don't ask if it even matters because both possible answers are equally horrifying and i know that you don't know what to do so either kill yourself or get through it and live better somehow

after all, is this life? up and down and your stomach bare naked on the floor. if only i could be a better human being, then i'd be a better human being. and if i were somebody else, then i'd be somebody else. you know, like, whatever. whatever whatever whatever. every second that i sit here, and, well, who cares? if it makes sense or not?

every time you hit your head against the wall, say sorry to the wall. do this in a repeating motion, sitting on a chair, in the same spot, until the egg cracks and the yolk runs.

i'm so happy i have my friends

me: do you ever worry that you are actually an insane, irrational person

n: i pretty much talk myself off of that cliff daily.

//

me: if i go to topman and buy things what kind of person does that make me

r: a sophisticated one

Winter of Self-Destruction 1.0

Earth, I am in crisis, and you don't give a shit.
This is the winter of my self-destruction.
On the metaphorical road of life,
I have wandered off into a field
and am standing there like a lonesome cow.

Loneliness, you're enormous.
I'm drunk and you're taking advantage of me.
There isn't anyone here. I am taking advantage
of myself. Oh no.
My past and future selves are fighting again.

I am in crisis. I am as lost as Kim's bike,
locked to a pole somewhere in the city or
the dusty brain corner of forgotten things.
Earth, if you can remember where I am,
now is a good time to take me home.

Loneliness, you're enormous.
This is the winter of my self-destruction.
I am lying down now.
I am staring at the sky now,
wondering when it is going to snow.

mouth sound

to say this word out loud

say this out loud

as i always am when i come here

i am confused

am i good or no good?

good/not good?

is this an act or is this

real life?

i feel

so much

anxiety

it

makes

me

want

to

.

one who does these things

one who does opposite things

i cannot compare myself to

one who speaks out loud

their own words

hi so this is the new year

hi i'm oscar here to bring you a very special message about life which i know a lot about despite only being 7-9 months old.

firstly i don't even know why i have to say this because everyone should know this by now but open bars are a bad idea. the number one rule of life is "don't be too drunk" and open bars result in a direct contradiction of this rule. alcohol is this very silly thing that makes people think it is a good idea to text their crush or jump on the subway tracks or get naked in public.

secondly emily is lying in bed like a dead person because she violated the number one rule of life and she lost her earrings. maybe she should do the dishes or put on some pants but she just can't. now she is suffering the consequences of her actions which i do not approve of because if you come home and have to shut the door so the cat can't get in your room because you don't want him to see you then you are probably doing something wrong.

thirdly emily's number one problem in 2011 which i know a lot about despite not being alive for the entire year was anxiety about other people. i think this is stupid because emily is a smart caring person who always feeds me on time the best that she can but for some strange reason she is overcome with crippling doubt/panic/anxiety that other people think she is something other than what she is. although she doesn't really know who she is so she is also often confused and convinced that maybe she should be who other people think she is or that maybe she is already that person and or that she is a person entirely created by other people's perceptions of herself and what is free will anyway? she's not sure she has to think about it more.

from autostraddle.com

fourthly i been to a lot of places and seen a lot of things and i just have to say that i just don't understand people. i mean what are these portable telephone things that keep bringing drama into everyone's lives. here is a cat's advice: stop drinking (so much) and stop drunk texting. i like it better when people read books in bed instead of texting in bed because paper tastes better. i like to chew paper. also everyone thinks that looking a certain way is very important but it's not really. dogs are colour blind so they don't even know what you're wearing anyway.

in the end it doesn't matter who kissed who last night or that emily's eating processed cheese on a burnt bagel right now. she just wants what we all want: free delivery on new year's day. 2011 was a great year because i was born and 2012 will be even better because i will be there for all of it and there is so much opportunity for snacks. 2012 is the year of snacks.

thank you drive safe,

oscar

are there snacks out there

"don't become the thing you hated" or how to be a giant asshole

[destroyer - don't become the thing you hated]

what if the thing you hated becomes the thing you love? what then? do you love it or hate it? what if doing the thing you love interferes with the reasons why you love it? what then? do you still love it?

you like the feeling of being good at something. you like familiarity, you like feeling important, and most of all you like the idea of something perfect and tangible, and you know if you have it all away it would be fine and you wouldn't cry. but you can't destroy the desire for that which isn't possible and accept what you get with a smile. because then who would you be? would you be who you wanted to be? who is who they want to be? if you love the thing you hated and then became it does that mean you're who you wanted to be? if you love the thing you hated and then became it and then you ate it... does that make you full? of shit? 'cause you lied to all your friends, and you can't look them in the eye. so you hide underground in the metro and they never see you anymore, and you never see them. you lied to everyone and you can't admit you changed and you'd rather be used and wasted than nothing at all. and you hate yourself for being the coward who lied, the lying coward who lied and lied and lied and became the thing they hated. in the end, it turns out, you're just an asshole.

