Alone... and happy?

Quick note for y'all reading this: It'll be my last post on this blog, before deleting it. I'll be posting the new address on my facebook page, for those of you who want to keep reading me (or send me an e-mail, I'll send you the link).

This post is entirely about me and my inability to date, so if you're not interested in me, you can stop reading. You can also go join a Nickelback fan page, since you're not into interesting stuff anyway, apparently.

I was speaking to my mother about a date I'd been on, and I mentioned that I'd been unimpressed and that I was going to die alone with cats.
"Of course you're going to die alone, you're always unimpressed," was the answer I'd received.

While it wasn't the most heart-warming thing my maternal element could have said, it wasn't new. I was never known as the girl who fell in love. I never got attached. And I was never interested in sharing my life with people.

I could go on about how in high school I was uninterested in boys, and then I realized that putting my walls up and taking jabs from behind my shield at people who had intentionally left their defenses down wasn't being strong, it was being an asshole, ect ect, but let's drop the life story and cut to the chase.

I'm alone because I like being alone. I enjoy manufacturing my own happiness. I buy myself pizza. I take me out for coffee. I write poems describing the inner turmoils and poems who start with "Oh, let me count the ways I love thee" and I'm the only one that feels truly understands me. If I want flowers, flowers will show up at my doorstep. I'll never feel guilty about receiving chocolate but not wanting to eat it because I'm on a diet. I am content.

Of course, there are sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to receive happiness from someone else. A different brand of happiness. Other people seem happy with it. Of course, I get myself a mochaccino if I want, but what about times where I don't know I want a mochaccino and someone gets it for me?
I think there's a difference between the happiness I get by being alone, which is satisfaction, and the happiness I could find through someone else, which is something closer to joy.

Nevertheless, the only reason I try dating is because people around me are so concerned about my non-dating. At Christmas, I received countless comments about the fact that I was alone. I started making efforts, but now that I'm constantly seeing someone new, I receive countless judgemental and uncomfortable silences from people I mention it to. 

I think we all need to accept that it won't work out because I don't want it to work out. I don't want to lose my independence, I don't want to be anchored to someone else, I don't want my decisions to have an impact on someone else. 

I've fallen into a nice routine of having a beer paired with small talk, a couple texts, smiley faces, a inevitable dying out of keeping in touch and a expected, but uncalled for "Hey ;)" four months later, as though they've suddenly run out of options on Tinder or in the real world or wherever people get potentials nowadays and I'm the oasis in the desert. Unfortunately for y'all, I seem to be a mirage, as I am unreachable at that point.

Of course, this whole routine is another subject I want to talk about, but enough for tonight.

I just wanted to get it out there: I won't date. And if other's don't want to date, that's fine. Don't make comments. Don't insinuate things. Let them find happiness in reading a book alone over a coffee exactly as they like it, and let them gently float in the knowledge that the will be able to toss and turn and not feel overheated in their bed tonight, holding their own hand if need be (Uh, hello, we have two for a reason, people.).

Here's My Future: It Doesn't Include Any Maternal Instinct

Well hello there, fellow member of a civilized, modern society.
Surely, somewhere in your head, is a map of your life, and on the horizon, you see things like a career, a house, a partner, children. Somewhere just below the surface of your inner conscious, you see yourself coming to a warm home from work to a loving spouse (or the equivalent of), making supper, and bringing the kids to soccer, or ballet, or theatre recital.
My point is that you have a future in your head and it includes a family. Someone to welcome you home, and also little people to take care of, to love and to teach. And that's normal. And then maybe again, you're like me, and kids... well, they're a no.

