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.