to receive that text, part of me wants to scream that they will never get that text, that they will never be on the receiving end of it, because it's not the kind of text that you send. And I'm saying it from the perspective of someone who should be sending it. Every time I see one of those pictures, I want to scream that I yearn to send one of them out, to apologize, to try to fix things. And if I can't fix it, to get a reaction of some kind. To get a chance to explain my motivation, my reasons. Because no evil does something for no reason. Even the most evil of evils had a reason behind what they did.
And yet, nothing ever ends well for the evil ones. And even though all the movies and the stories in the world prepared me, I wasn't ready to be on this side of the fence. And I certainly wasn't ready for things to not end well for me.
Sunday 16 November 2014
Back to life
Well, I've been admitted to my program, the one that is adding 1.5 years to my bac (as if the fact that I haven't done my CEGEP and had to do an extra 2 years wasn't enough) and hopefully bringing my cote R up. Strangely, I was over the moon when I got the e-mail, as I wasn't sure I'd get in, even with the ridiculously low admission standards.
And then, I got the e-mail saying I needed to take yet another french test to prove my ability to study in french. Here's what I wanted to write back, but didn't, because I'm a mature adult.
Cher Comité de l'Admission et Bureau du Doyen de l'Université de Montreal,
C'est une honneur pour moi d'avoir été admise à la Mineure des Arts et Sciences, après avoir été admise à l'année préparatoire, que je complète ce semestre, avec exemption des deux (oui, des deux!) cours de français. Ayant déjà passé le test de français requis pour accéder à ce programme, je m'étais promis que plus jamais n'écrirais-je un examen de français. Il me peine donc de voir qu'il me sera obligé d'en écrire un autre, pour prouver que malgré le fait que je suis née au Quebec et que j'étudie strictement en français depuis le dernier examen que vous m'avez demandé d'écrire, je devrai en écrire un autre. Imaginez mon regret quand je me rappelle que si j'avais abandonné mon héritage francophone et que j'avais accepté mon admission a McGill, non seulement aurais-je accéder directement à la première année et que je serais en deuxième année de bac au moment où j'écris cette lettre (au lieu de faire un bac qui me prendra un minimum de cinq ans, sept dans mon regrettable cas), mais que je n'aurais pas eu à écrire non seulement pas un, mais deux tests de français, quand mon programme ne contient absolument aucune Lettres. Je m'insurge particulièrement au fait que certain étudiants étrangers dans ma classe ne comprennent effectivement presque aucun français, et je ne puis que me poser la question de comment ils ont fait pour réussir ce test, que j'ai moi-même trouvé difficile, malgré ma maîtrise du français...
Par contre, j'apprécie votre consécration à l'effort de garder le français une langue fière et propre à l'Université de Montréal. Je refuse de perdre trois heures de ma vie à vous prouver quelque chose que je vous ai non seulement déjà prouvé, mais qui est facilement déductible en regardant les faits: mon éducation complètement francophone, ma réussite du premier test, et le fait que j'ai été élevé de façon québecoise.
merci de votre temps, puisque vous perdez le mien,
une étudiante incroyablement frustrée.
And then, I got the e-mail saying I needed to take yet another french test to prove my ability to study in french. Here's what I wanted to write back, but didn't, because I'm a mature adult.
Cher Comité de l'Admission et Bureau du Doyen de l'Université de Montreal,
C'est une honneur pour moi d'avoir été admise à la Mineure des Arts et Sciences, après avoir été admise à l'année préparatoire, que je complète ce semestre, avec exemption des deux (oui, des deux!) cours de français. Ayant déjà passé le test de français requis pour accéder à ce programme, je m'étais promis que plus jamais n'écrirais-je un examen de français. Il me peine donc de voir qu'il me sera obligé d'en écrire un autre, pour prouver que malgré le fait que je suis née au Quebec et que j'étudie strictement en français depuis le dernier examen que vous m'avez demandé d'écrire, je devrai en écrire un autre. Imaginez mon regret quand je me rappelle que si j'avais abandonné mon héritage francophone et que j'avais accepté mon admission a McGill, non seulement aurais-je accéder directement à la première année et que je serais en deuxième année de bac au moment où j'écris cette lettre (au lieu de faire un bac qui me prendra un minimum de cinq ans, sept dans mon regrettable cas), mais que je n'aurais pas eu à écrire non seulement pas un, mais deux tests de français, quand mon programme ne contient absolument aucune Lettres. Je m'insurge particulièrement au fait que certain étudiants étrangers dans ma classe ne comprennent effectivement presque aucun français, et je ne puis que me poser la question de comment ils ont fait pour réussir ce test, que j'ai moi-même trouvé difficile, malgré ma maîtrise du français...
Par contre, j'apprécie votre consécration à l'effort de garder le français une langue fière et propre à l'Université de Montréal. Je refuse de perdre trois heures de ma vie à vous prouver quelque chose que je vous ai non seulement déjà prouvé, mais qui est facilement déductible en regardant les faits: mon éducation complètement francophone, ma réussite du premier test, et le fait que j'ai été élevé de façon québecoise.
merci de votre temps, puisque vous perdez le mien,
une étudiante incroyablement frustrée.
Tuesday 4 November 2014
Normal
Normal. Definition: conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected. According to the definition, there is a normal. According to Blogger, I am typing in a normal size, in a normal font. When I walk down the streets, minding my own business, eyes straight ahead, I am normal. Eating, sleeping, breathing: normal.
And yet, as they say, what is normal to the spider is chaos to the fly. And yet, isn't it normal for the fly to get eaten? Standard. Usual, typical, expected. The fly must know that there are predators out to get it, no? And yet, it still struggles as it is entrapped in the web. Chaos. Normal, expected chaos.
It is "normal" to be allergic to peanuts, or pollen. I always get surprised looks when I mention I'm allergic to carrots. As though my histamines weren't allowed to react to carotene-B.
As someone who always had trouble "fitting in", especially in high school, I've learned that "normal" does not exist. Some people are better are hiding it. They smile at the usual things, walk a typical way, do the expected things. And then they turn around and put butter on crackers. Or pick their noses in private. Or dance in the street, in public. Turns out they weren't so normal, but because they conformed to everything else, people generally let it slip by. If they were "popular" (I hate that word, because to whom are they popular? Themselves? Their group of highly influencable teenage peers?), it would be excused. A little like when you're really good at your job and you mess up, they'll give you a chance. If you slip, they'll help you back up, because you're otherwise "normal", good at what you do.
I had a friend who use to smile at strangers. Whether she were at the mall or on the streets or in school, if she made eye contact with someone, she would smile. Now, there are two scenarios. If she were to seek eye contact, that would be bizarre. Needy. Definitely not normal, definitely weird. However, when she smiled at strangers who just happened to cross her eyes with theirs, they always seemed taken aback for a split second - definitely not a usual event, they were confused- and then they would frequently return it, because although it wasn't normal for someone to smile at them, it wasn't usual, it was pleasant, and didn't necessarily mean that she would stalk them and then kill them in their homes. It was just a nice, sociable, socially acceptable gestures.
A second friend, B, met said friend A, and made a comment on how bizarre it was for her to always be smiling at people she didn't know. By this time, A was a very close friend of mine that I'd spent quite a bit of time with. I shrugged at B's comment and said "Yeah, but that's just A." I've since then realized that people see normalcy as what is not a threat to them, and in society, there are standards or normalcy in order to get accepted. Excentric people can only be called excentric if they have something else to offer: great money, great talent, great opinions. Otherwise, they're not excentric. Only dangerous, or weird.
Putting butter on crackers: eventually acceptable. Picking your nose: still gross, even after many years, but the more we see it, the less we make a big deal out of it. A simple shiver with a disgusted look suffices to communicate to our peers that this behavior is not one we condone. Dancing on the street? There are shared opinions, but people tend to protect themselves and mention that it is bizarre, even as they smile condescendingly at a stranger's happiness.
I've learned that fighting society is exhausting. And while I still have my quirks (blatantly lacking tact when I talk to someone I don't like, for example (ain't no time for picking out words and sugar coating the truth if I don't appreciate you) ) I've learned to tone it down. I will sing into my phone, instead of out loud outside. I will keep my dancing confined to my room. ect. And it turns out life is so much easier like that.
And yet, as they say, what is normal to the spider is chaos to the fly. And yet, isn't it normal for the fly to get eaten? Standard. Usual, typical, expected. The fly must know that there are predators out to get it, no? And yet, it still struggles as it is entrapped in the web. Chaos. Normal, expected chaos.
It is "normal" to be allergic to peanuts, or pollen. I always get surprised looks when I mention I'm allergic to carrots. As though my histamines weren't allowed to react to carotene-B.
As someone who always had trouble "fitting in", especially in high school, I've learned that "normal" does not exist. Some people are better are hiding it. They smile at the usual things, walk a typical way, do the expected things. And then they turn around and put butter on crackers. Or pick their noses in private. Or dance in the street, in public. Turns out they weren't so normal, but because they conformed to everything else, people generally let it slip by. If they were "popular" (I hate that word, because to whom are they popular? Themselves? Their group of highly influencable teenage peers?), it would be excused. A little like when you're really good at your job and you mess up, they'll give you a chance. If you slip, they'll help you back up, because you're otherwise "normal", good at what you do.
I had a friend who use to smile at strangers. Whether she were at the mall or on the streets or in school, if she made eye contact with someone, she would smile. Now, there are two scenarios. If she were to seek eye contact, that would be bizarre. Needy. Definitely not normal, definitely weird. However, when she smiled at strangers who just happened to cross her eyes with theirs, they always seemed taken aback for a split second - definitely not a usual event, they were confused- and then they would frequently return it, because although it wasn't normal for someone to smile at them, it wasn't usual, it was pleasant, and didn't necessarily mean that she would stalk them and then kill them in their homes. It was just a nice, sociable, socially acceptable gestures.
A second friend, B, met said friend A, and made a comment on how bizarre it was for her to always be smiling at people she didn't know. By this time, A was a very close friend of mine that I'd spent quite a bit of time with. I shrugged at B's comment and said "Yeah, but that's just A." I've since then realized that people see normalcy as what is not a threat to them, and in society, there are standards or normalcy in order to get accepted. Excentric people can only be called excentric if they have something else to offer: great money, great talent, great opinions. Otherwise, they're not excentric. Only dangerous, or weird.