Now here's the thing. It's not that I don't like kids. In fact, I love them. You give me a child and I will have a blast with them for hours on end. I'll colour in Disney princesses and run around in the grass and have conversations about primary school drama. And then I'll really enjoy giving them back to you. I plan on being that really cool aunt who takes her sibling's kids out on her days out and sends them back at sunset, completely sun burnt and hyped up on ice cream and chocolate and with multiple exciting adventures they can rattle off until their parents put a toothbrush into their tiny mouths and send them to bed. But taking care of a child 24/7? Nah. Having a tiny little thing under my supervision and my full responsibility scares the crap out of me.
I mean, I know nothing about life. How am I supposed to help navigate someone clean and bright and new and shiny and trustful and how am I supposed to handle when they get it all wrong and crash and get hurt and it's all my fault? I mean, I can get up and keep going, but brushing dirt off my child's face as they mess up repeatedly through life? I don't think I can handle hurting for someone AND feeling guilty for it too.
And not only that, but I plan on being busy, all the time. All. The. Time. And for myself, too, not doing things for other people. Call me selfish, but running off to drive my child because they forgot to get a sheet signed for a school trip or because they missed the bus or because they plain old forgot, just doesn't interest me (and I'd like to insert a heartfelt apology to my mother here. Sorry for the multiple impromptu begged rides, mom.). What if I want a career? What if I want to pick up and go off to the Caribbean and sip on booze for a week? You can't do that if you have children. I mean, you can't even do that if you have a dog, for Pete's sake.
Oh, and as long as we're being brutally honest here, what if my child doesn't have it easy in life? And by this, I mean, what if I end up with a child that is remarkably non-good-looking, or socially awkward, or not particularly intelligent? I'm not sure I want to deal with the implications that come with that, especially once they start going to school, where there are children. Cruel, cruel other children.
Because children are cruel. They probably don't do it on purpose. But something in their little brains, or maybe a weird version of the Napoleon syndrome pushes them to say dumb things that hurt others and brings them down to their levels. I don't want to deal with that. I don't want to deal with hissy fits and teenage horrors and their rookie mistakes.
Last but not least, I really, really don't want to get pregnant. It just freaks me out. I find the body of a pregnant woman beautiful. The idea that she might create and give life, and the amount of love she will feel for that bundle of human flesh and snot actually, literally makes my heart flutter with joy. But the idea of myself becoming a balloon, and the feel of my stretched skin and the idea of pushing what is essentially a parasite out of my body during several hours makes me cringe. I just can't do it.

So here's the bottom line, guys. When I say "I don't want children.", I don't want to hear any variation of:
- Oh you'll change your mind, you'll see
- Oh, you just don't know what you'll miss out
- Oh, you're young. Of course you don't want kids now.
- What if you fall in love with a man who wants kids?

Keep this in mind. Right now, in this moment, I am not considering having kids in my life. In any part of my life. And it is incredibly frustrating to have to explain it to every single person that I speak to. I know what raising a child is. My mother had 6, and I saw all of us go through the same phases. I extensively took care of my two little brothers for at least four years. I like to think I have a pretty good idea of what I'll be "missing out on". And if I fall in love with someone who wants kids, we'll either talk it out, or part ways if our respective views on offspring outshine our need for each other.

So, no, don't give me a fucking condescending look if I say I don't want a crotch devil anywhere in my life. And don't give me fucking soothing words of advice. I have at least five perfectly good reasons to not give birth and raise a child. I'm not stupid though: I realize I might change my mind in the future. But right now, if you ask me "do you want children?" and I respond with a negative, I will slap that look off your face, and shove your own shirt down your throat if you open it to try to make me admit that I'll want some at some point. Because, according to my point of view right now, no. I won't.

PS: for the sake of not arguing with anyone later on, keep in mind that I have considered foster children if I don't end up having a heavy career and I am also not averse to marriage, even if it's not something that I actively think of or have planned, as demonstrated by the lack of a "wedding" board on my Pinterest.

Dating, kissing, cuddling and other shenanigans... or not

So I've recently joined Tinder. Yes, at the ripe age of 18, I've decided to give up on meeting people in social settings and basically meeting guys who have a) judged me chiefly on my physical appearance and less than 400 characters (and visa versa, to be fair) or b) accepted every single potential presented to them in an effort to match with every girl that's into them, and that includes me.
It's been loads of fun, really. Basically, two weeks in, I've spoken to dozens of different guys with different stories, and all romantic endeavours aside, it's been fantastic to hear about all these different mind sets and life stories and snippets. It's basically a playground of people. Because I've always been the type to make rash and slightly unreasonable decisions for the hell of it, I've so far been on several dates with several men... and it's only been two weeks.

