Sunday, February 22, 2009


Sometimes I get very emotional for no reason.

I don't know if it is because I am an artist, but sometimes I feel very hyper-aware of deeper issues flowing between two people. Tonight, I felt that with my sister.

Her name is Stephanie. She is beautiful. She is 19 years old, and she always has everything together. She finished college, works full time at an interesting and stable job where she is constantly given more responsibilities and promotion, and she always strives for more. She is a perfectionist. I am too, but in a different way. I am a perfectionist of the soul and mind. She is a perfectionist at keeping it together.

We were both born with different hair. I came out blonde, and she, brunette. Sometime soon though, my sister's hair lightened, and we both grew up blonde together. Blonde babies running around up north at our family's chalet, she would try and catch minnows with a net, calling for me to come join her, but I would be busy reading old comic books on the shore. I was in her room a moment ago, and I started wondering around, looking at her pictures, and I saw a picture of her at the chalet, in the water, caught off guard, as she so rarely is, and being caught off guard, she can only begin the strain of a smile. 

Stephanie is the youngest of three children. Our parents are wonderful but their flaws are obvious to us, now that we understand how alike our own flaws are. My brother takes after my mother in social manner, my father in humour and outbursts of frusteration. I take after my mother's personality, my father's humour, and possess an amplified version of many of their flaws. Through constantly trying to not become them, I have become a person somewhere in  between their obvious opposite and twin. And Stephanie, born admist all of the chaos and larger-than-life personalities of the rest of her family, was a shy and reserved child, interesting and captivating, and always careful to keep everyone out of her head.

I feel sometimes like I have some sort of superiority complex because I am an artist. It is so fucking pretentious for me to even call myself that, but I do, because I am, and I am at the point in my life where I accept that, and all that comes along with it. The incredible mood swings, dramatisation, out-of-control highs and desperate lows. The free spirit, the tight budget, the all-or-nothing syndrome approach to life. The insolence. My dad just called my name, and I answered: "Can't talk right now! I'm writing!" and he didn't attempt to speak to me again. It is this selfish absorption that I need to nurture a craft. When the idea hits me, it doesn't matter where I am or who I am with, but I have to get going, so I can write, or sing, or play it. And this leaves a lot of people in the dust. I feel bad about it, but I know I can't be any other way.

And in this selfishness, I feel like I have unconsciously pushed my sister into my shadow. She grew up with me there, always pushed a little bit aside, because I always needed more. Attention, music lessons, the best school, everything and anything to cultivate my "art". I never realised I was taking so much because I didn't just get many things I wanted, to me, I needed it.

Stephanie, on the other hand, is completely self-sufficient. She has always been that way. She never wanted to need anything or anybody. I don't know why she is like this, but maybe part of it is because she was so afraid of turning into my parents, or my brother, or worst of all, me. I am a year and a half older, and my sister drives me around, while I don't even have my liscence. She takes care of me. I hope that I take care of her in some ways too. Maybe I don't always have the money or the time, and definately not the car, but I hope that I help her feel special and get her through sometimes. 

But I don't think she really knows how desperately I wish I could be there for her. I always want to help her the way that I know how instead, by talking and being there and helping free her spirit. The thing is, I cannot think of one time where she has really been caught in a crunch. Car troubles, that is the only thing that I remember her ever needing someone to come pick her up for. And I clearly couldn't be the one to do that.

Stephanie never tells anyone what is bothering her. She walks around in a constant state of tension and intent, always a plan to be followed through. She writes to-do lists every day, more than once, on anything at all. She has to find order. Without order, she might fall into chaos, which I feel like I am in most of the time, and I know she never wants to be there. 

The other day, I was with my friend, and in the midst of complaining about everything I wasn't satisfied with in life, my sister came up. "She is so perfect. She has got it all together. She has the job, the perfect body, a beautiful face, the boys chase her, she has a car, she has a life, she's always busy. She is going to go so far in life, and I can't even seem to get my feet off the ground."