Putting butter on crackers: eventually acceptable. Picking your nose: still gross, even after many years, but the more we see it, the less we make a big deal out of it. A simple shiver with a disgusted look suffices to communicate to our peers that this behavior is not one we condone. Dancing on the street? There are shared opinions, but people tend to protect themselves and mention that it is bizarre, even as they smile condescendingly at a stranger's happiness.
I've learned that fighting society is exhausting. And while I still have my quirks (blatantly lacking tact when I talk to someone I don't like, for example (ain't no time for picking out words and sugar coating the truth if I don't appreciate you) ) I've learned to tone it down. I will sing into my phone, instead of out loud outside. I will keep my dancing confined to my room. ect. And it turns out life is so much easier like that.
Monday 15 September 2014
Saturday 6 September 2014
Open letter to the latest person I've hurt
Dear you, and you know who you are, I suppose,
I'm not sure how our first conversation turned into the fiasco that we're dealing with now. Or that you're dealing with now, because I'm not sure it affects me anymore. I have so many things to say, and I have no idea where to start. Every thought is just tumbling down in my head, spilling everywhere, and I don't want to just projectile vomit it out of my fingers onto my keyboard, so I'm typing between bites of oven-baked potatoes with butter and cheese (a meal that reminds me of you, actually), but I feel like I'm missing bits when I stop writing. It bothers me, though, that I don't care. I know why it happened, though; my walls are back up. I feel like after my heart got broken (something I effectively did to myself, actually), I just needed to get my life back together. So as my brain cleared, logic came back, and every thing that had to do with emotion faded. I'm not a robot. I have them, I swear. It's just, I'm super good at ignoring them. Or at not understanding why they're there. I find them to be a nuisance, so I flush them. Just like that. I'm also much better at keeping my mouth shut now.
The one thought that keeps coming back, though, so that I will start with, is the one that you knew. You knew this was going to happen. I'm not saying I'm not the bad guy in this story. Oh no, I'm fully aware that to anyone that hears this story, I'm a liar, a bitch, a heart and friendship breaker and I have the morals of a six month old monkey in need of a forbidden banana. In other words, none. However, I would just like to bring up a conversation that happened about seven months ago. You know, when we didn't know each other very well, and it was comfortable, with a touch of awkwardness and a spark of interest when we were in the same room? I'd told you I get bored. And then when we kissed, I told you I couldn't date you. And then later on, when it got a little bit more intimate, I told you we weren't on the same page and couldn't be a couple.
This whole story is so ironic, starting with the fact that you, the eternal player, decided to pick me, probably the one girl in the near 25-mile radius to not want a steady relationship, to have feelings for. Any other girl would have jumped on the occasion to have a guy want something steady, to want to take care of her, but not me. I can't deal with it, and I get bored of people. I'd told you that. And you offered me a game. You'd lost the second you'd offered to play that game, but you denied it when I brought it up. So I played. and you lost.
I'm fully aware that everything I've done in the past six months was utter bullshit. For the past 90 days or so, I've been what can qualify as a cheater, a liar and a slut. That's a long time to be a bad person, and I'll give you that. But you cannot deny that I didn't warn you, time and time again. "Does that mean we're steady?" you asked me once. And I snorted. Actually snorted into your shoulder, because the question you asked me was so ludicrous. But you kept trying. I'll give you that.
We're not on the same page. I'm obsessed with school, and even more so now that I've gotten rid of the disgusting fog that had invaded my head. I know what I want in life, and I'm not good at being part of an item. My life goal is not to have a family, or to give someone the life I've never been able to have (I'm selfish like that, but you knew that.). We are literally polar opposites, and the fact that we both like puns or that we both carry a clean pair of socks everywhere we go will never change that (and by the way, I've stopped doing that, so I guess we're really not that alike.). And you knew that. And then we ignored it. I'm not sure why I felt the need to lead you on. Maybe I lied to you: I do get jealous. But only when I'm scared of losing the person.
I love the attention. My self-esteem is so low it's probably made close acquaintance with Hades at this point and they're chilling eight miles under ground (it's been scientifically proven that that's where Hell is, now get out of my face about it). So trust me that when someone has feelings for me, watching them get over me is equal part fascinating, equal part traumatizing. I have no idea why people fall for me. I really, really don't, and it's not a plea for attention when I say that. I really have no idea. And I've asked you why you had feelings for me, and you didn't know either. But watching you become a dick to everyone around you killed me. But not as much as watching you try to leave. And that's why I pulled you back. I'm not sure whether I'm tired or bored or fed up or just over you, but I don't really care anymore. Which is why I'm writing this letter.
And that last reason? Oh yes, I cared. I'm not sure I cared about you in the sense that I had "feelings" for you. I loved you, but in the sense where you really, really, can't wait to see a favorite cousin of yours at Christmas. But you weren't my cousin, so I could kiss you. And that's what happened.
I don't seek romance. I seek thrill, I seek new adventures. And you were new, and exciting. Until you weren't. In your defense, you'd told me you were boring. And I hadn't believed you. Well, now I do. And everything that we don't have in common came back and slapped me in the face.
There are so many things that I've done that you can't accept, and that's fine. We knew we weren't going to work out anyway. Game over.
Just one last thing. I know I distribute apologies like Willy Wonka giving out candy at the Chocolate Factory, but they actually mean something. To me. I don't say them unless I mean them. I'm not sure if they mean anything to you anymore, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I led you on, I'm sorry I wasted seven months of your life, if not more. I did think, at several moments, we could work out. But I'm too indecisive, and you're too... you. We just don't match, and when you try to force two puzzle pieces that aren't supposed to go together, one of them gets damaged. That's what happened to us: apply pressure for seven months, et quelqu'un se fait froisser (that metaphor/pun was too good to not switch to french). So, I am sorry. If I've broken your heart, that really, really does suck. And I'll be glad to watch with a concerned expression, albeit from far, as your friends pick up the pieces. I'd do it myself, but you probably won't want me there. If I haven't broken your heart, then I'm glad. This shit storm has finally come to an end, and we can reap the benefits of the rainbow, whatever they may be.
One more thing. Someone once told me that this whole story wasn't going to end well, that we couldn't all stay friends. That someone was right. But I swear to God, I'll be wishing on a star every night that we go back to how we were before. Because you really were my favorite person ever for a while, even though I had zero sexual attraction to you, because I miss the way we could joke about getting together without it being serious, because I miss being able to play fight instead of real fighting. Because as a person, you're fucking fantastic. And I really did care for your friendship. I'm sorry I let it go to shit. But. I had warned you.
No further comments,
Veronik.
I'm not sure how our first conversation turned into the fiasco that we're dealing with now. Or that you're dealing with now, because I'm not sure it affects me anymore. I have so many things to say, and I have no idea where to start. Every thought is just tumbling down in my head, spilling everywhere, and I don't want to just projectile vomit it out of my fingers onto my keyboard, so I'm typing between bites of oven-baked potatoes with butter and cheese (a meal that reminds me of you, actually), but I feel like I'm missing bits when I stop writing. It bothers me, though, that I don't care. I know why it happened, though; my walls are back up. I feel like after my heart got broken (something I effectively did to myself, actually), I just needed to get my life back together. So as my brain cleared, logic came back, and every thing that had to do with emotion faded. I'm not a robot. I have them, I swear. It's just, I'm super good at ignoring them. Or at not understanding why they're there. I find them to be a nuisance, so I flush them. Just like that. I'm also much better at keeping my mouth shut now.
The one thought that keeps coming back, though, so that I will start with, is the one that you knew. You knew this was going to happen. I'm not saying I'm not the bad guy in this story. Oh no, I'm fully aware that to anyone that hears this story, I'm a liar, a bitch, a heart and friendship breaker and I have the morals of a six month old monkey in need of a forbidden banana. In other words, none. However, I would just like to bring up a conversation that happened about seven months ago. You know, when we didn't know each other very well, and it was comfortable, with a touch of awkwardness and a spark of interest when we were in the same room? I'd told you I get bored. And then when we kissed, I told you I couldn't date you. And then later on, when it got a little bit more intimate, I told you we weren't on the same page and couldn't be a couple.
This whole story is so ironic, starting with the fact that you, the eternal player, decided to pick me, probably the one girl in the near 25-mile radius to not want a steady relationship, to have feelings for. Any other girl would have jumped on the occasion to have a guy want something steady, to want to take care of her, but not me. I can't deal with it, and I get bored of people. I'd told you that. And you offered me a game. You'd lost the second you'd offered to play that game, but you denied it when I brought it up. So I played. and you lost.
I'm fully aware that everything I've done in the past six months was utter bullshit. For the past 90 days or so, I've been what can qualify as a cheater, a liar and a slut. That's a long time to be a bad person, and I'll give you that. But you cannot deny that I didn't warn you, time and time again. "Does that mean we're steady?" you asked me once. And I snorted. Actually snorted into your shoulder, because the question you asked me was so ludicrous. But you kept trying. I'll give you that.
We're not on the same page. I'm obsessed with school, and even more so now that I've gotten rid of the disgusting fog that had invaded my head. I know what I want in life, and I'm not good at being part of an item. My life goal is not to have a family, or to give someone the life I've never been able to have (I'm selfish like that, but you knew that.). We are literally polar opposites, and the fact that we both like puns or that we both carry a clean pair of socks everywhere we go will never change that (and by the way, I've stopped doing that, so I guess we're really not that alike.). And you knew that. And then we ignored it. I'm not sure why I felt the need to lead you on. Maybe I lied to you: I do get jealous. But only when I'm scared of losing the person.
I love the attention. My self-esteem is so low it's probably made close acquaintance with Hades at this point and they're chilling eight miles under ground (it's been scientifically proven that that's where Hell is, now get out of my face about it). So trust me that when someone has feelings for me, watching them get over me is equal part fascinating, equal part traumatizing. I have no idea why people fall for me. I really, really don't, and it's not a plea for attention when I say that. I really have no idea. And I've asked you why you had feelings for me, and you didn't know either. But watching you become a dick to everyone around you killed me. But not as much as watching you try to leave. And that's why I pulled you back. I'm not sure whether I'm tired or bored or fed up or just over you, but I don't really care anymore. Which is why I'm writing this letter.
And that last reason? Oh yes, I cared. I'm not sure I cared about you in the sense that I had "feelings" for you. I loved you, but in the sense where you really, really, can't wait to see a favorite cousin of yours at Christmas. But you weren't my cousin, so I could kiss you. And that's what happened.