This whole episode got me talking to a co-worker who's slightly older than I am and engaged and just basically wise in the ways of life. We got talking about first kisses and dates. He asked me if I kissed on the first date.
"Sure, if I really want a second one. It's my way of telling that if they want a second date, they can ask without fear of getting rejected."
He paused what he was doing and looked at me: "Damn, woman, you move fast"
He then went on to explain that usually, it's kiss on the second date, sleep on the third.

Let me just explain something: I don't care who the fuck made that rule up, it is a dumb rule. I'd comment on the stupidity of such a time frame, but I have a point that's more important to make.
Sexuality is a deeply intricate and personal subject. Whether you sleep with every man you meet, or you've had one partner in your life, it's your choice. It's a gut feeling. It's something that happens, and whether it is magic and emotional or you're just going through the motions, as an adult, you make your own decision.
I'm not sure if my co-worker was thinking that I make out with them on the first date when I really meant I give them a peck on the lips as a "I just wanted to let you know that this was nice", or if he straight out thinks that a kiss is too much after meeting someone. In that case, since three dates is also only a hand-full of hours, why is it ok to go all the way? Actually, I don't care what he thought. Whether you decide to kiss them, make out, have sex, explore fantasies, whatever, it's between you and another consenting adult. Not between you, a consenting adult, and the rest of the damn world.
So no, I will not wait until the second date to kiss you if we have fantastic chemistry and I will certainly not sleep with you the next date if I don't want to.
I will make out with you within the first few minutes if I want to, or I'll make you wait until I feel I can do it without lying about my will to do it. I will have sex with you on the first night if I feel like it, and I will make you wait three months if that's what it takes for me to trust you.
What makes me angry isn't the time frame. It's that other people think that they can tell me who I allow in my bed and into my life and what point. I'm not following a social convention when it comes to something as precious and intimate as my sexuality. Society has nothing to do in my bedroom.

50 Shades of Nope.

I'm rather angry at 50 Shades of Grey. Or perhaps the fact that it made that E. L. James grossed 33M in three years, (not counting the film industry) and it's not only poorly written, but it also portraying a glorified image of a growing and alarming issue.

Here's what I have to say about the trilogy: 

I'm going to start out with the fact that this book made literary erotica cross the line from socially taboo to socially acceptable and main-stream is wonderful. I could write an entire post about erotica, and I might, but that's for another time. In summary, however, erotica is a great alternative to pornography, especially in a generation that has access to it long before they have a first sexual experience and have distorted ideas about sex. 

I also love the fact that it got BDSM out there. I'm not a part of the community, but through research and talking to people who do participate in the practice, I have come to understand that partners who partake in BDMS have a relationship based on trust and profound and growing intimacy with their partner. After all, it takes a special bond (no pun intended) to give someone a weapon and say, "here, find the point where you hurt me, but stop before the pleasure goes away." E L James also put a light on the subject and popularized this idea, and I also think she shocked society into the knowledge that alternative sexual options are open to them.

The trilogy rustled my jimmies when I realized how she portrayed such a relationship between two characters.
I haven't read the trilogy because I refuse to vote for it with my money, but I feel I have done enough research on both sides of the argument to stand by my point that what Ana and Christian have is not a healthy relationship.
And that's the point. Surprise, the book would have no plot if there was no character development. Oh wait... there is none, after all.
It seems that James tried really hard to write a book about redemption and growing love while putting a twist in the form of an exciting and hardly known sexual enticement. In theory, she manages just that: Ana "fixes" Christian, who, because of his love for her, ultimately pulls through childhood issues and stops with the violent loving. Ana is willing to put her fear of pain for her love for Christian. She is a heroine, suffering for love. In the end, their relationship has endured hardships and violence and abuse and come out stronger. It's the typical love story, with a shocking, sexual component. Of course people would lap it up. 