My friend replied, "You shouldn't compare yourselves. She has all that stuff, but when do you ever see her happy? I never see your sister and think that she is really happy."

And this made me so sad. Because I have been so caught up in my own woes and dramas, I have not realised before, in my whole life, that my sister has never really been happy.

This makes me sadder than anything else I can imagine.

I have always felt like a tag team with Steph. She's the younger, hotter, shy but warm under the surface sister. She's one of those Alpha Females. She can appear extremely cold, bitchy, indifferent, if she wants to be. This always puts her in the seat of power, and she has the maturity and skills to know how to use that power. I am the kooky sister, the bubbly, loud, ungraceful but spirited one. It has always been a thrill for our friends and others, comparing our smiles, our faces, our bodies, and then our polar opposite personalities. Despite our differences, we get along fabulously, sharing interests in everyday activities. Our ideas of fun on the social scene vary sometimes, but we still go out together. 

As we began our teenaged years, I started to bring her into my circle of friends. Bringing her out, showing her the debauched world, I really felt like her older sister. She was still breaking through her shell. Now she is a confident woman, full of her own projects and plans, and we joke that she is like my older sister now.

But I don't really feel that way. As much as my sister is tending to the surface of her life, polishing off the glass until it is clear and perfect, she will not be satisfied. She has too much left to learn, about how to let go, what it feels like to not be on top of things, to dance without caring if she looks good, to cry herself to sleep every once and a while, and to really feel what is going on in her life. It seems like she doesn't take the time to feel what she is going through, she is always so obsessed with getting to the end of the road that she misses the whole ride. And I don't want this for her. 

Because it IS the little things that make us happy. I am almost jobless, projectless, manless, and desperate on many counts, but I still smile and laugh, I live, I do things that I enjoy because I enjoy them and not because it is what I should be doing. I want her to realise this, because I am her older sister, and I will always be worried about her happiness, and part of my identity is her protecter and her teacher. That is how I am her older sister. Maybe I don't have everything on the surface pulled together, but I follow my heart, and maybe that will inspire her to follow hers.

Underneath all that perfection is a little girl. She is shy, afraid to fail, afraid what people think of her. She wants love and attention, and to feel like she is the most important thing every so often. She never wants to be let down, and so she never depends on anyone else. The only person she can really trust is herself, and if she makes her own mistakes, she will not have to blame anyone. She loves all those she keeps close to her, and she knows that if she works hard enough and spends enough time being productive that she'll have time later on to give them and her own family everything they need. She is the provider.

This girl is going to go somewhere, and that I never doubt, and no one ever will. She is strong, resilient, brave, and not afraid to take on any task. I just hope that she will one day stop long enough to hear what her heartbeat sounds like, listen to a song that really makes her feel that someone understands her, and really fucking laugh with a guy. Someone who will make her happy. Someone who will love her not because she's perfect, but because she isn't. 

It's okay to fail. It's okay to fall behind. After a while, life is going to stop listening to all your plans and it is going to spin out of control. When that happens, don't worry because you will learn to catch yourself. Just don't be afraid of falling down and laying on the ground for a minute before you stand tall again.

And don't be afraid to lean on someone. You can always lean on me, okay?

My sister dyed her hair brown this year. It is like when we were born again, the blonde and the brunette. We are so different, but we are so the same. I just can't explain how.

And someday, that hair is going to turn grey. Our bodies go, and our jobs end, and we are left with ourselves to face. I hope Stephanie will find someone who is going to be there, and who isn't going to care what happens to her body when it ages. But much more than that, I just hope she finds herself one day imperfect and can laugh at that.



Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Caught Green-Handed

So last night, the inevitable happened.

My mom caught me smoking weed. 

About a week ago, this might have caused me a heart attack, considering my mom is the angel of innocence and my dad is so against anything harmful I do to my voice (I'm a singer). But my uncle recently confessed to me that back in the glory days, my mom would engage in some less-than-kosher activities involving the plant.