I don't seek romance. I seek thrill, I seek new adventures. And you were new, and exciting. Until you weren't. In your defense, you'd told me you were boring. And I hadn't believed you. Well, now I do. And everything that we don't have in common came back and slapped me in the face.
There are so many things that I've done that you can't accept, and that's fine. We knew we weren't going to work out anyway. Game over.
Just one last thing. I know I distribute apologies like Willy Wonka giving out candy at the Chocolate Factory, but they actually mean something. To me. I don't say them unless I mean them. I'm not sure if they mean anything to you anymore, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I led you on, I'm sorry I wasted seven months of your life, if not more. I did think, at several moments, we could work out. But I'm too indecisive, and you're too... you. We just don't match, and when you try to force two puzzle pieces that aren't supposed to go together, one of them gets damaged. That's what happened to us: apply pressure for seven months, et quelqu'un se fait froisser (that metaphor/pun was too good to not switch to french). So, I am sorry. If I've broken your heart, that really, really does suck. And I'll be glad to watch with a concerned expression, albeit from far, as your friends pick up the pieces. I'd do it myself, but you probably won't want me there. If I haven't broken your heart, then I'm glad. This shit storm has finally come to an end, and we can reap the benefits of the rainbow, whatever they may be.
One more thing. Someone once told me that this whole story wasn't going to end well, that we couldn't all stay friends. That someone was right. But I swear to God, I'll be wishing on a star every night that we go back to how we were before. Because you really were my favorite person ever for a while, even though I had zero sexual attraction to you, because I miss the way we could joke about getting together without it being serious, because I miss being able to play fight instead of real fighting. Because as a person, you're fucking fantastic. And I really did care for your friendship. I'm sorry I let it go to shit. But. I had warned you.
No further comments,
Veronik.
Thursday 4 September 2014
One year anniversary
It's been a year and almost a month that I've lived in Montreal, and there has not been many posts on Montreal lately, so in honour of this one year being aborded by crazy people and not having ANY excuses to be bored on a Saturday night, I've compiled a quick list of things I've learned in Montreal. Notice it is not complete, and I'll be adding onto it au fur et a mesure.
1. Sushi is available everywhere. Everywhere.
2. People walking around with sushi are everywhere. Everywhere. You will crave it and cave in, and you'll become part of them
3. There is an unspoken metro and bus etiquette. Anyone who doesn't follow it is held solely responsible for the destruction of society and the rooting of separatism.
4. Don't mention separatists. Ever.
5. The odds of seeing someone that you don't have social connections to twice are minimal, but somehow, everyone knows someone you know, and you don't know how.
6. Montreal drivers suck, I've been brainwashed by my mother my entire life.
7. A grid map makes everything easier.
8. Always go on Yelp before picking a restaurant. Or don't, you might find some obscure but really awesome place. But mostly shitty places. Mostly.
9. Everyone loves Montreal, but the people living in Montreal.
1. Sushi is available everywhere. Everywhere.
2. People walking around with sushi are everywhere. Everywhere. You will crave it and cave in, and you'll become part of them
3. There is an unspoken metro and bus etiquette. Anyone who doesn't follow it is held solely responsible for the destruction of society and the rooting of separatism.
4. Don't mention separatists. Ever.
5. The odds of seeing someone that you don't have social connections to twice are minimal, but somehow, everyone knows someone you know, and you don't know how.
6. Montreal drivers suck, I've been brainwashed by my mother my entire life.
7. A grid map makes everything easier.
8. Always go on Yelp before picking a restaurant. Or don't, you might find some obscure but really awesome place. But mostly shitty places. Mostly.
9. Everyone loves Montreal, but the people living in Montreal.
Tuesday 26 August 2014
Fights
Here's the beautiful thing about fighting: after you get hurt once, you learn to keep your guard up.
I was always incredibly cocky when I fought back in Sudbury. There were few people in my category, and even in the two above me that could give me a good fight, let alone win against me. I eventually started fighting boys, and become even more arrogant. Cue to side smiles, winks when the referee wasn't looking, and dropping my guard while prancing around them, hips swinging when I got really too bored. The beautiful thing, though, is I wasn't careless: there was always the knowledge that one kick and I was done, so my hands always stayed ready to block and I was always on the balls of my feet, milliseconds from moving out of the way. I'd get the occasional kick, but I'd ignore the pain and plow on, eventually getting my fist raised in the air by the referee. I was always triumphant, and what more, with a bruise to show off, temporary trophy that earned me praise.
But sometimes, sometimes, you get tired of always having your guard up. You get tired of dancing around on the balls of your feet and you get tired of keeping on hand in front of your face and the other in front of your chest. You let it down, even momentarily. Which is fine. It's a risk. Whether it's to try and get a particularly good move in and emerge happy, or because you're exhausted from the fight, putting your guard down can feel so damn good, if your partner is gentle and doesn't kick you too hard. And the first time in my life that I did let it down, I learned that if you're going to change the way you defend yourself, you better change the way you fight, too. If you're wide open, don't you dare prance around while provoking your adversary, pulling them in and then pushing them away. This game, no matter how patient they are, will get old. And the first time I let my guard down, my adversary let me play my game and put up with me until I laid a really low blow. Then he kicked me so hard I didn't catch my breath for a long time. Eventually, the pain edged away enough for me to realize I'd deserved it. You don't lead someone on if you're not going to be able to defend yourself.
So I have two options: I either prance around with my guards up and ready to kick as hard as I want, turning away when my partner buckle under my kick. Or I let my guard down, letting them trust me to not destroy them, and expecting the same in return.
And while it's tempting to let that infuriating (for them) side smile slowly creep up my mouth-guard-coated teeth, there's also the attraction to be able to feel like you're dancing a ballet with someone that could decide to hurt you anytime they like.
However, I like to win much too much to let my guard down anytime soon. Here's to hard kicks and a reputation of a hard-ass fighter.
With love,
Veronik
I was always incredibly cocky when I fought back in Sudbury. There were few people in my category, and even in the two above me that could give me a good fight, let alone win against me. I eventually started fighting boys, and become even more arrogant. Cue to side smiles, winks when the referee wasn't looking, and dropping my guard while prancing around them, hips swinging when I got really too bored. The beautiful thing, though, is I wasn't careless: there was always the knowledge that one kick and I was done, so my hands always stayed ready to block and I was always on the balls of my feet, milliseconds from moving out of the way. I'd get the occasional kick, but I'd ignore the pain and plow on, eventually getting my fist raised in the air by the referee. I was always triumphant, and what more, with a bruise to show off, temporary trophy that earned me praise.
But sometimes, sometimes, you get tired of always having your guard up. You get tired of dancing around on the balls of your feet and you get tired of keeping on hand in front of your face and the other in front of your chest. You let it down, even momentarily. Which is fine. It's a risk. Whether it's to try and get a particularly good move in and emerge happy, or because you're exhausted from the fight, putting your guard down can feel so damn good, if your partner is gentle and doesn't kick you too hard. And the first time in my life that I did let it down, I learned that if you're going to change the way you defend yourself, you better change the way you fight, too. If you're wide open, don't you dare prance around while provoking your adversary, pulling them in and then pushing them away. This game, no matter how patient they are, will get old. And the first time I let my guard down, my adversary let me play my game and put up with me until I laid a really low blow. Then he kicked me so hard I didn't catch my breath for a long time. Eventually, the pain edged away enough for me to realize I'd deserved it. You don't lead someone on if you're not going to be able to defend yourself.
So I have two options: I either prance around with my guards up and ready to kick as hard as I want, turning away when my partner buckle under my kick. Or I let my guard down, letting them trust me to not destroy them, and expecting the same in return.
And while it's tempting to let that infuriating (for them) side smile slowly creep up my mouth-guard-coated teeth, there's also the attraction to be able to feel like you're dancing a ballet with someone that could decide to hurt you anytime they like.
However, I like to win much too much to let my guard down anytime soon. Here's to hard kicks and a reputation of a hard-ass fighter.
With love,
Veronik
Saturday 9 August 2014
My view on tumblr-esque feminism
Alright, so for someone who says she doesn't agree with left-wing feminism, I do talk about it a lot. It's not like it's a huge concern of mine. Treat me with the respect that you owe any human being, don't see me differently because I'm a white catholic woman, and we'll be cool. However, I'd just like to bring it up once more, in light of this delightful article I found:
http://mic.com/articles/95818/here-s-what-guys-are-actually-saying-when-they-harass-women-on-the-street?utm_source=policymicFB&utm_medium=main&utm_campaign=social
Ok, Identities.Mic. Here's what's wrong with your whole entire idea. The video, by buzzfeed, although slightly agressive, is hilarious. It shows men in a slightly subjugating light, but it does deal with a problem in a passive-agressive way that is widely seen as funny. Here's the thing though: it's a problem, yes, but I feel the same thing when I get cat-called as when a fly is buzzing around my head: slight annoyance with a tinge of uncomfortable.
The first time I got cat-called, I was still in Sudbury, I was maybe 13 years old, I was wearing my school skirt with a tight blouse tucked inside and I had high heel boots on. Understandably, I'd earned that whistle. The thing is, it unsettled me. Thirteen year old me, who had never gotten much attention despite the fact that I knew I was attractive, was flustered, flattered and wildly at lost as to what to do. So I kept walking. And that's what I still do. I keep walking when I get barked, whistled, yelled or honked at.
Every once in a while, though, there will be that one interaction that isn't quite so annoying. I was walking home from work once, and I passed a line of cars stopped at a red light. Two boys were in a black SUV, playing loud-bassed music and rocking sunglasses. The passenger turned down the music and stopped head-bobbing long enough to tell me (it is important to know that he was one lane over and did not have to yell it out to me, but rather speak it) that he found me pretty. I thanked him, he wished me a good day, and off he went. He did stick his head out the window and blew me kisses, at which point I laughed, rolled my eyes, and gave him a "what am I going to do with you" shake of the head, and then he disappeared. I never saw him again. I never saw him again. And tell you what, the only reason I've thought about him is because I needed to tell this story. He did not insult me, he did not degrade me, he did not devalue me. It was harmless.
I'm not saying it's not wrong. It is noise pollution, and it does take away some of my "precious time", but that is what living in society is all about: interaction. And honestly, I think that it says more about a man than about the perfectly innocent woman walking down the street when a man barks at her. Did you just compare your attraction to me as to one of an animal driven by wild instinct and who's attraction to bitches is only pushed by the fact that he needs to reproduce and pass his genes on? Excuse me, just let me jog after your car and follow you home!