However, unfortunately for common sense, Fifty Shades of Grey shouldn't have struck the winning formula to a best-seller. In fact, the writing is quite poor and repetitive. She seems to prefer the words "gasp" and "blush" and use them at an annoying rate. Furthermore, the couple does not "make love" or "have sex". They fuck. Congratulations on the super deep emotional level, James. I mean, I can think of seven synonyms for "gasp" off the top of my head. Also, gasping is not the only thing you can do to express pleasure. The only thing I'm taking away from this piece of literature is that James has a rather poor sex life or a limited vocabulary and no access to the Internet thesaurus. Maybe both. 

However, poor writing is not my main concern with this book. To put it bluntly, it's the glorification of abuse in the book. Hang on with me here, I'll walk you through it:

Christian Grey is the personification of an oxymoron: Rich, handsome, independent, he has his life together. Except, represented by a room full of weapons, he has dark, red demons. But Christian Grey is not a masked murderer or an openly abusive partner. Oh, no. Christian Grey, hurt and suffering from childhood issues, takes his frustration out through violent pleasure. At the risk of getting lynched by BSDM adepts, it seems to be a consistant feature in members of the community: they would rather take out their demons through rough sex. This is not definitive in a an abuser, and if done right, BDSM is the opposite of abusing. So let's look at the definition of an abuser, according to the Free Dictionary, shall we?

1.1 someone who regularly or habitually abuses someone or something, in particular.

1.2 someone who sexually assaults another person, especially a woman or child.

Christian Grey makes Ana sign a contract which she cannot negotiate, refuses to stop when she asks him to, takes no heed of her fears and does not confort her after a particularly violent session, punishes her for standing up to him and blows a gasket when she uses the safe word. Instead of a back and forth relationship between a dom and a sub, it's all about him. He dominates, sure, and she's submissive, but it goes further than that: she does it out of fear, because he gives her an ultimatum: "Accept that I am as I am because I was hurt as a child, or leave." She fears leaving him, and she fears the sex. Forcing someone to do something does not equal consent. And no consent during sex has one definition: rape.

So how is it that if a man does not wear a condom when asked to during intercourse, it's considered rape because it is not total consent, but playing on basic human instincts and emotions in order to force someone to do something they're not fundamentally confortable with isn't? 

There is also of course the fact that outside the bedroom, Grey is completely inappropriate. He takes over Ana's life, buying the company she works for, stealing her car and blaming her for it, marrying her so that she is his and his only. In return, Ana is never appreciated on her own in the books. She is a sharp-tongued and smart, but her shyness, her plain demeanour and her willingness to slink behind Grey's much more impressive shadow shine through in the novel; the moments when she is not with him, she decays into what is a pitiful and sad form of a human (which is where James meets Meyer, I suppose.) and she seems to do everything for him instead of out of pleasure or internal motivation.

The problem is not that these themes are in the book. Literature should shock, literature should explore taboos, and abuse is a very present problem in our society. In fact, we should applaud any author who tackles the problem head-on and calls it out. But James doesn't. Which is where lays the problem. The problem is that these over-whelming and strong themes are undermined in the writing. Never is it mentioned that this behavior is wrong. Never is it mentioned that this is not what a normal relationship is (and before I'm confronted, I know it's the whole point of the book, but it is never explicitly said, and it seems the fact flew over most reader's heads). Never is it mentioned that the audience shouldn't applaud Ana for standing up to Grey, when really, she is just acting as a normal human should when confronted to something that she doesn't agree with. Instead, James glorifies Grey, and it works: several millions of readers have fallen in love with him and fantasize about a man that could be just as rich, handsome, and - especially- as dominant as Christian Grey is. 