(via)

disposable myths

"don't you ever for a second get to thinking you're irreplaceable." - beyonce

i've seen you before. don't worry, we are all children looking up for validation. i know you don't want to feel special, you want to be special. you are so helpful. you are always there. you are so kind, so loving. you want equality so long as you are the equal one. i've seen you before. don't worry, you always get what you want.

here's what i think, though. you are completely disposable. we are all completely disposable. one body is replaced with another (how absence is easily replaced by another body that makes the same motions, and then it's fine i guess) is replaced with another is replaced with another. how the giant world makes us feel so small, and the tiny world makes us feel so small. you are in denial about your dispensability, 'cause it hurts doesn't it. all we wanted was to feel like someone needed us. i mean, me. wouldn't it be nice to feel like someone needed you, but actually you, you you you? turns out nothing needs us. you're flushed.

but don't worry, because it's completely alright. see, here's the thing. you are not the first nor the last to do the thing you're doing. someone will most certainly accomplish the same things as you, and don't worry because someone already has done it before you. someone has already made your mistakes, and someone will make them again when you're gone. so that's it. you are not the first and you are not the last. you are a cog in the machine, you are not a cog in the machine. you are free.

Why In The World Would I Want To Be Perfect?: A Lament On Braces

Warning: the following blog post is extremely dramatic and contains language which may not be suitable for people who don't like swearing. Reader discretion is advised.

++

A few weeks ago I went to the orthodontist and he suggested that I get 3 or 4 braces on my bottom teeth to fix this one tooth that wasn't doing what he wanted it to do.

My orthodontist had made this proposition to me 3 months earlier before I went to China and I had laughed in his face. Braces? Um, yeah right. Back track to 8 years ago when I was 13 and the same orthodontist said my braces would be on for a year to a year and a half. They were the new, stronger type at that time. Fast forward a little bit to a few weeks before my prom with braces still on. You know, 4 years later.

I often say that glasses are ruining my life, but when I was in high school, braces were ruining my life. If you've never had braces before then I'm sorry but you just don't understand. Unless you have some other kind of mouth thing that rips the inside of your cheeks repeatedly or had to have elastics tying your mouth together or been forced to cut the corn on the cob off the cob, you just don't understand. So, 3 months ago, when my orthodontist suggested braces, my initial reaction was

FUCK NO.

NEVER.

FUCK OFF.

FUCK YOU.

FUCKING DIE.

NO.

He said come back after China and we'll talk about it.

This time, I was more prepared when he asked me about braces again. I really don't want braces, I said. I tried to emphasize the 'really'. In fact I said it multiple times. I really, really, really do not want braces. I have been going to this place since for 7 or 8 years. My dad has paid you a bajillion dollars. Leave me the fuck alone already.

But he showed me a mirror. I've seen it already, the crooked tooth. I look at pictures of myself and it's plainly obvious to me (but probably to no one else). This one stupid tooth is turning my perfect thousands-of-dollars smile into something less than perfect. The nurse said it might even get worse (but probably not). That's just ridiculous.

Normally I embrace "flaws". I'm a really short person, but will that bring me down? No! I will use it to my advantage! I was born this way!

But 8 years ago I had made the decision to change my teeth. It was work, it cost money, it was literally painful, I cried real tears probably way too much during the braces years. They really weren't as cool as they looked on my older cousin. But with anything that I work on, I want the end result to be good. No, I want it to be perfect. Did I go through 5 years of braces hell to finish with one crooked tooth? No, I did not. When I start something the finished product needs to meet my unrealistic expectations/standards of perfection. (Okay, that part might be where I'm a little bit crazy).

I sat in the chair and looked at my teeth in the mirror. What the fuck does this stupid tooth think it's doing anyway? How did this even happen? I refuse to believe that I am not the master controller of everything in my body. I will will this tooth to fix itself. Barring that, I will learn to love my crooked tooth. Nobody will notice it. Plus, I always seem to have crushes on people with crooked teeth. If I don't want them to change, why should I want my teeth to change? I'm almost 21 years old! My braces time is over! It's too late. Fuck that noise. People will learn to love me with my crooked smile.

Who am I kidding? I said yes to the braces (mostly because I want to be famous and famous people have straight teeth) and then I went home and cried because I'm a baby. Also because the receptionist said they were fully booked until October, and I'd have to wait until bloody motherfucker goddamned October. Goddamnit. I hate everything.

If only the orthodontist could have done it in August when I had my appointment, they could practically be off by October. Instead, I'm going to have them for Halloween, my birthday, Christmas, New Years...

I really, really, really want to call them and cancel my appointment. Just fuck it. It's one tooth, it's not even that crooked. These people are causing me serious emotional turmoil. Come on, Emily, you can do it. Tell them (politely) to fuck off. Pick up the phone...

I really, really, really don't want braces. But I also really, really, really don't want crooked teeth. Fuck me. Why oh why do I crave perfection?

gonna take you for a ride on a big jet plane/pre-departure panic

tomorrow i go to china.

in true fashion, i've packed everything at the last minute.

but it's okay because i've been mentally packing for the last week.

on the campus that i'm staying at, breakfast costs $0.50. apparently.

i feel sad because laura wooley left my house today, but i'm excited for breakfast. i mean, i hope someone will eat breakfast with me.

also it's entirely possible that i will not have access to most of the sites i use because of the great firewall of china. obvs i can't go 2 months without contacting north america, so i'll get laura to post some stuff that i send her via email. i make laura do so many things for me, i should buy her a present of 6 pairs of underwear.

in all this rush of goodbyes and "don't forget this", i feel like i'm going away forever. sometimes i forget that i'm coming back. like i'll be home in two months. and i'm thinking there are stores in beijing that will sell me all the things i forget at home, probably for a cheaper price. it'll be okay, you know?

everything is different at night. i need to go brush my teeth.

Identity Crisis #3: Am I White?