No but seriously, for those of you who have read the article, they use expressions such as "victim", "subjugation" (which you'll notice I used earlier, in all ironism) and "harassment". They also mention that "Research has shown that male entitlement is linked with increased sexual harassment as well", with a convenient link to said research, who only mentions self-entitlement to lead to a proness to violent acts and being linked to sexism - NOT sexual harassment.
And as a girl who has actually been sexually harassed in a work environment, let me tell you that two seconds of admiration, crude as it can be, does not leave sequels unless you let it. Although it may be rude, it is not harassment. Let's all take the stick out of our rectums and realize that yes, if we follow the definition, word for word, it fits the bill, but that if we use the little bit of common sense that we should have, y'all are over-reaction.
Rant, out,
Vero.
http://mic.com/articles/95818/here-s-what-guys-are-actually-saying-when-they-harass-women-on-the-street?utm_source=policymicFB&utm_medium=main&utm_campaign=social
Ok, Identities.Mic. Here's what's wrong with your whole entire idea. The video, by buzzfeed, although slightly agressive, is hilarious. It shows men in a slightly subjugating light, but it does deal with a problem in a passive-agressive way that is widely seen as funny. Here's the thing though: it's a problem, yes, but I feel the same thing when I get cat-called as when a fly is buzzing around my head: slight annoyance with a tinge of uncomfortable.
The first time I got cat-called, I was still in Sudbury, I was maybe 13 years old, I was wearing my school skirt with a tight blouse tucked inside and I had high heel boots on. Understandably, I'd earned that whistle. The thing is, it unsettled me. Thirteen year old me, who had never gotten much attention despite the fact that I knew I was attractive, was flustered, flattered and wildly at lost as to what to do. So I kept walking. And that's what I still do. I keep walking when I get barked, whistled, yelled or honked at.
Every once in a while, though, there will be that one interaction that isn't quite so annoying. I was walking home from work once, and I passed a line of cars stopped at a red light. Two boys were in a black SUV, playing loud-bassed music and rocking sunglasses. The passenger turned down the music and stopped head-bobbing long enough to tell me (it is important to know that he was one lane over and did not have to yell it out to me, but rather speak it) that he found me pretty. I thanked him, he wished me a good day, and off he went. He did stick his head out the window and blew me kisses, at which point I laughed, rolled my eyes, and gave him a "what am I going to do with you" shake of the head, and then he disappeared. I never saw him again. I never saw him again. And tell you what, the only reason I've thought about him is because I needed to tell this story. He did not insult me, he did not degrade me, he did not devalue me. It was harmless.
I'm not saying it's not wrong. It is noise pollution, and it does take away some of my "precious time", but that is what living in society is all about: interaction. And honestly, I think that it says more about a man than about the perfectly innocent woman walking down the street when a man barks at her. Did you just compare your attraction to me as to one of an animal driven by wild instinct and who's attraction to bitches is only pushed by the fact that he needs to reproduce and pass his genes on? Excuse me, just let me jog after your car and follow you home!
No but seriously, for those of you who have read the article, they use expressions such as "victim", "subjugation" (which you'll notice I used earlier, in all ironism) and "harassment". They also mention that "Research has shown that male entitlement is linked with increased sexual harassment as well", with a convenient link to said research, who only mentions self-entitlement to lead to a proness to violent acts and being linked to sexism - NOT sexual harassment.
And as a girl who has actually been sexually harassed in a work environment, let me tell you that two seconds of admiration, crude as it can be, does not leave sequels unless you let it. Although it may be rude, it is not harassment. Let's all take the stick out of our rectums and realize that yes, if we follow the definition, word for word, it fits the bill, but that if we use the little bit of common sense that we should have, y'all are over-reaction.
Rant, out,
Vero.
Sunday 13 July 2014
Birthday girl and why I don't need feminism
Well, I've been trying to write several posts for the past two weeks and ended up with nothing but half drafted paragraphs and poorly expressed thoughts. However, I will force myself into writing all about my 18th birthday, the day that ended all the mineur jokes at the gym and also means that I can no longer wave my age around like a white flag doubling as an armor against all the overly aged creeps everywhere.
My fingers feel slightly sluggish and my eyes are beginning to close, but I will tell you all about it.
Firstly, I had my first kickboxing class at my new kickbox/taekwondo/MMA/fitness gym and I love. I am in love. Completely.
I also met Alex, whom I'd actually met before, but barely spoken to, and we hit it off quite nicely. He's on the competition team, so I'm hoping to train with him and get back up to speed in Tae Kwon Do.
We then went shopping for a little bit, and went back to the hotel to get ready. I put on fake lashes for the first time, and let me tell you, all my haters can fly away to the batting of my kick ass eyelashes when I flutter my eyes, because I looked amazing with them on.
We ended up going to Le Rouge, a semi-classy bar, and skipping the whole line, because we were seven pretty girls in heels and dresses, and that's like Jesus In A Bottle to clubs.
My sisters bought me my first legal club drink (I'm pretty sure it was a Sex on the Beach, but it might have been a Long Island Iced Tea, I'm not really sure at this point.) Here are experiences, in no particular order, that happened to me:
- went to put my empty drink on a VIP table behind me. Guy caught me. Asked me to dance in exchange for putting something on his property. I told him the glass was now his property but I was out. Got pulled back in the dance circle by a friend.
- Feet were killing me so we sat at a VIP table. Got up on the benches and danced, as well as one of the girls I was with. Was asked by security to please not do so. Girls from the table came back from washroom as the guys there were offering the friend I was with and I a shot. Dirty looks were exchanged. We left before it got ugly.
- Was dancing. Reconfirmed I do not know how to dance.
- Was dancing, a guy kept petting me from behind, from ACROSS the dance floor (is that a thing that people do now???). Turned around to politely ask him to fuck off (using the words "Please fuck off") only to find him giving me an intentionally creepy smile and a finger-wiggle wave. Looked him up and down, did my "yeah ok, maybe in your dreams" face and turned back around. Too bad, though, he was good looking and tall, and when I saw him again later, he looked normal.
- Was comforting a girl from the group outside as she had lost her ID and $160 in the club. A guy passed by and whistled, eyeing us up and down. I'm pretty sure my voice cracked when I yelled "FUCK OFF YOU ASSHOLE" at the top of my lungs. Alcohol and my bad temper do not mix well, apparently.
- Another guy passed by and said, rather more politely, "You guys looks smashing." I responded with a "Thanks, but right now is really not a good time.". You have to give me credit for being polite where polite was due.
- Took a taxi back, as half of the group had already left. We left about thirty minutes after. Got to the hotel, only to find the girl with the key (who had left in the first group) was no where to be found. Lied down outside the door. Security found us. Didn't really know how to deal with it. Asked us to go to the lobby. Friend was livid with anger, not only at the girl who was supposed to have the key, but also with security. Frankly, I felt safe about it, because if it were the other way around, and another group of people was loitering outside... We ended up getting back into the hotel room at about 3am, where I slept in a bed with three other girls.
-Woke up to my big toe nails feeling like someone had tried to rip them off using plyers, my skin between my toes and the balls of my feet cracked open, my hands hurting like crazy (but that may be the kickboxing) and, wait, for it, my dress neatly stacked in my bag, my shoes in their shoe bag and my braces in. Look at me being responsible. I also, did not make out with anyone or grind up on any strangers (although I'm actually really really really bad at grinding as I don't have any rhythm). So, I guess I really am an adult now. Or not a slut around my sister's friends. I'm not even sure. All I know is that it's good news.
Highlight of the night: a table of VIPs found out it was my birthday and offered me a shot. At this point, although I am usually a super light weight and had had three coolers, two shots of Sambuca, a Sex on The Beach (I think that's what they got me) and a Long Island Iced Tea (that my sister ordered for me as a second drink), I was not even drunk in the slightest. The conversation went a little bit like:
"It's your birthday, right?"
"Yeah!"
"Well, you have to have fun on your birthday, right? If ever you're thirsty, come see us! It's open bar for you, but only for you!"
Then, whenever a new member of their group would learn that it was my birthday, it would restart:
"It's your birthday?"
"yeah!"
"Have a drink, and pick a drinking partner!"
And that's how I ended up with four free shots of a drink I can't identify but was delicious, two Jaggerbombs, and three glasses of a drink I don't even know what was in it, but was delicious. That's also how I ended up so drunk I made three phone calls I shouldn't have made, but that's another story in it's entirety.
I'm now off to take a shower, as I'm wearing the same bra I had on yesterday and it smells of sweat, perfume and booze, and also a nap, because I'm dying. Then, I will go to the gym and pray que je me casse pas la geule sur un tapis roulant.
Good night y'all, and here's to being able to legally drink vodka as I am forced to do adult things like laundry and tax incomes.
Vero
My fingers feel slightly sluggish and my eyes are beginning to close, but I will tell you all about it.
Firstly, I had my first kickboxing class at my new kickbox/taekwondo/MMA/fitness gym and I love. I am in love. Completely.
I also met Alex, whom I'd actually met before, but barely spoken to, and we hit it off quite nicely. He's on the competition team, so I'm hoping to train with him and get back up to speed in Tae Kwon Do.
We then went shopping for a little bit, and went back to the hotel to get ready. I put on fake lashes for the first time, and let me tell you, all my haters can fly away to the batting of my kick ass eyelashes when I flutter my eyes, because I looked amazing with them on.
We ended up going to Le Rouge, a semi-classy bar, and skipping the whole line, because we were seven pretty girls in heels and dresses, and that's like Jesus In A Bottle to clubs.
My sisters bought me my first legal club drink (I'm pretty sure it was a Sex on the Beach, but it might have been a Long Island Iced Tea, I'm not really sure at this point.) Here are experiences, in no particular order, that happened to me:
- went to put my empty drink on a VIP table behind me. Guy caught me. Asked me to dance in exchange for putting something on his property. I told him the glass was now his property but I was out. Got pulled back in the dance circle by a friend.
- Feet were killing me so we sat at a VIP table. Got up on the benches and danced, as well as one of the girls I was with. Was asked by security to please not do so. Girls from the table came back from washroom as the guys there were offering the friend I was with and I a shot. Dirty looks were exchanged. We left before it got ugly.
- Was dancing. Reconfirmed I do not know how to dance.