So here is what happened:
I really wanted to smoke and chill in my room. It was 2:30 in the morning and my mom was still up, doing work on her computer. I decided I would risk it anyways, so I brought my kitten into my room and told my mom not to come in and steal her (she is doting on the cat like mad!) because she would disturb me and I was going to sleep. Lame excuse, hoping it would work, but considering my mother's usual refusal to listen to anything logic from her kids, she came barging in anyways to get the cat. And when she came in, I was sitting up in bed, listening to Sufjan Stevens, joint lowered and out. She pushed the door open, it got stuck on the towel that was jammed into the space, she looked down at it, sniffed the air, and said, "What are you smoking?"

And I said: "Nothing."


So then she left. And I was so surprised that she wasn't mad, wasn't upset, wasn't even shocked. I don't really know how she felt.

This afternoon my dad came to pick me up from the hairdressers, and I know he would eventually bring it up in some awkward way, and this is how it happened:

Me: "I think I am going to go to a concert tonight. One of those five dollar things. Maybe I will go to Sablo Café, you know, that reggea thing I went to twice. They had a workshop last night... but I don't know, I just didn't go."
Dad: "Were you smoking a joint in your room last night?"
Me: "Yeah..."
Dad: "How long has this been going on?"
Me: "Well it is only every once and a while, for the past few years now... like every normal teenager turned young adult."
Dad: "Where do you get it? Do you buy a baggie of grass or something?"
Me: "Dad!"
Dad: "What, I want to know! You buy it in a baggie?"
Me: "Dad, I am not talking about this with you."
Dad: "Why not? It's not like we're talking about sex."
Me: "I think this might be even worse."

And then we changed subjects! Whew. I got off the hook easy... so far. Because if I know my parents well, and I do, they will bring this up at random moments, use it as blackmail or guiltripping, hit me below the belt later on.

Oh well. Maybe they understand me a little better now.


Monday, February 16, 2009

Booty Call

I have a thing going with this guy named Mike.

He's a guy I was seeing in high school, a very brief seeing that doesn't count for much on the scale of one to life. He is attractive physically, but there is something that just didn't click. A couple of reasons:
1. He's an asshole.
2. He's full of himself.
3. He says the most bullshit things to sound smart.

During my high school days where I would take what I could get, but didn't know anything about having game, it went a little bit like this: Mike would show interest, I would return it, he would ask me to hang out, I was too eager, we would go out and make out, and then I would become needy and he would drop off the face of the planet. By the time he came back, I was so over it and would reject him, which would send him under and then have him surface again at a later time. And eventually, I would give him another chance, and he would let me down, and the cycle would start again.

So this year, Facebook's magical powers allowed him to randomly talk to me one day, giving some bullshit emotional apology for his past asshole behaviours. I don't buy anything that he says. I know that he always wants to get into my pants and that is it. But that just so happened to be what I wanted this summer, and so in my pants he went. 

The sexual connection was definately there. Not the most earth-shattering sex ever, but still good enough when I was lacking in action. 

And so then we began a game of cat-and-mouse yet again, years later, except this time it was for nooky and I really didn't care about him at all, and only mildly cared about him wanting me.

So now we have had sex four or five times, and everytime is the same thing. It is like buisness. He comes over or picks me up, we hang out for a bit and have conversations where we aren't really caring about what the other person is saying but just feel entitled to be heard because we are about to have sex with each other. We talk for as long as I can stand his annoying philosophies, and then we finally say, "Okay, let's do this."

So that is what happened tonight. He asked me to hang out, and I was not sure if I wanted to, considering my feelings for Andrew have been coloring everything I feel and do. I decided it might be a good distraction and good release, so I told Mike to come over, joking to my best friend that I would pretend he was Andrew.