This is a better written off shoot of one of my other identity crises. Despite being Chinese/having an "Eastern" background sometimes I still feel like I'm an Orientalist/appropriating other cultures.

++

When I look in the mirror I don't see a Chinese person. I don't see a Jewish person or a lesbian. I don't see a boy or a girl. I don't know what I see. I think I see someone who is just scared of being anything.

I was born in Canada to immigrant parents but to immigrant parents who themselves had been raised in Canada. My dad's family moved to Toronto when he was around 10 and my mother's family moved to Montreal when she was around 5. They were educated in Canada and have not lived outside of Canada in over 20 years or maybe ever (since they moved here)?

I was raised in the suburbs in a fairly white neighbourhood in a middle-class family. There was enough money for me to play sports and have toys and have food everyday and also pay medical bills because my mother was ill (though I didn't think of these things when I was a kid). I went to high school and there were, like, 3 black kids. I think there was one other Chinese kid in my grade. The "biggest" minority were the Jewish kids, about 5 or 6 in the sports program my dad had enough money to pay for. Everyone else was white. This is not to say "I'M SO OPPRESSED" this is actually to say I grew up in an extremely white setting -- so much so that I accidentally let slip "other white people" in reference to myself to Laura in February and she asked me if I considered myself white. And I've thought a lot about it since then.

This is the opposite of "I'm oppressed". When I fill out job applications and they ask me if I'm part of a minority group and list a bunch of options, I feel like I'm exploiting something when I mark off "Chinese" (I don't, however, feel bad about marking off "woman"). Being Chinese has, luckily, never limited my options, at least not that I know of. I don't think I've ever not gotten a job for being Chinese, though once I didn't get a job because I don't speak Cantonese.

I've lived my life in white neighbourhoods, gone to school with white kids, played sports with white kids, had as much money as the average white person, have been taught mostly the same values as non-religious white kids. If you went into my house without knowing who it belonged to, you would probably never guess "Chinese". You might guess "Jewish" if you search really hard and find our menorah, but then you would probably be confused by my step-mom's Christmas decorations. The Chinese food we usually eat is take-out. Just like other white people and Jews on New Year's eve (JKKK).

I have had the opportunities that white, middle-class people my age have had. If asked who I identify most with, between a Chinese person from China and a white person from North America, I would choose a white person from North America. But in some situations among non-asians I can't help but feel extremely Chinese. I've gotten weird questions like "Do you have statues of Buddha in your home?", or people will say something about China and might add in a "no offense" in there (what even?) or ask me if I know the answer (I don't). Someone once told my friend that she thought I was "pretty for an Asian". It used to bother me that people assumed I knew things about China because in my mind I was so clearly not Chinese that I just couldn't understand why people would think I would know. I understand better now (but that doesn't make it right). When the subject of China comes up I suddenly feel extremely conscious of looking like a Chinese person.

But I feel like an impostor in a half-Chinese person's body. I know very little about China. Before I took a class on China last semester pretty much all I knew about Chinese culture was that General Tao chicken is not an authentic Chinese dish. I didn't even know which city my family was from or which dialect of Chinese they spoke.

When I look in the mirror I don't see a Chinese person. I definitely don't look Jewish. I don't even consider myself a real Jew, in fact, my half-assed attempts to celebrate major holidays are probably an insult to real religious people. I consider myself more "queer" than "gay" or "bisexual" because I'm still trying to figure myself out, but queer people can look like anyone.

I don't see a white person either though. I know I'm not white, I just have white privileges, for the most part, right now. What does that make me? (Answer: confused).

when you wait for the dawn to crawl through the screen like a burglar to take your life away*

I am a 20 year old getting my BA in Creative Writing with a minor in Political Science and yeah, I know those are two completely different things.

My therapist told me there are steps to becoming [x]. Like there are steps to becoming anything. Like if I want to be a writer then I have to do this this this this this this and this and this like everybody else and then I will be a writer. And if I want to be something else then I will have to do all the steps to become that. I said I feel like I should be doing more things right now. I said my life feels boring and like a habit. My therapist said what did I expect I am an undergrad I am doing all that I am supposed to be doing right now.

I grew up thinking there was a world of possibilities for me. I could be anything. Anything! Anything in the whole world! When I was 12 we had to present a project to our class of what we wanted to be when we grew up. I wanted to be a hockey player. I told my teacher I didn't need to learn math because I would be a hockey player and I could pay someone to be my agent and do that shit for me. I wanted to go to the olympics.

Then I learned that women cannot (yet) be professional hockey players (unless you're Hayley Wickenheiser (but you're not)); they have to pay to play and have jobs on the side. Or, really, have a job and play hockey on the side. And there are 80 trillion people in Canada who play hockey, and ~23 players on the olympic hockey team, so, yeah, you do the math. I can't.

Anyways, the moral of that little story is that I learned I can't be just anything. So in high school I decided I wanted to be a writer, which was the other thing I was good at. I liked to write fiction but I really wanted to be a poet because I loved to read and write it. Cool, but you know where this is going right. The moral of this story is that I can write poetry but I can't be T.S Eliot (toilets) and I had good ending for this sentence but I can't remember it.

Blah, blah. That's depressing, yada, yada. But I'm still doing what I like to do, which is nice. Only now, instead of being confident that YES I WILL BE A MOTHERFUCKING WRITER LIKE JK ROWLING i am terrified by the statistics and the idea that I will have to work a part-time job at American Eagle to make rent because only 5 people will read my poems and only 1 person will buy it because everything is available online for free. And I am terrified that I'm only average. That my writing is mediocre. That I am good, but just "good", and not like, Irving Layton Award Finalist good. You know? Ever felt like you were just "average"?