- Was dancing, a guy kept petting me from behind, from ACROSS the dance floor (is that a thing that people do now???). Turned around to politely ask him to fuck off (using the words "Please fuck off") only to find him giving me an intentionally creepy smile and a finger-wiggle wave. Looked him up and down, did my "yeah ok, maybe in your dreams" face and turned back around. Too bad, though, he was good looking and tall, and when I saw him again later, he looked normal.
- Was comforting a girl from the group outside as she had lost her ID and $160 in the club. A guy passed by and whistled, eyeing us up and down. I'm pretty sure my voice cracked when I yelled "FUCK OFF YOU ASSHOLE" at the top of my lungs. Alcohol and my bad temper do not mix well, apparently.
- Another guy passed by and said, rather more politely, "You guys looks smashing." I responded with a "Thanks, but right now is really not a good time.". You have to give me credit for being polite where polite was due.
- Took a taxi back, as half of the group had already left. We left about thirty minutes after. Got to the hotel, only to find the girl with the key (who had left in the first group) was no where to be found. Lied down outside the door. Security found us. Didn't really know how to deal with it. Asked us to go to the lobby. Friend was livid with anger, not only at the girl who was supposed to have the key, but also with security. Frankly, I felt safe about it, because if it were the other way around, and another group of people was loitering outside... We ended up getting back into the hotel room at about 3am, where I slept in a bed with three other girls.
-Woke up to my big toe nails feeling like someone had tried to rip them off using plyers, my skin between my toes and the balls of my feet cracked open, my hands hurting like crazy (but that may be the kickboxing) and, wait, for it, my dress neatly stacked in my bag, my shoes in their shoe bag and my braces in. Look at me being responsible. I also, did not make out with anyone or grind up on any strangers (although I'm actually really really really bad at grinding as I don't have any rhythm). So, I guess I really am an adult now. Or not a slut around my sister's friends. I'm not even sure. All I know is that it's good news.
Highlight of the night: a table of VIPs found out it was my birthday and offered me a shot. At this point, although I am usually a super light weight and had had three coolers, two shots of Sambuca, a Sex on The Beach (I think that's what they got me) and a Long Island Iced Tea (that my sister ordered for me as a second drink), I was not even drunk in the slightest. The conversation went a little bit like:
"It's your birthday, right?"
"Yeah!"
"Well, you have to have fun on your birthday, right? If ever you're thirsty, come see us! It's open bar for you, but only for you!"
Then, whenever a new member of their group would learn that it was my birthday, it would restart:
"It's your birthday?"
"yeah!"
"Have a drink, and pick a drinking partner!"
And that's how I ended up with four free shots of a drink I can't identify but was delicious, two Jaggerbombs, and three glasses of a drink I don't even know what was in it, but was delicious. That's also how I ended up so drunk I made three phone calls I shouldn't have made, but that's another story in it's entirety.
I'm now off to take a shower, as I'm wearing the same bra I had on yesterday and it smells of sweat, perfume and booze, and also a nap, because I'm dying. Then, I will go to the gym and pray que je me casse pas la geule sur un tapis roulant.
Good night y'all, and here's to being able to legally drink vodka as I am forced to do adult things like laundry and tax incomes.
Vero
Friday 20 June 2014
How Bout We Stop Being Retarded: A rant.
So I saw this picture on facebook once too many times, here's what I have to say about it.
I am not proud of being a woman. I'm not non proud of being a woman, either. It's just that I don't see the point in boasting that I have a higher estrogen level and lower testosterone level. A biological eventuality is nothing to be proud of. The same way that I am not proud of being blonde. Or being tall. Or having ten toes. I literally had a 50% chance of having a second X chromosome. Had the coin flipped the other way, I probably wouldn't of been proud of being a man, either (although we all know or can guess the origin of the word "cocky" so I can't really affirm anything, actually).
I'm proud of being intelligent, though. I'm proud that I've read my way through life. I'm proud that I know how to work well. I'm proud that I can think. I'm proud that I can sometimes put my fears to the side, and do something that I was afraid to do (for example, going to the bank. Those people are super snooty and scare the crap out of me, but I need to manage shit because apparently that's how adults act when their mother isn't around).
I am proud of my resume. Of the fact that I have the Queen's Jubilee prize for making a difference in my community. Of the fact that I am driven and I can go get what I want.
So can we please stop with the "I'm so fucking entitled about what differenciates me from another group of people when I've done nothing to deserve to be entitled about it."
You want to be proud of being a woman? Be proud of being a mother. Be proud of breaking the glass ceiling. Be proud of redefining stereotypes. Be proud of being a motherfucking human. You don't get to be proud about that extra chromosome. You don't get to be proud of being a dipshit that pulls doors instead of pushing them, of doing simple math on your fingers, of "hiding your pain". I've seen countless men do it. I've seen countless children do it. You don't get to be proud for insignificant moments that don't define being a woman, at all. You get to be proud when you've proven yourself. End of the line. Show me that you can go above and beyond others, and you can be proud. Because I can guarantee there is someone out there who can do double the things you do before the microwave beeps.
Sunday 15 June 2014
Hipster
I kind of understand them. Hipsters, I mean. There's something in knowing that you didn't jump on a band wagon. In knowing that this one thing that everyone loves, you loved because you loved it, not because you're trying to fit in and agree with the society that surrounds you. In knowing that when you loved it, it was yours. Maybe not your own creation, your idea, your brain baby, but hell, you had a bigger part of it than you do now.
It feels like you're sharing an inside joke with yourself. You know that knowing little smile you give your friend when someone else mentions something that reminds you of an inside joke you have with them? Well, it's like a little joke with yourself, a little mental nod when someone mentions an event that reminds you of your favorite book, of a quote of your favorite movie.
It's like a "Hey, I'm culturally advised enough to know about this, and no one else does." Call me condescendant, but I love the feeling when the whole world explodes with obsession over something, I can smile dans mon fort interieur and know that I've known for way longer than them that this thing in particular was cool.
But stop waving your stupid starbucks frappucinos and your lens-less glasses in my face. You're not a unique snowflake, stop acting like you are when really, you're just like every other self-entitled idiot in the world.
Also, I read the Fault in our Stars the actual year it came out, so stop telling me how awesome it is, I know.
It feels like you're sharing an inside joke with yourself. You know that knowing little smile you give your friend when someone else mentions something that reminds you of an inside joke you have with them? Well, it's like a little joke with yourself, a little mental nod when someone mentions an event that reminds you of your favorite book, of a quote of your favorite movie.
It's like a "Hey, I'm culturally advised enough to know about this, and no one else does." Call me condescendant, but I love the feeling when the whole world explodes with obsession over something, I can smile dans mon fort interieur and know that I've known for way longer than them that this thing in particular was cool.
But stop waving your stupid starbucks frappucinos and your lens-less glasses in my face. You're not a unique snowflake, stop acting like you are when really, you're just like every other self-entitled idiot in the world.
Also, I read the Fault in our Stars the actual year it came out, so stop telling me how awesome it is, I know.
Friday 30 May 2014
My tattoo
Ok so here goes. I'll give yous a quick run through of my tattoo, because so many people ask me that I may as well send them to this page.
I designed the concept about a year and a half ago: "I can" in black, with the apostrophe and the "t" written in white ink. If the white ink doesn't look like a scar enough, I'm getting it cut into my skin. The idea behind is is that I've gotten rid of the negativity. I still have the scars, but once I stop being pessimistic, everything is possible.
It only became more important for me to get it once my friend committed suicide. It reminds me that the easy way out is often actually the hardest, maybe not for me, but for everyone else.
It will also by in my own hand writing, not only because I've always pictured it like that, but also, I like the idea that it is my idea, not a quote, not a robot that typed it out. I want the "I" to be written in that distinct way that I make mine, because it is my struggles, mine.
It took me a long time to get the placement right. It's such an original idea (no, dearest brother, I didn't get it from Pinterest. I'm sure someone else thought of it before me, but I actually did think of it myself, all on my own), I didn't want it on my wrist, and it's too small to get it on my hip, which I have a weird obssession with (my second tattoo will definitely be there). Same with my rib cage, and I hate the shoulder placement.
My chest has always been a sensitive spot for me, but it became even more so when a friend of mine tried to take advantage of me: he held me by the throat, his hand stretching to my chest. I therefore figured my chest was a good idea. The collar bone really attracted me, but it's too high to hide it easily. I had to figure out where to put it, and right between my breasts was like the worst idea ever.
It will therefore be right above my left breast, not as a sexualized idea, but rather because I can hide it easily if I chose to, but I can wear a low-cut but not slutty shirt and show it off.
I've picked the left side because the left side of the brain is the logical hemisphere, and seeing as I am the most un-emotional person I know, and that logic got me over every struggle I've experienced, it just wouldn't make sense to put it on the right. I'm also right handed, so if I were to write it on myself, it would have to be on the left.
There, you have it. So to all of you saying that it's a stupid idea, I know. I know to you, when I say it out loud, it's cheesy and I may regret it in some years. That's ok. It's in an area that I can hide it if I chose to, and it's a reminder. It's supposed to be there in the moments when I want no one to be there with me.
So just wait till I get it before shooting me a disbelieving look.
I know I can't wait.
I designed the concept about a year and a half ago: "I can" in black, with the apostrophe and the "t" written in white ink. If the white ink doesn't look like a scar enough, I'm getting it cut into my skin. The idea behind is is that I've gotten rid of the negativity. I still have the scars, but once I stop being pessimistic, everything is possible.
It only became more important for me to get it once my friend committed suicide. It reminds me that the easy way out is often actually the hardest, maybe not for me, but for everyone else.
It will also by in my own hand writing, not only because I've always pictured it like that, but also, I like the idea that it is my idea, not a quote, not a robot that typed it out. I want the "I" to be written in that distinct way that I make mine, because it is my struggles, mine.
It took me a long time to get the placement right. It's such an original idea (no, dearest brother, I didn't get it from Pinterest. I'm sure someone else thought of it before me, but I actually did think of it myself, all on my own), I didn't want it on my wrist, and it's too small to get it on my hip, which I have a weird obssession with (my second tattoo will definitely be there). Same with my rib cage, and I hate the shoulder placement.
My chest has always been a sensitive spot for me, but it became even more so when a friend of mine tried to take advantage of me: he held me by the throat, his hand stretching to my chest. I therefore figured my chest was a good idea. The collar bone really attracted me, but it's too high to hide it easily. I had to figure out where to put it, and right between my breasts was like the worst idea ever.