It is very strange to have a sexual encounter with a person time and time again and to never feel more comfortable than the first time. That is what I realised tonight about Mike and I. We never know how to get the ball rolling, because our attraction is purely physical, which makes it mediocre to begin with. But it is physical on the most basic level, a warm, attractive body, not really my type but generically hot. When we speak, we don't really look at each other. I never really even looked him in the eyes tonight. We were sitting squished on my piano bench, and I didn't feel one tingle in my body. It was like there was zero chemistry.

Perhaps there is a quota on meaningless sex with a person. I think after a certain number of times having sex with someone you hold zilch affection for, it all becomes numb.

So we got naked, got off, and got dressed. And I knew right away that it should be the last time. I realise I have been settling, having sex with a person I have zero interest in whatsoever, a guy from my past that I will never get anywhere with. And instead of shrugging it off this time, it depressed me. 

Maybe it is because I am not easy-going about anything at this moment in time, but I just felt like I deserve more than a guy that just wants me when I am conveniant, and when he is conveniant to me. Friends with benefits is not necessarily a bad thing, but we aren't even friends! We just don't click, and we never will.


ps- While we were having sex, I DID imagine he was Andrew. Maybe that is what's so disturbing.

Saturday, February 14, 2009


I am starting to think it is time for me to get organized. I am sick of my inability to make decisions because I can't get my act together long enough!

Example: tonight is Valentine's day, that annoying fucking day that makes single people bitter, and even more bitter for letting it bug them. I try to treat it like a normal day, but somehow I can't escape the pressure to not sit at home doing nothing.

So I am too broke too go out, and nor in the mood with this ongoing tension headache, so I asked my single friend Ashley to watch a movie with me, hopefully of the non-love theme. Then I got an invite to go see a movie downtown with a friend and some of hers, and invited Ashley to do that instead. She declined; heavy pre-midterm study time. She encouraged me to go anyhow. I decided I would go, checked the train schedule, which just changed in January, and found out it sucked ass even more, and I would be getting to the movie late, plus I couldn't afford the 7$ train ticket nor find my mom's train pass, so now I am back at square one.

I refused two other invites from my girlfriends, ensuite of my pending money issues and headache.

So now, I feel like if I could have just organized myself earlier on, actually planned to get the train pass before my mom went out, I could have looked at the train schedule early on and made sure I got downtown. Instead I am stuck here with no car, no money, and no weed.

And no fucken boys.

My sister started explainging to me over supper that five guys had asked her out tonight and she had to reject every single one because she's working. And this did not upset her; she gained a sense of satisfaction from her independance and rejection-dishing skills. I, on the other hand, can't find a male friend or fuck friend in sight, never mind a real DATE. 

And so I sit here imagining what I might do tonight. I can actually feel minute movements in my brain moving one way and then the next because I can't fucken decide what to do EVER, and I always find myself stuck like this, shallow breathing, tense back, no plans. Here are my fabulous options:
1. Sit on this computer and job-hunt.
2. Watch a movie by myself, sober.
3. Watch a movie with my parents, sober.
4. Use the remainder of my funds to buy weed and watch a movie.

All of those things suck, except the last one is not so bad, considering it involves substance abuse. 

And my best friend is currently in Florida, so we cannot share our misery as usual.

But all I really want to do is spend the night with Andrew, jamming. Fat chance with him living in Halifax and all that. 

I have to go move there. Fuck it. I am actually happy when I am around him, even if he has a girlfriend. I just need to be there, doing what I want. I don't jam with anyone around here. I just don't know why I can't make it happen. It is so hard for me to foster new friendships with people who want to jam, especially now that I have no job or school through which I can network, no money to go out and socialize, and no home on the island of Montreal, where people can actually visit without it costing them loads of time and money.

Yes, I am feeling sorry for myself. And yes, I am trying to get off my ass and do something about it.

I have some job plans in the running. Hopefully I can save up enough money to go to Halifax for the summer. I want to be there. I need to be there. Not just for Andrew, for myself; for an escape, for the ocean, the music, the fresh faces. 