That is where my true issue with the book lies. I'm calling society out on the fact that they think that it's okay to idolize a man whom treats his girlfriend and wife as a man should never treat a partner. I'm calling out society on the fact that that is what they will think is acceptable in a partner. I'm calling them out on the fact that we blew this up to ridiculous proportions and we applaud a woman who wrote not one, but three books whom not only have no plot, use the same impersonal and bland words to describe what should be a vastly multifarious and intimate experience, but who also eulogizes a human that has no respect for someone he loves... and the fact that it's ok that a woman cannot extricate herself from an abusive relationship that ultimately and in any context outside of a fantasy, would destroy her. Real life is not a book. Real life is not Grey and Ana. Real life is dangerous, and very few people truly change, even for love.
What I want to see is a book where, sure, the excitement and suspense of violent love hooks the reader in, but it's also made clear that the victim can get out, whether they be man or woman. Abuse is a rising problem in our society. Let's not pretend that it's justifiable with love, and let's certainly not idolize it. 

A Guide On How to Handle Rejection; By a Girl Who Can't Deal With Self-Entitled Douchebags Anymore (A rant)

I'm fairly certain that at a certain age, people have a large repertoire of ways to say "no thank you" to a date. I'm not sure how it works with guys, but I have had to take out rather heavy artillery at times. And I have no problem with a persistent guy. I mean, someone who doesn't give up after the first time is kind of sexy. Someone who doesn't give up after the third time is downright annoying.

I've had my fair share of Velcro guys. It's rather my fault, I'm afraid, as when I was younger, "no" was so damn hard to say. As a classic example of an ugly duckling, any attention at all was welcomed. Therefore, when boys asked me out, it was my ultimate goal to say no without losing their full attention. There is, of course, also the fact that I just generally don't want to hurt feelings. And

I find it incredibly unfair that if I try to mitigate the mess of your feelings when I reject you (because rejection hurts no matter what), you get to call me a bitch.
No, you don't get to be mad at me for not wanting to go on a date with you. Hard as it may be for you to understand, I don't find you attractive. You're not my type. Get over it.
And if you do ask me out, and I say no at first, you are 100% allowed to ask me out a second time. Just to make sure I'm not playing hard to get or want to reconsider. I get it. If I'm into you but too shy to say yes, I'll appreciate the second chance. If I'm genuinely not into you, I'll accept it as such, and know that the door is open if in the near future, I can sheepishly ask you for a date because I was too dumb to appreciate your value the first two times. 

However, gentlemen, if she refuses two times and you want to risk it a third time, you better make sure you fucking nail it. I mean, if she's said no twice, you better have a really good argument for why she should say yes, even though she's clearly not interested in you without it. And if it works for you, then, please, by all means, all the power to you. I'm patient that way. I'll understand. Third time might be the charm, after all.

But. BUT, after three times, you don't get a fourth chance. And I can't believe I actually have to write that down. It just seems ludicrous. After four times, I've probably used a weak and personal reason ("Oh, I don't date costumers", "I'm not sure we have anything in common", "I'm super busy lately") and a smile the first time. These are usually stories that can be easily challenged, especially if I want a second chance. Usually, if I want one, I'm not satisfied with how you asked me, or we're around people I don't want to say yes in front of, or I'm just not sure. That's your cue to ask a second time: just challenge what I've said. If I deny it a second time ("No, really, I don't date costumers. Ever. And I don't make exceptions", "Haha, well, I'm actually seeing someone else, and I'm not sure he'd appreciate it", "No, really, it's absolutely hectic, but I'll let you know if my schedule clears up?"), we're done here. You'll recognize them as lines that are harder to object to.
If the issue was the context in which the date was suggested and I actually want a date or change my mind, I'll be sure to contact you again. The door is open. Congratulations. Now go lick your wounds.

However, if you decide that I'm missing something, and that I'm missing out on a fantastic relationship, you get a third chance.
"Yeah, but I have a fantastic cooking talent that you didn't know about." Oh, you do? Well, I suppose I can agree to one supper, then. Blow me away. 

But, if I'm really, genuinely, completely not interested, at this point, I'll write you a three point essay. I'm not sure how other girls react to this (and proceed at your own risk), but I'll still try to protect your feelings by writing you a full-out, three point essay with arguments and references, but still keeping from anything along the lines of: "You're blatantly boring", "I hate your facial hair and it disgusts me to the point I don't want to look at you", and "I just really hate your dad and I know you'll turn into him at some point, so I'm not even going to go there." but I'll be rather clear about my intentions. At this point, it'll probably hurt a bit more than the other times, simply because someone putting their foot down hurts, whether it be physical or figurative. 