It will therefore be right above my left breast, not as a sexualized idea, but rather because I can hide it easily if I chose to, but I can wear a low-cut but not slutty shirt and show it off.
I've picked the left side because the left side of the brain is the logical hemisphere, and seeing as I am the most un-emotional person I know, and that logic got me over every struggle I've experienced, it just wouldn't make sense to put it on the right. I'm also right handed, so if I were to write it on myself, it would have to be on the left.
There, you have it. So to all of you saying that it's a stupid idea, I know. I know to you, when I say it out loud, it's cheesy and I may regret it in some years. That's ok. It's in an area that I can hide it if I chose to, and it's a reminder. It's supposed to be there in the moments when I want no one to be there with me.
So just wait till I get it before shooting me a disbelieving look.
I know I can't wait.
Friday 2 May 2014
Love
I don't think I've ever been in love. I've had some pretty serious crushes: I was on and off with a guy for a whole two years, never able to fully get over him until lately. I *really* liked the guy. But I don't think it was love. I had a six month crush on some guy in 6th grade. In my defense, he was really good looking as an 11 year old. I think, though, that any amount of things may make me fall in love, someday.
I think that if I was making chocolate pudding at four am and he walked in and said "Is that chocolate pudding?" and I would say "Yes, would you like some?" and he would say either "No, thank you, I'm tired. I'll go back to bed" or "Yes please, I will sit down with you and have some pudding and maybe a light conversation", I would fall in love a little bit. Because you know how many people would say "Why are you making chocolate pudding at four in the morning?" ? Too many people.
And I think if he understood that my idea of a perfect date is nachos and video games at two am, I would fall in love. Because I don't like going out. I don't like PDA. I don't like people around us seeing how I would look at him. So even though I suck at video games and have MAD gamer rage, if he can watch me fail at shooting people and scream profanity at a bunch or random strangers while trying to manage a string of melted cheese, I would fall in love.
I think that if I was shivering and he gave me his sweater, I would fall in love. Because I fucking love oversized sweaters. And probably his smell.
I think if he knew that when something that I obsess over (like school. Or nerdy things.) is going badly, my world is suddenly all gray and I hate everything, I would fall in love. Because it would mean that he listens.
I think if he was the type to sit and do his own thing while I studied or read, quite in silence, I would fall in love. Because there's nothing better than having a connection with someone without having to talk.
I think if he knew how to make myself feel better about a body I hate and a personality I'm desperately trying to fight, I would fall in love. Maybe because a part of me is trying to love myself. Maybe because I need to know that someone doesn't see my flaws. Maybe because it's so nice to know someone thinks you're great. I just know that if someone manages to make me fall in love with myself, I would have no choice but to fall in love with him.
This is all theoretical, of course. I don't actually know what will make me fall in love. And it's not something I'm rushing towards. Looking forward too, maybe. Because I was trapped in a emotion void for so long that letting myself feel and show emotions is the most refreshing thing I've every tried. So, I'm looking forward to it, but I don't want to run head first into it. Because that's stupid. And I'm not stupid. And if he sees that, then I'm sure to fall in love with him. I just know it.
I think that if I was making chocolate pudding at four am and he walked in and said "Is that chocolate pudding?" and I would say "Yes, would you like some?" and he would say either "No, thank you, I'm tired. I'll go back to bed" or "Yes please, I will sit down with you and have some pudding and maybe a light conversation", I would fall in love a little bit. Because you know how many people would say "Why are you making chocolate pudding at four in the morning?" ? Too many people.
And I think if he understood that my idea of a perfect date is nachos and video games at two am, I would fall in love. Because I don't like going out. I don't like PDA. I don't like people around us seeing how I would look at him. So even though I suck at video games and have MAD gamer rage, if he can watch me fail at shooting people and scream profanity at a bunch or random strangers while trying to manage a string of melted cheese, I would fall in love.
I think that if I was shivering and he gave me his sweater, I would fall in love. Because I fucking love oversized sweaters. And probably his smell.
I think if he knew that when something that I obsess over (like school. Or nerdy things.) is going badly, my world is suddenly all gray and I hate everything, I would fall in love. Because it would mean that he listens.
I think if he was the type to sit and do his own thing while I studied or read, quite in silence, I would fall in love. Because there's nothing better than having a connection with someone without having to talk.
I think if he knew how to make myself feel better about a body I hate and a personality I'm desperately trying to fight, I would fall in love. Maybe because a part of me is trying to love myself. Maybe because I need to know that someone doesn't see my flaws. Maybe because it's so nice to know someone thinks you're great. I just know that if someone manages to make me fall in love with myself, I would have no choice but to fall in love with him.
This is all theoretical, of course. I don't actually know what will make me fall in love. And it's not something I'm rushing towards. Looking forward too, maybe. Because I was trapped in a emotion void for so long that letting myself feel and show emotions is the most refreshing thing I've every tried. So, I'm looking forward to it, but I don't want to run head first into it. Because that's stupid. And I'm not stupid. And if he sees that, then I'm sure to fall in love with him. I just know it.
Thursday 1 May 2014
School's out
Wooot! I finally wrote my last exam, way back this morning.
I wish I could say it went well, but none of them did. I was so confident for bio, but I checked my answers (they're mulitple choice and the answers are posted right after the exam) and for some reason, I did pretty terrible. I blanked in chemistry and I didn't study nearly enough for math.
This was the semester that I was supposed to pass, but that didn't quite work out as planned. The worst part is that I was so excited, so motivated. I'd done my homework all year, had studied, knew everything.
I'm just so tired of blanking on exams. Which is why I'm considering corrective therapy. Apparently there are therapists at my school, so I'll be talking to my counselor about it.
Veronik
I wish I could say it went well, but none of them did. I was so confident for bio, but I checked my answers (they're mulitple choice and the answers are posted right after the exam) and for some reason, I did pretty terrible. I blanked in chemistry and I didn't study nearly enough for math.
This was the semester that I was supposed to pass, but that didn't quite work out as planned. The worst part is that I was so excited, so motivated. I'd done my homework all year, had studied, knew everything.
I'm just so tired of blanking on exams. Which is why I'm considering corrective therapy. Apparently there are therapists at my school, so I'll be talking to my counselor about it.
Veronik
Tuesday 29 April 2014
Getting back
So yesterday I actually shared my blog address with a friend of mine, and it got me reading my posts. I'll be writing more, right after I write my exams... One tomorrow at 8:30 am, one at 7pm and one at 8:30 on Thursday. The school said they can't switch anything, because it's not three in the same day, even though it does fit the 24 hours slot, which is something that MOST other universities adhere to. Thanks for nothing, UdeM.
Sunday 23 March 2014
Work In Progress
If I were to start all over again,
would I forget everything I've known and start anew?
I can show you my loose tooth as proof
that I am a fighter, not a lover, but
that I do love a good fight.
I refuse to kneel before those who tell
me I am wrong even though reason screams that I am right.
But don't you ever say that these fists can't become hands that reach out to help you up,
But don't you ever say that these fists can't become hands that reach out to help you up,
and don't you dare ever say that I've
closed my eyes before fear,
because I have seen danger and looked
it in the face and not dropped a single tear.
And I learned that I am allowed to laugh, and I am allowed to cry,
And I learned that I am allowed to laugh, and I am allowed to cry,
but I am not allowed to let pride soar
into the sky,
because when it falls down, it will
crush your spirit,
and there is nothing you can do about
it.
It's vicious, it likes to destroy
a) friends
b) success
c) love
d) all of the above
and I would tell my children that it's
not what you think but how you think that matters
And that you can't step over others
because you were helped to grow taller
and commitement isn't a prison, it's
only being strong enough to trust your own heart.
And trusting isn't a fault, it's
learning to fall and fly
and that honesty hurts, but it's better
than to tell a crashing lie,
and that it's ok if you're not ok.
And I would tell them that life is not
a path, but a maze where you can't go back.
And when you have to dig that tunnel on
your own, how easy it is to push others away.
And when you cry for help and no one
comes, you'll discover like never before the strength of your own
nails, as you dig through the mud that others try to move before you.
And if you ever do come through,
wipe your brow because it's not done,
you'll have to keep walking until your legs give out.
And you'll learn that death is
inevitable, and how lucky you are to be of those who die,
because how many did not live? How many
did you beat to the breath of life and how many did not
even get a chance to race,
and compared to others, you were raised
in golden lace.
And when the first tear falls and you
get to taste the salt in it,
I hope you know how to dance through
the rain, and not wait for it to pass.
I am a fighter, not a lover, but if I
could I would tell my children all this so that they don't repeat my
mistakes,
so that they can live in a hopefully
better world that I helped to make with my own hands for their own
sake.
Writer's block
I've had literally the worst writer's block ever, for the past couple of months. I don't know if you've read my previous blog posts, but the quality has been dropping steadily, until a month ago or so, I haven't been able to write anything at all, even though a bunch of events have taken place in my life. I re read the very last poem that I've written, about a year ago, and it is by far my best one. I may post it on here at one point.
I'm currently going through a confusing (not difficult, but I'm not sure how to deal with it) ordeal right now, and I've been trying to get my thoughts down on paper. A paragraph just won't cut it, and it's not the type of thing I can write a short story about, since I don't understand what's going on myself. I've been trying to get it down either in a poem or in lyrics, armed with my guitar, but nothing is happening and all I can do is improvise a couple verses that end up boiling down to nothing. I've therefore decided to do a series of writing exercises that have done nothing at all for me. Frustrated that I couldn't find a creative and logical way to summarize my bio notes, I decided to get back in touch with my creative side, as it apparently has helped me to study in the past. I also decided that the "ordeal" afore-mentioned that I'm living is keeping me from concentrating properly, and that writing a poem describing my exact feelings about it would help. So I sat down in the middle of the library, kicked off my shoes (I'm in the hipster library, it's fine, I won't be judged for it) and tried not once, but eight times to start a poem that made sense. Nothing. Therefore, I literally just wrote whatever came to mind, without stopping. I wrote for about two minutes, which is still a lot considering you have to think words for two full minutes, and here's what I came up with:
I'm currently going through a confusing (not difficult, but I'm not sure how to deal with it) ordeal right now, and I've been trying to get my thoughts down on paper. A paragraph just won't cut it, and it's not the type of thing I can write a short story about, since I don't understand what's going on myself. I've been trying to get it down either in a poem or in lyrics, armed with my guitar, but nothing is happening and all I can do is improvise a couple verses that end up boiling down to nothing. I've therefore decided to do a series of writing exercises that have done nothing at all for me. Frustrated that I couldn't find a creative and logical way to summarize my bio notes, I decided to get back in touch with my creative side, as it apparently has helped me to study in the past. I also decided that the "ordeal" afore-mentioned that I'm living is keeping me from concentrating properly, and that writing a poem describing my exact feelings about it would help. So I sat down in the middle of the library, kicked off my shoes (I'm in the hipster library, it's fine, I won't be judged for it) and tried not once, but eight times to start a poem that made sense. Nothing. Therefore, I literally just wrote whatever came to mind, without stopping. I wrote for about two minutes, which is still a lot considering you have to think words for two full minutes, and here's what I came up with:
I have so much to say but I literally
cannot get it out
I would love to repeat my successes of
the past
but the rhymes are stuck somewhere
between
no man's land and the crater that my
creativity has
landed in, out of reach, out of bounds.