I was wondering, as I left my therapists office, when adults lose their sense of possibility. When is this shift from thinking there's more than one way to do things, to being convinced that everyone who doesn't walk in a straight line is lost? I feel like I am on the cusp of maybe realizing that I do need to do this this this this this this and this and this to "become" a "writer". And I'm doing it? I am totally following this nice little path that's been paved for me. Is a BA is the new high school diploma? What is life?

Part of me is trying to cling to this idealistic rebellious free-thinker hopeful defy-all-odds mover shaker dreamer achiever view of the world. Is the 'real world' a box that, once you go inside of, you can never get out of?

Katrina dropped out of college but she's one of the smartest people I know. And when she writes, she has 10 times more stories to tell than I do. See, I want to be a writer, but I don't have much to say, which might be a weird thing for me to say as I've had this blog for over 2 years now.

It all just sounds average to me. Like everyone else feels the same way as me and we are all going to write the same thing.

*bukowski wrote this

Identity Crisis #2: Hair

The last time I got a haircut was in the middle of August on top of a roof by professional hair cutter & stylist Laura Wooley Mammoth and I was half naked. Look, here is a picture from that same day.

my hair stylist and I are closepersonalfriends.

I usually get my hair cut every ~3 months as my hair grows fast and it is also short which means that I have to cut it in order to avoid the shaggy dog look. But this year I moved out of my parents' house and September, October, November, and parts of December happened and by that I mean my life disintegrated to the point where I was a frumpy mess of clothes lying in bed wondering if I actually existed. In between this and trying to spend as little money as possible, I seriously considered letting my hair grow out. I have not had long hair since I was 17. Mostly every time I think about growing my hair out, I think about the shaggy dog phase and then decide that I don't want to do it. In November I asked for a haircut for my birthday, which I didn't get. I don't remember what I was thinking at the time. I think I just couldn't be bothered to get a haircut/didn't want to spend money on it/wanted my professional hair stylist to do it until I decided that I wanted to grow my hair long enough for a full ponytail and then cut it off.

Okay, most of that is bullshit.

Here's what I noticed when I first cut my hair back in grade 11: people started calling me 'sir'. I have never been called 'sir' until I cut my hair. I have to make a bit of a stretch to see where people get confused with my gender, but I can see it. I get it, kind of. One might say that I have an androgynous face. I don't know. Some people are surprised when I tell them people call me 'sir', some people are not.

I also noticed that when I got a fauxhawk I got called 'sir' a lot more, especially at work. This led me to wear v-necks and boots with heels more often.

You see, this is the truth: part of me is afraid I am growing my hair out because I want to "pass". I'm afraid I'm doing it for the wrong reasons. Semi-consciously I've tried to pass at work because let's face it, it's fucking awkward when customers realize you're not actually a 'sir'. I've spent most of my life wanting to fit in with the "normal" kids, but I could never wear the dresses or heels or 234 different kinds of make up. But I could have the long hair. Right? A teeny tiny part of me wants to be normal.

But really, I want to be a person who is not afraid to be herself. Sometimes I am. I want people to recognize that there is more than one way of looking like a girl. I don't want to pass.

On the other hand, I want people to see that lesbians can have long hair.

On the other foot, I don't want my hair to be my identity. Does anyone really care about my hair that much. So while I sit here pondering the meaning of my existence my hair is growing longer. It's in a ponytail and it's really cute, if I may say so myself.

The other truth is that I will probably cut it all off and run rampant like a good angry queer feminist with a radical homosexual agenda and sweet combat boots. JK about the combat boots.

if this, then this

when i say shut your eyes, shut your eyes. okay. now shut your eyes. do you hear the piano through the open window? it is our neighbor playing erik satie. now when i say open your eyes, open your eyes. yes. good. open your eyes. do you see christmas lights and birds and stars above you? they are blowing in the wind. yes, even the stars. they move like static to the wind. i am wearing your sweater. it is wrapped around my body and it smells like you. i feel safe and sound and sadder than i have ever known. i cannot cry because it is inside of me like a giant swell of a wave, like a sigh, like a... like a... like sigur ros on a sad day.

i am afraid i am bad at this dance we are doing.

why does it hurt like this. i shut my own eyes, very tight. very tight so no light can come in. i shut them tight. if i can't see this maybe it is not happening. it hurts to be near you. everything hurts so very much.

i see christmas lights and stars. i think briefly of russia. white walls and red sheets, red carpets. this time is not that time. my hands and feet are numb and i want.

i crawl and i am slow. i am slow and i am shy. i am afraid i am bad at this dance we are doing. i'm afraid i will not let myself get better because i think i have sewn my mouth shut. i can't tell you where to turn. you will never get there until i tell you how to get there and i will never go anywhere now because when i go without you i just cry [everything makes me cry] so now i crawl and i am slow. maybe because you are listening i am embarrassed for you to hear.

and i keep expecting you to walk through that door.