If I do this, and you ask me a fourth time, I have every right in the world to say "No. Fuck off."
I won't. But I could. And some girls will. 

I'll be rather sharp, though.
And here's the thing. Some guys will turn around, at any point in this whole fucking process, and call the girl a bitch. No. No, you do not get to call her a bitch, especially if she protected your feelings this whole entire time. Unless she looked you up and down the first time you asked her, smacked her gum, and went "um, ew. No." you don't get to call her anything. You get to shut the fuck up and respect that not everyone will be your type. And if it hurts to be around her without being with her, then respectfully back away out of her life. Otherwise, put your big boy pants on, man up, and decide to be cool. Maybe she'll fall for you then.
But I am so fucking tired of having to pull eight hundred excuses out of my ass (If I have to say [and it's happened]: "I'm actually off to Montreal to study in a convent", ITS TOO DAMN FAR. YOU'RE TOO DAMN FAR. TURN BACK.) just to protect your fragile little overblown ego, it's too far. I'm just not into you. There are certainly other girls who will be. Stop harping on me and go find them. No wonder you're still single. 

What we think of others.

You'd know what I like? I'd like a lip ring. I won't get a lip ring, because the reasons to not get a lip ring are far greater than the reasons to get a lip ring. One of these reasons is the way that people will see me.
And yet, I have a tattoo on my breast. It is sexually suggestive, even though that's not why I got it. It sends a certain image, which certain people can see as being a negative image. And yet, I have a tattoo. On my chest.
This tattoo means a great deal to me. Which is why I got it even though it changes the way people see me.

See, the thing is, society sees a person the way that they present themselves. And while I really don't have a problem with that, many people do. Why? Why is it wrong to not be attracted to morbidly obese people or skeletically skinny people, which are both embodiments of bad health? Why is it wrong to find piercings or tattoos agressive? Skimpy clothes provocative? Why is it wrong to act upon this?
I'm not saying to lynch everyone that doesn't physically appeal to you, but is it wrong that I, at almost 5'10, appreciate boys who are at least two inches taller than me and will therefore be much more easily attracted by a boy who is 6'? And while I wouldn't appreciate a boy straight out asking me how much I weigh (Especially that I seem to have rather generous curves and dense bones, so weigh much more than I should), I don't mind them judging me on what they like or don't. Maybe they don't like my hair, or the fact that I have hips, or no butt. Maybe they can ask me my body fat percentage, and I'll say 23%, but I'm working towards 21%, and if they know what that means, they can decide whether or not that's something they appreciate.
I don't have a problem with that. As long as I don't get publicly ridiculed for it or for something else I can't change, or am unwilling to change (heads up, I like my roots: I'm not dying them. I don't like my nose, but I'm not willing to get surgery. I also don't like my thighs, but I'm working towards it. See where I'm going with this?), I don't judge you on your preferences.

We must stop judging others on their private, personal thoughts. It's rude, and really quite none of our business.

"Do your best. Chances are, your best is average. That's ok. Do your best, and then sit back and have a beer."

My whole life, I was told I was extraordinary. To my parents, I was the kid who hadn't screwed up. To my boss, I was part of a two-women dream team. To my colleagues, I was the efficient one. To my peers, I was intelligent. To my teachers, I was the straight-A student with multiple extra-curricular activities. I was the star student with an amazing fight reputation in Tae Kwon Do. My singing teacher assured me I could go far if I wanted to. My mother kept telling me that coming from a family with money and a heritage meant I was more priviledged than anyone else. My father kept telling me that I knew how to succeed and rise ahead of everyone else. I strolled through life, convinced I was going to make it. I don't think anyone was more surprised then I was when I turned out to be really quite average.