What am I to write
when the words are stuck somewhere in
my throat and my fingers
can't find the right keys to press to
make a masterpiece,
when my brain is frozen and my thoughts
slow as in a fog,
fighting like a parachute-ridden sprint
across a grey
landscape, the one they call “writer's
block”.
What am I supposed to write when all I
want to express is my
frustration as to why I cannot get my
feelings out, such as they
tumble out of my brain, out of my heart
until they all get stuck
at the threshold of my expressivism,
until all I see are
questions in eyes of those that I want
to speak to, but cannot reach,
as if communication was the fire to my
inner cave man.
I can feel them fighting to get out,
but every time I sit down
to right them down other things take
over and the words, once so
helpful and friendly, fight me in order
to let themselves be hidden once more,
in the prison of a cage of something I
can't even define,
when jadis the paper was my escape and
the definitions were
subtelties that could help me express
one thing over it's synonym's
and only those well written could
understand the nuances of
everything that I felt and saw in the
world around me.
I've corrected the typos, but apart from that, I've left the rest untouched, french words and made up words included. I'll be posting the poem that I did write, the one that I like, later on (did I already mention that?) but here is the product of my writer's block. Writing this post is actually much easier than writing the last one (I don't know if you noticed, but it's ridden with typos and it's jerky) and I feel like I'm thinking much clearer, so there's that.
Veronik
Friday 7 March 2014
Allienated
Note de l'éditeur: This was really not supposed to become a rant. I started off by thinking I would write about my experience coming from a non-conventional house hold (which is totally an understatement) and getting suddenly thrown into society, but it turned into a development of my mental and psychological issues.
Under no circumstances do I want you to think I suffer or am depressed. It's just how it happened, and I am quite happy with my life :)
I've been sitting in this cafeteria doing homework for the past hour and a half, longingly staring at the Van Houtte twenty feet from me and the wall plus not ten feet away. However, two girls are sitting at the other end of that table and I have to cross the cafeteria to get coffee. And to me, that's worth sitting here, typing on a semi-dark screen so as to save battery on a de-caffeinated brain, surviving on the fumes of freshly brewed coffee. I mean, literally, the only thing that is stopping me is the nagging voice in my head saying that people will judge me if I suddenly get up and move.
When I was younger, I begged my mother to get me out of homeschool and into school. The first day of third grade, armed with a mushroom cut, an ugly sweater (to be fair, I don't remember what I was wearing, but knowing what my wardrobe looked like at that point in my life, I'm fairly sure it was faded jeans and an ugly shirt) and buck teeth, I bravely stood in line, amongst people that already knew each other for four years already. I'd already been to school before, in first grade, at Hélene Gravel. I don't remember much, except for bits and pieces, especially one part where we were standing in line after recess and were expected to sing the school song, which clearly, everyone was expecting me to know, but how could I? I was knew and it was early in the school year. Now that I think of it, it probably wasn't so early in the year, and apparently, I was in gymnastics for a full year, although I can swear I was only there for a bit. I do remember them expecting me to know the full warm up routine and who my teacher was, but I was pretty lost as a young girl.
I blamed it for a long time on my lack of the english but I'm pretty sure I'm just really good at building walls around reality. If I don't want something to exist, I will block it out. I forget the existence of people and events if I need to.
This trick proved useful when I presented in front of classes. Or when I had to talk to strangers, such as the cashier at the store, or someone who smiled at me in the street. Obviously, it's not the perfect solution and it creates more problems than solutions, but at least I can buy things at the store now.
As a little girl, I was confident, helpful, full of joy, intelligent. Slowly, after joining school and not figuring out what a BigMac was until 7th grade (my third grade teacher had mentioned it once in a math class and it had stumped me until some guy who ate McDonald's every day brought three in and everyone was talking about it. I only recently tasted one, and I'm in university), I realized not only did I think everyone but me was stupid and didn't think very much, but also, they thought I was weird. I was always the outsider, not necessarily bullied, but put aside if possible. To be fair, I was pretty much a bitch to everyone, and it only got worst when we got to high school and there were cliques. I eventually made a group of friends who I wasn't so close too until a year or so later, but I always felt put apart.
At one point in eleventh grade, my boss stuck me in a closed booth with some girl from school I absolutely despised, and trust me, it was mutual. I told myself I'd convince her everyone at school was wrong and I was actually not a control freak. For the first two or three weekends, I had to work really hard not to tell her what to do and ask her opinion. Little by little, though, we became good friends and I started trusting her, more than I trusted my best friend. I also slowly started loosening up and realizing not every one was a total idiot. I started talking to people at school, but due to my reputation, I was obviously not well received until stag, where too much alcohol proved that I actually do have a sense of humour hidden somewhere under all the facts accumulated by too much reading.
My grades also dropped. Being logical and friendly all at once was clearly too much, but I'm learning.
Not only did my grades dropped, but so did my confidence. I used to walk into a room like I owned it, strutting and talking loudly, but the more I smiled when I talked, the meeker I became. I let people start walking all over me, even writing essay outlines for people I barely knew (to be fair, we were a graduating class of 80 people, so when you "barely" knew someone, you knew their full name, their family links, and the general vicinity of their house).
Over the summer, I woke up one morning and it clicked: no one actually cares who you are and what you do. My confidence came back. So did my logical thinking. So did my bad attitude.
When I moved to Montreal, where I got a job with the public and where people are much more vocal about your physical appearance, I became more sweet with people, just as before, in grade 12. I also raked 50% across the board that semester.
This semester, I'm trying to balance it. I'm still trying to figure out how the society works instead of each individual person. The comments are coming back, though. Not exactly bullying, but the fact that in a circle, I'm always standing slightly outside. In a conversation, I'm usually listening, not interjecting. I'm also maybe more sensitive to it, and I take each joke a little bit harder than it's meant.
Every once in a while, the realisation that came over to me this summer hits me in the face. No, no one cares who you. You are literally just another girl in a ponytail, playing a game on your phone, or sitting with your legs crossed. People will brush over you, some thinking about you for a split second, going "She has a pretty face" or "that's an awkward way to sit", but within twenty seconds, maximum, no one will remember you. I know what the girl behind me is wearing because I noticed it when I sat down, but I cannot for the life of me describe her face.
I'm typing this from a plugged computer, right before going to get my coffee before I die. I'm sure I'll do something embarrassing soon enough and go back in my shell, but if I can come out for just a second at a time, I'll be ok.
Friday 17 January 2014
2014
Well hello, fellow new yearers.
My New Year post is way over due, but it is because I was in Sudbury for New Year's and nothing happened.
Literally. I sat in my bed watching Netflix until 12:11, at which point I answered a few texts of Happy New Year and then shut the light, pulled my blankets up to my neck and closed my eyes, quite like any other night.
The New Year, however, oh man. So far, I've started school, which shouldn't come as a big surprise,but this time, I'm feeling pretty confident. There was a whole mix up, involving the fact that my parents wanted me to get into university as fast as possible (I'm actually in prep year right now. So technically, not university, even if I go there and pay for it anyway), but since I couldn't get into McGill (I was missing my physics credit, so I couldn't get in in 2013, and transfers almost never get in unless their grades are amazing, which mine are far from being) or go back to high school to get that credit (there would be no point), or go to LU to start first grade right away (which I thought was a brilliant idea, but my parents weren't enthusiastic) or go to CEGEP (which is two years anyway) I'm pretty much stuck at UofM, which I'm happy about, but my boyfriend isn't.
That's right, I also got myself a boyfriend, which was, I think, a little bit of a shock to my entourage, since they're so used to having me be the independent, Idon'tneedaboyfriend girl in their lives. Anyways, it's long distance, which is nice because I get to focus on my studies, but I am learning it really sucks not being able to see him when I want to. I'm thinking of getting my own personal jet for this situation, actually.
One other major change so far: I've cut my hair. And not in the two-inches-off-and-got-bangs, nono, I'm talking sixteen inches (that's going from my hair squarely touching my butt to it being just passed my shoulders) off, layers in, and died ginger (which is now fading to blonde, thank GOD, as it was supposed to be blonde this whole time).
I'd post pictures, but having me on this blog makes me nervous, so if you know me well enough, go see on facebook.
I've also deactivated (read: gave my friend my password so she could change it and I can't be tempted to go back ever because I have no will power) my facebook until April, which is nice. I liked it the first time I did that, as I think I've mentioned in another post.
Speaking of no will-power, I've also started Breaking Bad, which is a disaster to my social and academic life because I'm totally addicted and it's ruining my life, but I'm almost done so in two seasons I'll be able to resume my normal life. amen. Gonna go watch that right now even though I'm uber tired and have to get up tomorrow, because, really? who needs sleep? not me.
I am the one who knocks,
Veronik
My New Year post is way over due, but it is because I was in Sudbury for New Year's and nothing happened.
Literally. I sat in my bed watching Netflix until 12:11, at which point I answered a few texts of Happy New Year and then shut the light, pulled my blankets up to my neck and closed my eyes, quite like any other night.
The New Year, however, oh man. So far, I've started school, which shouldn't come as a big surprise,but this time, I'm feeling pretty confident. There was a whole mix up, involving the fact that my parents wanted me to get into university as fast as possible (I'm actually in prep year right now. So technically, not university, even if I go there and pay for it anyway), but since I couldn't get into McGill (I was missing my physics credit, so I couldn't get in in 2013, and transfers almost never get in unless their grades are amazing, which mine are far from being) or go back to high school to get that credit (there would be no point), or go to LU to start first grade right away (which I thought was a brilliant idea, but my parents weren't enthusiastic) or go to CEGEP (which is two years anyway) I'm pretty much stuck at UofM, which I'm happy about, but my boyfriend isn't.