I'm Not Really Sad, I'm Just Trying to Become a Better Person

but then i thought, "what if i never grow up?" i mean legitimately grow up. what if i'm stuck in this awkward year where my parents still do my laundry but i buy my own toothpaste and i take the bus to school and i can't drive and i don't know how to do banking or

there's a fear of growing up, but what if i just don't? what if i'm that person who can't do things for themselves? what if i can't have real relationships with people or if i live with my parents forever and they wash the dishes every night, what if i never learn to be a person, what if all my friends grow up and blow away...

and what happens if i can't get a job? what happens when i forget how to learn? will i have my own set of cutlery will my bed always feel so big and empty who will pay for my retainer to be fixed? who will say "i'm sorry", who will apologize, who will take the blame who will feel bad feel pity who will look down at me and say i'm sorry i failed and will i say i'm sorry i failed i never ever ever grew up i just never never learned i just stuttered and stuttered all my life.

what happens if i never figure out how to cook a chicken? what happens if i forget how to use the toaster? what happens if my hands fall off!? what happens if i forget how to write, do people suddenly become illiterate what happens if that's me, that's me, that's me. what happens if no one reads my book what happens if i don't write a book because my hands fell off and my eyes fell out and i have no goddamn legs. i'm just a box, i'm just a box, i'm a square and is someone sorry now, will someone take the blame, will someone claim responsibility for the empty cardboard box out there on recycling day?

what if i never learn how to tell a good plum from a bad plum or where the potato section is, what if i can't pay my library fines what if i can't find the library? what if i disappoint my grandmother? who is going to write about me? does anyone listen in class? what if i'm the person who forgets how to ride a bike? and i have to learn twice? my legs are gone! i just wanna wear suave shoes again. cardboard legs and cardboard shoes recycle me. i don't wanna cycle, recycle revenge. if i ever go away, who will buy me tea?

what if i have feelings and no one else has so many feelings and i drown other people, what if i drown people with me. like what if who i am is too big. what if i am a giant ocean wave, enveloping bodies and beaches and sand -- what if when i write i actually sound like obasan, the worst novel ever.

and what if i screw it up, what if my feelings consume me. what if i screw it up by being afraid of screwing up.

one day the lights will go out in my room and they will not turn on again. one day the boxes will be filled, they will be moved and loaded onto a van, the house will empty, the walls will be bare. one day we just will not be there.

[all pictures from before i die i want to]

++

I have thought about it and I have decided that my greatest fear is not dying, not not living, not "moving forward", but ignorance. More than being ignorant or naive, I don't want to be stupid. I don't want to think I know things but get them wrong. Socrates wouldn't like that. I never want to drown in my own confusion. I hope that I always strive to be better, be smarter. I hope I never settle for anything less than I deserve. I hope I stop thinking that I don't deserve happiness. I hope I never forget what learning actually is. I hope I never forget the person that I am right now, and the things I believe in. I hope that people never listen to me and think to themselves that I am stupid or that I don't know what I'm talking about. I hope I always present myself as an intelligent, well-read, creative woman. I hope that my intelligence never goes away -- I don't care what I look like, how tall or short I am, where I live -- I hope that I never stop reading and thinking and solving because that is the core of who I am.

Read my book, 'cause it's gonna be written.

A "Critical Review" & "Analysis" of the Month of March

I had great expectations for March. February sucked as much as anything could possibly suck, and March to me equaled spring, hope, light, flowers, happiness, sunshine, rainbows, unicorns, freedom, etc. It was kind of disappointing mostly because of my impossible expectations, but I've decided that overall, March was okay. Just okay. Like it could have been worse.

Essentially very little happened in March that was significant besides a fun trip to Philadelphia/NYC. I read two books or maybe 3 or 4, I don't even know. I had 3 shifts at work. I found something new in an old friend and I don't know what to do with it. I pretended I didn't have any school work to do. I bought new jeans. I had several serious moments of anxiety/panic that I would never be able to sustain long-term relationships with other people and thought it would be best to run away to a cabin by the sea, but those are feelings that are not unique to March. Also, though, I realized that I have a brain and can therefore handle the scary things it takes to be a grown up. I'm convinced I have post-menstrual syndrome, something I made up that has the same symptoms of pre-menstrual syndrome only it's after you get your period. Apparently this is just called "being moody", a theory which I reject. I got accepted into a university where, if I attend, I will graduate with a degree in something useless, but something useless that I am moderately good at. So there's that.

I have mixed feelings about April. On the plus side, according to this ovulation calculator, starting tomorrow I'm very fertile till April 6th. Also on the plus side, I'm expecting the weather to be EXCELLENT. And by "expecting" I mean "demanding". This weekend is supposed to be around 20-25 degrees so that's a good start. Unfortunately I'll probs be inside tackling the massive amount of work I've left myself with.

In conclusion, I'm happy to be done with March if only because it means we're one month closer to summer. Is it May 14 yet? (that's when my summer officially starts)

Also, word on the street is that something exciting is happening at autostraddle tomorrow, so you probs want to make sure you check that out.

what the fuck are you talking about, emily choo

when i get scared i go to sleep. i'm scared of everything, a lot, all the time.

the major questions i had on the way home were: why does only one of my earphones work, why do my socks fall off when i walk, and when did life become such a habit.

i keep saying i'm going to live, but when i say that i mean i'm going to live tomorrow. like everything i'm doing now is so that i can live later. but then it's friday night and i'm still at home and it's saturday and i'm at home and it's sunday and i've slept all day. the thing is that i'm so stuck inside my head that i can't do anything ever.

then i think that i don't want to do anything anyways and that's so sad. i got so existential on the bus. i got so city girl on you, i went so crazy i didn't know what to do. i thought that there was nothing in life that i wanted to do, so maybe i should hide or something and what does that even mean.