People say that running away does not solve your problems, but obviously those people have never just escaped being hit by a car by running away from it. Or running away from an abusive lover. Isn't running away from a place where I can't seem to grasp happiness a good idea, even if it is temporary? There will always be something else coming to bring you down, and then something following it to bring you back up. So what is the problem if I decide to run away until that gets stale, and then move onto the next thing? I think it's a good plan. 

Robert Frost said, "Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length."


That is what I am going to do. That is what I am going to plan on doing. As long as I have a plan, maybe I can get my feet back on the ground and work towards that goal, rather than spending so much time trying to figure out every situation at once and make it all perfect. 

So here is my plan:
1. Find a job. Any job to raise some money.
2. Pay off my credit cards.
3. Buy a plane ticket to Halifax.
4. Spend summer in Hali.

And then we will see where it goes from there. What is the point of trying to figure out what I am going to do about Andrew, career, life, all at once?

We'll see where this road takes me.


Friday, February 13, 2009


It is 3:22am.

I feel sort of tired, and can't stop thinking. 

I should seriously consider popping a natural sleeping pill every now and then. The only problem is, the only time I remember that I should buy some is when it is 3:22am and I can't sleep... again.

Here's what is on my mind:

Andrew. I cannot stop thinking about him. I tried to call him twice since I returned from Halifax 10 days ago, and still no word from the East Coast. And the thing is with Andrew, I never have to worry about when I should call him, how often, at what time. It never used to matter. We could talk for 7 days straight and then go for 3 weeks without speaking. There were no fucked-up dating rules about looking too desperate or anything. 

But now that I have opened up this can of worms, acknowledged the ambiguity of our relationship and having both expressed some kind of feelings, we have now been sucked into that realm of "Am I calling too much?".

And I hate that shit! I just want to talk to him, and now I have to be patient and wait until he has time to call me, or even worse, is ready to call me. Fuck. So I sit here every day of my mostly jobless life, suddenly trapped with no car or means of escape in the suburbs, overanalysing every last detail of what we said and did, and wondering what is going on in his head since I left. 

And that is the main reason I am so desperate to talk to him. I just want to know if he has been thinking about me; about us. 

I went to Cuba for a week this past summer, and while gone received 6 voicemails from Andrew. SIX! And he didn't call me for any reason, other than to fuck around and leave me numerous messages at a time, and to say he missed me. So it is pretty clear that as soon as I became unavailable, he desperately wanted to talk to me about nothing important. Just wanted to talk.

So how do I become unavailable? Should I play this game? I have a couple of problems, first being I don't have the necessary funds to fly down south just to play hard-to-get. And Murphy's Law says that he probably wouldn't take the bait just because it is what I am anticipating.

I could always disappear from Facebook, MSN, anything that shows that I am alive and bored.

But then again, if I am doing this with intentions of making Andrew think about me, does that mean he won't? Fucken Murphy. I hate that bitch.

So maybe I should take a break from Facebook and MSN anyways, because since I have come back home, they have been taking over my life. I sit there, hourrrrrsss on end, facestalking Andrew, his girlfriend, random kids I went to school with. I should spend all that time doing productive things like job hunting, playing music, socialising in REAL LIFE and perhaps excercising. Who knows, it might be good for me. So okay, I am going to do it, it is time to deactivate that account (temporarily of course). 

I have already deactivated my facebook once or twice, and I hate how those smug bastards refuse to let you do it until you select WHY. And they have the audacity and yet absolute wisdom to put as an option "I'll be back on Facebook later." They know they are a fucken drug. Unhealthy and unavoidably addictive. 

So now I will get right too it, facestalking for one last glorious moment in time before I deactivate. And I will pretend that I am doing it solely for myself and not so that Andrew will talk to me, so that Murphy doesn't come kick my ass yet again.

Wish me luck.


Monday, February 9, 2009

Home, Sweet Home


In the last couple of weeks, or rather days, a couple of things have happened that have changed everything.