That's right, I also got myself a boyfriend, which was, I think, a little bit of a shock to my entourage, since they're so used to having me be the independent, Idon'tneedaboyfriend girl in their lives. Anyways, it's long distance, which is nice because I get to focus on my studies, but I am learning it really sucks not being able to see him when I want to. I'm thinking of getting my own personal jet for this situation, actually.
One other major change so far: I've cut my hair. And not in the two-inches-off-and-got-bangs, nono, I'm talking sixteen inches (that's going from my hair squarely touching my butt to it being just passed my shoulders) off, layers in, and died ginger (which is now fading to blonde, thank GOD, as it was supposed to be blonde this whole time).
I'd post pictures, but having me on this blog makes me nervous, so if you know me well enough, go see on facebook.
I've also deactivated (read: gave my friend my password so she could change it and I can't be tempted to go back ever because I have no will power) my facebook until April, which is nice. I liked it the first time I did that, as I think I've mentioned in another post.
Speaking of no will-power, I've also started Breaking Bad, which is a disaster to my social and academic life because I'm totally addicted and it's ruining my life, but I'm almost done so in two seasons I'll be able to resume my normal life. amen. Gonna go watch that right now even though I'm uber tired and have to get up tomorrow, because, really? who needs sleep? not me.
I am the one who knocks,
Veronik
M sur Masson
I know I'm posting this before my New Year post (which is long overdue) but I needed to write it down before I forgot.
My father had to come down quite unexpectedly to Montreal and on his first night here, he brought Lex, my eldest sister and I to a restaurant.
My father is actually here to visit his grand-father, and trying to be supportive and also erase some of the guilt left over from not visiting him sooner, I offered to join. The only snitch is that I had just come home from school, was at my transfer, and it was 8:30pm when he picked me up there. I therefore did not get to visit my grand-father, who was sleeping, but my father, quite loyal to his habit, brought us to a restaurant on a whim. This time, it was M sur Masson.
Now, every time I go to a restaurant with friends, I describe three aspects of the place: decoration, food, and price. However, my sister is a graduated chef from l'ITHQ and my father is quite a foodie, so critizing the food seems somehow wrong... especially that having lived in Sudbury all my life, and therefore having mostly gone out there, I know just enough of grill and sports bars to know that the deco is generic and the food is mildly bad. Therefore, I don't know what the difference between good and excellent food is. I will, however, describe it to the best of my ability, as well as the rest of the night, starting from the beginning.
As I've mentioned before, it was a total impulse decision, one that was clearly on going when I stepped into the car, my sister and my father whipping out app names and search bars in order to find the best rated, reasonably-priced, open restaurant in the near vicinity. We almost decided on Phuket at that point, because that's pretty much what we were almost all feeling (I have to give credit to my sister on that one, although I did giggle like an idiot for ten minutes and felt the need to put it in here). As it was a quick decision, neither my sister or I were completely dressed for the occasion. Luckily, I'd pulled out a shirt with lace and a necklace that morning and I was almost acceptable, but my sister was wearing a dress over jeans (2003, anyone?), so she stopped by a dollar store to grab nylons and ended up looking quite stunning. Meanwhile, my father and I walked around the block, me resisting going up to every stray cat and my father undoubtedly resisting the urge to get a spray bottle (my father is not a cat person).
When we finally did enter the restaurant, we came nose to nose with heavy, red, velvet curtains. Standing, crowded in the small space, we were unsure what to do until my father pushed them aside and walked in. We followed and found ourselves in a "chic" bistro-like setting. Low lights, dark wood, wooden stairs with spaces between each step, artistically half-painted ceilings and bathrooms that were marked "W/C" printed white on a matted glass door. Clearly, this place was chic. And the people that went there were supposed to be chic. Until it wasn't. I mean, supposed to be all snob like classy. The people there looked like they were quietly enjoying themselves, dressed on the nice casual side (not casual nice - jeans were a little under, but pants on ladies were acceptable) and the waiter that we had was polite but not extravagant. It's a water-is-served-in-a-glass-bottle while there are fake plants (without a trace of dust, mind you) lining the counter behind you place.
We took our time ordering from the two-dozen or so itemed menu. I had the hardest time remembering the specials that had been specified to us, so I ordered something from the menu. My sister and I shared a tripe cassoulet as an entrée, then moved on to the main course. My father had ribs with fried sweet potato squares, I had a steak bavette with fries and my sister had hare ravioli.
I've never been a fan or ribs unless they're barbecued, charred and a summer dish, but my father's dish was good. My sister's ravioli were rich, flavourful (sooo many flavours. One after the other, in your mouth. So miam) and overall delicious. My father said that they were the best meal on the table that night, and he's probably right, but I was craving a steak and fries and my dish was pretty darn perfect. The steak was perfectly seasoned, cooked pretty much to perfection (I had asked au bleu, but it was more of a very rare. Which is what I usually look for, but am too shy to ask because I'm not doing that to any chef, ever. Working in a restaurant changes you). and the fries were oh-so-crispy and just the right amount of oil.
We ended dinner by sharing two pears poached in beet juice, sitting on pistachio paste and accompanied by banana ice cream sprinkled with pure cocoa between the three of us. I'm not really sure what the pistachio paste was doing there, and the pears hadn't been poached or decorqued correctly, but it was still pretty damn awesome, and it's something I'll be trying in the near (hopefully future)
I ate way too much, but I am so glad to have spent time with my father and my sister, both of whom I don't see nearly enough.
Final verdict? If ever you're in Montreal, you can try M sur Masson, but there are tons of restaurants that are "typical Montreal". A little bistro feel with a "chic" environment, polite servers and pretty awesome food. There's always a new one to try, with new items on the menu you've surely never tried. I've never noticed how tired I was of bix-boxed, loud, commercial, bright-lighted restaurants with reheated prepped-two-days-in-advanced food until I met Montreal's greatest charm: little cozy places, where sitting and talking comes naturally.
My father had to come down quite unexpectedly to Montreal and on his first night here, he brought Lex, my eldest sister and I to a restaurant.
My father is actually here to visit his grand-father, and trying to be supportive and also erase some of the guilt left over from not visiting him sooner, I offered to join. The only snitch is that I had just come home from school, was at my transfer, and it was 8:30pm when he picked me up there. I therefore did not get to visit my grand-father, who was sleeping, but my father, quite loyal to his habit, brought us to a restaurant on a whim. This time, it was M sur Masson.
Now, every time I go to a restaurant with friends, I describe three aspects of the place: decoration, food, and price. However, my sister is a graduated chef from l'ITHQ and my father is quite a foodie, so critizing the food seems somehow wrong... especially that having lived in Sudbury all my life, and therefore having mostly gone out there, I know just enough of grill and sports bars to know that the deco is generic and the food is mildly bad. Therefore, I don't know what the difference between good and excellent food is. I will, however, describe it to the best of my ability, as well as the rest of the night, starting from the beginning.
As I've mentioned before, it was a total impulse decision, one that was clearly on going when I stepped into the car, my sister and my father whipping out app names and search bars in order to find the best rated, reasonably-priced, open restaurant in the near vicinity. We almost decided on Phuket at that point, because that's pretty much what we were almost all feeling (I have to give credit to my sister on that one, although I did giggle like an idiot for ten minutes and felt the need to put it in here). As it was a quick decision, neither my sister or I were completely dressed for the occasion. Luckily, I'd pulled out a shirt with lace and a necklace that morning and I was almost acceptable, but my sister was wearing a dress over jeans (2003, anyone?), so she stopped by a dollar store to grab nylons and ended up looking quite stunning. Meanwhile, my father and I walked around the block, me resisting going up to every stray cat and my father undoubtedly resisting the urge to get a spray bottle (my father is not a cat person).
When we finally did enter the restaurant, we came nose to nose with heavy, red, velvet curtains. Standing, crowded in the small space, we were unsure what to do until my father pushed them aside and walked in. We followed and found ourselves in a "chic" bistro-like setting. Low lights, dark wood, wooden stairs with spaces between each step, artistically half-painted ceilings and bathrooms that were marked "W/C" printed white on a matted glass door. Clearly, this place was chic. And the people that went there were supposed to be chic. Until it wasn't. I mean, supposed to be all snob like classy. The people there looked like they were quietly enjoying themselves, dressed on the nice casual side (not casual nice - jeans were a little under, but pants on ladies were acceptable) and the waiter that we had was polite but not extravagant. It's a water-is-served-in-a-glass-bottle while there are fake plants (without a trace of dust, mind you) lining the counter behind you place.
We took our time ordering from the two-dozen or so itemed menu. I had the hardest time remembering the specials that had been specified to us, so I ordered something from the menu. My sister and I shared a tripe cassoulet as an entrée, then moved on to the main course. My father had ribs with fried sweet potato squares, I had a steak bavette with fries and my sister had hare ravioli.
I've never been a fan or ribs unless they're barbecued, charred and a summer dish, but my father's dish was good. My sister's ravioli were rich, flavourful (sooo many flavours. One after the other, in your mouth. So miam) and overall delicious. My father said that they were the best meal on the table that night, and he's probably right, but I was craving a steak and fries and my dish was pretty darn perfect. The steak was perfectly seasoned, cooked pretty much to perfection (I had asked au bleu, but it was more of a very rare. Which is what I usually look for, but am too shy to ask because I'm not doing that to any chef, ever. Working in a restaurant changes you). and the fries were oh-so-crispy and just the right amount of oil.
We ended dinner by sharing two pears poached in beet juice, sitting on pistachio paste and accompanied by banana ice cream sprinkled with pure cocoa between the three of us. I'm not really sure what the pistachio paste was doing there, and the pears hadn't been poached or decorqued correctly, but it was still pretty damn awesome, and it's something I'll be trying in the near (hopefully future)
I ate way too much, but I am so glad to have spent time with my father and my sister, both of whom I don't see nearly enough.
Final verdict? If ever you're in Montreal, you can try M sur Masson, but there are tons of restaurants that are "typical Montreal". A little bistro feel with a "chic" environment, polite servers and pretty awesome food. There's always a new one to try, with new items on the menu you've surely never tried. I've never noticed how tired I was of bix-boxed, loud, commercial, bright-lighted restaurants with reheated prepped-two-days-in-advanced food until I met Montreal's greatest charm: little cozy places, where sitting and talking comes naturally.
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