people assume that you want to do something when they ask what do you want to do. nobody ever seems to know what they want to do, just that they want to do something. i'm scared because i don't want to do anything. i don't want to do anything because i'm scared.

my dad told me that i could live at home for the rest of my life and he would cook me dinner every night. i said that maybe i would do that, maybe i would just hide. but we both know i'd never do that. except it's so tempting, like eating that second french fry.

but sometimes it just seems so silly, like, sarah palin wrote a book and she's gonna make more money off her book than i'm ever going to make in my whole life and at least i write my own words. even if sometimes my words don't make sense i think that's okay because the world often doesn't make sense so it's just a reflection of my/the world. i realize i hate writing academically because it feels so fake and well sometimes i just want to shout at my paper. sometimes i just want to write "jdghjhgifsiugiu AND THEN THIS HAPPENED..."

it just feels very weird that sarah palin wrote a book and it's weird that i'm thinking about this. after i read 'shoplifting from american apparel' i really wanted to write a book because tao lin made it look so easy, but then i thought that he went to college and his professors were like "tao lin is so great" and my professors don't say that about me. they write "AWK" all over my pages, like awkward, so awkward, so stylistically awkward what a weirdo. so how could i write about shoplifting from american apparel if someone already did it. i'd be so embarrassed if i was sarah palin's ghostwriter but then maybe she actually likes sarah palin, or maybe she just got paid a lot. how the hell did sarah palin write a book, like how did that actually happen.

also tao lin googles himself a lot, hi tao lin.

sometimes i feel like i'm not living right. is this what life is, is it preparing yourself for life in the future. why don't we just throw up our arms and throw our papers out the window and run naked through the streets.

i don't know why we have to be naked.

no really, should i be doing drugs or something, should i be sleeping less and drinking more redbull. redbull is so expensive. should i be like stephen king and do so much cocaine that my nose bleeds all over my keyboard while i write stories that i won't remember i wrote and somehow they'll just become bestsellers.

if sarah palin can become a politician maybe i should. i feel like it's this scene where there is a mob of people jostling in suits and shouting words and i could just jump in there and shout things. ha ha ha ha ha ha that is so dumb. i could shout that. i spelled my name wrong on my mcgill application and now it's finalized and i can't change it.

i really ought to recognize when i'm talking crazy. two days after i press 'publish post' i'll read this over and be like oh what crazy craziness, what a terrible adjective.

how long before i'm famous

how long until i write a book

how long until i'm alone, i mean really, how long until i let myself go

how long until i write a better poem

can i do better than this shit right here. do smarter words come out of my fingertips. is that where words come from. how long until i learn proper punctuation.

how long until i learn to spell my name.

anyways, what if there's nothing that i want to do. how did this happen that everywhere i look inside my life all i can think is "i don't want to do that". no, that's not really what i think. i think blah blah. whatever.

i might be running out of stories because i never go outside. that's stupid. emily dickinson never went outside. i thought emily dickinson died when she was 27 like everybody else except that's not true. it's kind of like that time i thought helen keller died when she was 13. helen keller died when she was 87. i made that up. but she was old. helen keller is katrina's hero.

"long story, no point," as dan sullivan would say, "at any rate..."

there actually was no point to this.

If You Want it to be Real Come Over For One Night and We Can Really, Really Climb

No attempt is made to explain away
the things that really, really, really, really, really are behind.
You can't hide.
- Okkervil River "For Real"

++

I found out on the metro, I mean -- I realized what I already knew -- that you're never going to call again. I figure that's okay, I guess. I tried/didn't try/didn't know what I was doing. But this is what I want you to know: no one knows what they're doing. It was my first time being born, my first time being 6, and 7, and 8, and feeling death -- my first time having a dead mother -- I don't know how to react -- does anyone? -- my first time in high school, first time learning the history of quebec, the geography of other people's bodies and mouths and hearts. It's my first time being 18, my first time living this day -- october 14th 2009 -- I'm never going to see this day again -- but how do I know what to do with it? So when I walked past you in the hall, so when I gave her that note, so when I avoided him on the way home; I was just living in my own weird way. I don't know if I'm doing it right. There's no instruction manual. I don't know if I should've said something else, or if this gets easier or more vivid. I don't think living gets easier, it just gets stranger. If I'm confusing it's because I'm confused.

I started reading the first couple of pages of this book and on page two I was told "love and ideals are not actually real". Oh, okay. I see it now.

Maybe it's because I have neither that I think this is untrue. Maybe I've read too many books, seen too many hollywood movies with romantic endings. Maybe I've been listening to too many songs that tell me love is the best sensation hiding in the lion's mane. I want love to be real, I need love to be real. I need ideals to be real because I idealize love in the worst way.

I slipped her a note in class, sat back and thought My life is a joke. After class she turned around, "Was this you who wrote this?"
Yes.
"Is this real?"

++

I'm just using you so I'll have a story to tell. So do your worst and I'll write my best. That's all I could ever hope for -- an experience so brilliant it will lift the words off the page. I'm running low on gas and I've kind of given up on you -- you, you'll never call. But now I'm asking you, come on, make it hurt! You're not killing me the way I want you to.

Come on, idealized love. I know you're real, I've felt you moving in me before.