1. I went to Halifax to see Andrew, my best (and very attractive male) friend of 5+ years. This confirmed my feelings for him, which lead to a talk. A restricted talk, considering he has a girlfriend, but basically my feelings for him were made known, and, get this, reciprocated! Maybe not fully- I have no one in my life right now, and this makes me sure that I want to be with him eventually. He has someone in his life, but he still has always wondered about us, felt more-than-friendly feelings towards me, and admitted that if we were to sleep together at this point, it wouldn't be wierd. Which is great when you are hoping with all your might that your friendship hasn't been shut into the "brother-sister" box.

2. Andrew also wants me to move to Halifax. Why? "Because you're my best friend, and it would be fun." So now I am very in limbo, considering the move. I told him I didn't think I could move there while he is in a relationship; it makes me too jealous. But I miss him so much and love that place so much that I am considering it, at one point in my life, or maybe a trial this summer. And so now I spend most of my thoughts thinking about Andrew and Halifax.

3. I moved back home! Ah! 

When I was in Halifax, I got a bird's-eye view on my life in Montreal. I thought to myself, what the fuck am I going to do with myself/my life? And how the hell can I pay for an apartment with scarcest of all scarce income? So I decided to move back to my parent's house in the burbs. 

And the thing is, so far, I am actually happy. There is a sense of relief that hits you when you have been struggling to keep something going for so long, stretching it to its limit and forcing yourself to come to the conclusion that you just.can'' 

And so I gave in. Just like that, I decided in a matter of seconds to return home, when for months before that I was despising the idea- the failure- that was looming inevitably ahead. 

This made me realise something. Or made me remember something I already realised: I have to do everything all the way, to the end of the rope, to see it's terrible conclusion so I can remember it and really know that there is no turning back. I don't like to make decisions, so I guess I force the outcomes on myself so that when I see everything crash and burn, it really has to be over, and I am relieved and will never doubt that I made the right decision. It is hard to have room for regret when you are always going down a one way street and hitting a dead end. 

You just have to turn around.

And maybe this takes more time, but I also like to hope and think that it builds character and wisdom. Cross my fingers. I hope I am doing something right because I don't know how to change at this point. 

So now I have to decide what kind of job to take, where to take it (suburbs, Montreal, Halifax!?), for how long, where to live, and on top of all that, if I should take the Leap of Faith for Love right now or in X time. 

My friend Kim tells me I put too much emphasis on getting everything perfect at once. I have such a hard time believing that all things will fall in their place though by me NOT trying my hardest. Just waiting for life to unroll properly. I think that is how it happens, but since I don't really have faith in any higher power, it is hard to believe that "hard work + effort = things working out" is actually false. It is more like "hard work + effort + chance = things working out". Or is it "not caring so much + chance = things working out". Well I have already exhausted my first two equations, so I think I will give the lazy one a try this time.

Can a perfectionist turn that voice in her head off and tension in her back release and just fucking live?

I'll try. But not before I think of the perfect equation for Letting Go.


Tuesday, February 3, 2009


My life is officially a 4.5 star romance film.

I have a soundtrack that goes with it, compiled of songs that Andrew and I listened to in Halifax, which now make me want to cry and crawl into a box and live there... because I am gone. I have been separated from the man that means the most to me in my life.

Listening to "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon and Garfunkel makes any romantic sentence a lot more hard to write without added drama.

I can't even write anything right now because I want to go cry. All you need to know for now is that I am home, and I am sad as hell, and Andrew feels the same way for me as I do for him. 

Add the complications of distance and other life circumstances like careers, money, and a girlfriend. Let's not forget imagining a whole new life of uncertainty in another place.

"But I love you, and that's all that really matters if this is goodbye." Words from a Mark Knopfler/Emmy Lou Harris song written based on Knopfler's dream of a wife and husband in the midst of 911. Maybe it is pretentious of me to relate my less-than-earth-shattering love pain to that, but I really feel like life couldn't get any more disastrous yet better all at the same time for me. I feel it coming.

I just hope it comes soon. 



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