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.
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