And now I'm a walking contradiction. I wrote some days before -- notes in my phone -- But you're like, a real person. And I'm not. You're the kind of person who won't call back. And I'm not. I'll make you larger than you are. I'll write you into fiction, make you beautiful and smooth. But you're still real, you're just somebody else. I'm real too, but to other people. Maybe I passed you once before, before I knew you, and we slid by each other -- our worlds so close to touching -- your eyes straight, my head turned -- I didn't know you'd be real to me one day. Am I still outside your line?

++

I spend my days learning. I learn the curve of the hallways -- where the A wing is, the elusive F -- which bathrooms to use and when -- where to go when I'm alone -- and where to get on the metro so the doors open right in front of the stairs.

And when someone asks you if this is real, the answer is "Yes. Yes, of course it is." Because if this isn't real then I have nothing. If love isn't real then I -- we -- truly have nothing. You may call, or not. We might brush so close to each other again someday, maybe tomorrow. But I'll never have this day back, or that note, or this particular feeling walking home in a frustrated sorrow. I'll never be 6 again, or 7, or 8, my mom will never die again, I'll never be in high school for the first time. I'll learn new curves -- elbows and shoulders, lips -- meet other 'you''s and write other stories -- but I still won't know what I'm doing. It will still be the first time, it will still count, it will still be real. And I'll be here, taking notes.

Yes, this is real. This is very, very real.

I've Waited a Lifetime Now Maybe I've Learned

(Before you read this I want you to know that today is the first day of October and therefore you should go eat many candy corns and also there is no real point/profound meaning to this post. Enjoy.)

++

"How do you know if it's worth the risk? I haven't learned my lesson. I can't tell the future. I will make my own choices and take the blame."
-journal; april 5, 08

"This is neverending. I'm the same person I used to be. I haven't learned, I haven't grown. I'm walking in circles."
-journal; sept 8, 08

"should i
should i
should i
call
you
if i do --
crying, stupid, fumbling, no words
i.e idiot
but i'm 16 again
and this is the same
i will not learn."
-journal; may 21, '09

++

So this is what I know: I know very little. I'm unsure of the things I'm sure of. I doubt my memories, wonder what is real. I wonder who the hell are these other people and what it means to exist. And I know I'm not alone. That's the terrible irony about being alone, though, is there are 6 billion people who all feel the same way, standing next to each other, not talking.

It's easy to feel alone. All you have to do is just .. be alone.

I've learned how to deal with loneliness in a way. I used to truly think I was the only sad person on the planet. It seems ridiculous now, but then, everyone was smiling and I was broken. Now I know better. Now I know we're on the verge of breaking, alone, together. I used to think the only people who understood me were far away.

They don't understand me.

But then again, neither do I.

I've learned not to think about it too much. The simplest way to move forward is to let things go. The heavier your heart, the harder it is to just do things. It's hard to breathe sometimes. If you just shrug your shoulders, if you sigh and take a nap, maybe you'll feel better. How do you grow up? Grow up. You just do.

"There's no way to grow that don't hurt."
- Iron & Wine "Sacred Vision"

++

I never felt like I learned much at the time. School seemed kind of pointless. There other things I would've liked to learn, things I was confused about but didn't know how to ask. I had feelings I couldn't put a name on. I wish someone would've told me it was okay. I wish I would've had the courage to stand up for myself -- if you think the only kinds of people who get picked on in high school are the shy, overweight kids, you're wrong.

"It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies,
but just as much to stand up to our friends."
- Dumbledore "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone"

I read Harry Potter in elementary school but so did that "overweight, nerdy" type guy so I never told anyone. In high school I found out that half my friends were reading Harry Potter secretly. We just didn't want to be "uncool". We didn't want to be associated with that guy we made fun of every day.

I would hate 2001 me now. But that's just how life is, right? There's no way to not grow.

There is no such thing as uncool. The people I love are all different. I'm proud of the way I've grown. I never want to judge another human (as hard as it is) for the rest of my life, because I know what it's like. I always felt like I was on the outside looking in on something so much better than whatever I had. This is what I've learned: there is nothing better on the inside of someone else's life than what you have inside yourself. Being myself is the only way I've ever found happiness, if that's what I have at all.

"Though we say goodbye and wonder
what's to know and who's to blame
but to be myself completely I will love you just the same."
- Belle and Sebastian "Be Myself Completely"

++

I hope you learn humility by being humiliated and honesty by being cheated.

I can love you better now.

love goes a long way..

++

And In Short, I Was Afraid

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
though I have seen my head [grow slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet -- and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
and I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
and in short, I was afraid.

T.S Eliot - "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

++

I have a fear of bikes. Really. I'm afraid of going too fast, afraid of losing control, afraid of getting hurt. I'm afraid of getting my pants stuck in the gears. I'm afraid of the gears ripping a hole in my leg.

It might be because of that time I hurtled full speed down the steepest hill my 6 year old eyes had ever seen and flipped over the handlebars. My aunt decided to walk her bike down but my cousin rode down so I did too. I just followed people in those days. I rode right into a pile of rocks and forgot what brakes were for.

I don't want to get hurt. Hurt, (how could you have forgotten?) hurts. I don't want to die.

++

I'm also afraid of horses, which is really stupid considering I went to horseback riding camp for two years. I followed my cousin there too.

It's not just that, though. I'm afraid of drowning. I like the air, I like the ground, and I like both to be readily available. Maybe it started in Mexico when I followed my cousins into the ocean and was gasping for breath, for control of something -- the water, the ground, my limbs maybe, -- something that would get me out of there. I discovered the ocean is beautiful from the shoreline.