I guess I've always known I was borderline. I've always known that I was smart enough to write well, but not to be a math gizmo. Pretty enough to impress people, but not to model. Nice enough that people warmed to me after a while, but not charismatic. I suppose I'm lucky that I'm well rounded, but I knew that I wasn't the top in anything. I would never excel. And yet, through my childhood years, I always had a strong support system. My parents, although not exactly there emotionally, were certainly there to give me the tools I couldn't acquire myself yet: finances, life experience, drive. I had teachers who believed in me, coaches who told me I had potential. And whatever I didn't excel at, I would avoid. Dancing? Pass. Drawing? God forbid they asked me to draw anything in school, I would get a friend to do it for me. Of course, intrisect motivation pushes one to do what they are best at, but I suppose that always having everyone around me telling me how good I was, was enough. And then I found myself without all those little bars and strings and ropes and people holding me up. And that's when I found out just how fragile my own two legs were. The first six months in particular were hard. I wasn't sure who I was, I wasn't sure which part of myself I wanted to focus on. I'm afraid I made rather poor decisions and that my priorities weren't straight. Instead of focusing on success, I focused on appearance. With it came vanity and a sense of self-entitlement. And yet, I figure I needed to go through that. It's part of my experience, as a child, as a person. I just wish I'd done it a little sooner, when I had people to help me back up when I crumbled.

Picking myself up was hard. Going from indestructible to brittle was painful, especially when I did end up breaking in multiple small pieces. But I now understand that if I work very very hard, and give my very best, and always reach for the stars, I am sure to stay average. Because average people are what make the majority of the world. And probability says that I'm in that majority.  

Dating

In a couple months, I went from turning down every single guy that's asked me on a date, to grudgingly accepting after five or six attempts, to accepting a quick initial invitation, to actually asking a guy out (through text, but nevertheless). A full 180. Un volte-face.
So tonight, I'm going out to grab a drink with a boy who've I've exchanged a full 5 sentences with, whom I'll admit I can't remember his face, who I'll probably exchange school and family questions with while pondering a million other things and half-listening to what he's telling me. I mean, sure, I'm bad at dating and I could probably pay more attention to my dates, but let me just say something: I'm tired of dating.
I haven't even started, and this whole let's-cautiously-tell-each-other-safe-things-and-desperately-try-to-guess-what-could-turn-you-off-and-not-mention-it-ever game is exhausting. The whole, put makeup on, and a special outfit, and shoes that are cute yet don't make you taller than him, and ponder your look carefully so as to look like you made an effort but not look desperate thing gets on my nerves. This whole, does he want me to order a salad and will he judge me if I grab a burger? thing is ridiculous. This whole, let's do five dates before seeing if we're compatible enough to sleep together is anxiety-enducing. Laughable, absurd, ludicrous.

You know what I'd like? I'd like someone to throw caution to the wind. Say "fuck it", pick me up at 11 at night, no makeup and sneakers and hair in a ponytail or hastily brushed, and take me to a 24/7 diner and throw fries at me from across the table. Or take me on a drive to see lights from above the city. Or take me on a hike and go running and see each other with messy hair and twigs in our clothes, and sweaty brows, and real, hearty laughs. I want someone to pretend they've known me forever, and then they'll get to know me so much faster.

I don't want to "go grab a coffee". I don't want to "meet up for a drink". I don't want to go through the whole awkward phase where I'm not sure if what you're telling me is true, or if you have an ulterior motive. I'm tired of not being paranoid enough, because I really don't give a shit, and wore something that isn't your favorite colour, or didn't pop a mint in after dinner. I want to grab pizza if I want to, I don't want to have to worry if you'll pay, and I certainly don't want to go back home having not laughed or gotten to know you. I don't want to walk on eggshells until it's been four months and we're finally confortable... and then we realize neither of us want what we initially thought the other one wanted.

And I might be scared of commitment. I might be scared of looking weak if I get attached. I might even look like that one aunt that always shows up to the family party with a different boyfriend and whom everyone knows will never actually get settled down.  But seriously? Screw conventions. Just grab my hand, show me something I've never done, and your odds of finding a girl that will follow you on the next adventure just increased tenfolds.

Pretty people have it best

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.

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.

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.

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.

It is a wonderful thing to be loved. To know that under my layers of deceptive flaws, someone sees a person worth caring for, thinking of, wishing to be around.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.