I'm afraid of driving too fast. I don't even drive. It's not even the accident potential, it's the I'm-afraid-the-car-is-going-to-blow-up feeling, which is less likely to happen than an accident. I have no control. When I was little I never liked when my dad twisted and swerved. As the highway whizzed by I quietly imagined car crashes in the backseat.

I guess it goes without saying that I'm afraid of airplanes too. I don't want to crash in the ocean. I don't even think I'd make it to the ocean, let alone the emergency exit. I'm afraid of the oxygen masks the lady in the video so calmly puts on, like the last seconds of her life aren't just ticking away. I like my own air. I like my feet on the ground. Real ground.

Maybe it started some eight years ago, when I suddenly realized I was about to fly over the ocean in a giant piece of metal. I was going to England with my grandmother and I was about to say goodbye to my dad. Maybe it was because I was afraid to leave, or maybe I was seized with a panic and certainty that we were going to crash. I refused to even go to the boarding gate. My grandmother cried, she thought I didn't want to go with her. And right then, I was afraid to tell the truth.

I can't control anything on a plane. Turbulence practically makes my heart stop. I don't want my last meal to be plastic chicken. I don't want to die in a place where no one outside the plane can reach me. I don't want to die in no man's land. I don't want to die. And I don't want to survive on a plank of wood because I don't want to be eaten by sharks and I don't want to die of starvation, 'cause then I'll really wish I'd eaten the plastic chicken. I don't want my last meal to be plastic chicken.

I don't want to nosedive into the ground. If it wasn't clear, I'm also afraid of roller coasters.

Other things I am afraid of: Jumping too high on the trampoline, skiing down double black diamonds, skiing, cancer, hospitals, not recording everything because I am afraid of forgetting.

What it comes down to is this: I'm afraid of pain, and I'm afraid of dying because I'm not ready to go. Hurt hurts. Every single one of my fears is based on dying.

But more than that, I've been afraid to live. This is something I've known for a long time. I've felt it, as people moved faster than me in other directions, and I stood there because I'm too scared to move. This is something I've struggled with; how do people do it? How come my cousin went down the hill without a scratch? How come everybody I know likes to drive fast?

I'm afraid of the physical things and the mental things. I'm afraid of knowing things and not knowing things. I'm afraid I'm doing it all wrong.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
would it have been worth while,
after the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
after the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor --
and this, and so much more? --

T.S Eliot - "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

++

It was Christmas 2008. The first time I had ever spent Christmas somewhere without snow.

I don't know why, but I'd just had the urge to go to California. I missed the weather, the clouds and the rolling fog, the ocean from from a safe distance, the big houses, the other world. I missed San Francisco, which felt safe, and Berkeley, which felt cool and homely.

It was fun to watch people walk down the street wrapped up in their jackets and hats and earmuffs in 11 degree weather. Somewhere north of the border there was a snowstorm happening.

I loved the decorations on the houses. Outside it looked like spring, and yet, there was santa on a roof. There were reindeer in the yard. It's weird to imagine Christmas with no snow but I loved that crisp feeling in the air. I loved the smell of Berkeley, the shops, the streets, the laughter. I loved my aunt's house, the sheets, the cat, breakfast in the morning. The colours of the flower petals were more vibrant, the food more organic. Yes, everything there is good, good, good. I felt good.

But it turns out there are scary things in Berkeley too. More things I'm scared of, like people. Also, there's me. Sometimes I'm scared to know who I really am. Sometimes I'm scared that someone might see me. You know, really see me.

There are also bikes in Berkeley.

And hills. Big hills.

Do I dare
disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

T.S Eliot - "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

We decided to go for a bike ride on Christmas morning. I'm afraid of bikes. I used the smallest one, which even then was too big. I tried not to be afraid, but it's hard when you're afraid of everything.

Going for a bike ride up a hill with my family? The irony wasn't lost on me. I'm afraid of getting hit by a car.

The top of the hill was beautiful. I could see the whole city. I could see the clouds and the rolling fog, the houses with lights and decorations. I could see forests of trees which seemed to be greener than any I'd ever seen at home.

The only way back was down, down, down. My cousin began his descent easily, breezily. Even my aunt went ahead of me, experienced and steady. I started after them, slowly. I guess I still follow people. My cousin was way ahead. Occasionally I could see the back of my aunt's windbreaker, puffed up with the wind, at the corner of a turn. My hands were gripping the handlebars tightly, my stomach was tense. My fingers were holding the brakes halfway, ready to do the full squeeze at any time.

The thing about going downhill is that you don't need to pedal. Gravity will take care of everything. I don't really want gravity to be in control, I want to decide how fast or slow I go. The thing with gravity is you don't have a choice. No one does.

My cousin made it look easy, riding down a mountain. Everyone makes it seem that way. I remembered that last time I followed a cousin down a mountain on my bike.

But I was already going down. My aunt and my cousin were getting further and further ahead of me. And then it just clicked. I was in San Francisco. It was 11 degrees. It was Christmas. I was outside, I was alive, I was in love with the big scary world. Maybe there was something waiting for me at the bottom, maybe there wasn't. It didn't really matter. I loosened my fingers on the brakes. I let go.

There is something very freeing about flying down a mountain when you don't want to. The colours blur together, the air fills your lungs, the ground disappears --

There was nothing at the bottom. The road continued as it does, as they all do. I crossed it and went home.

The truth is that I'm still afraid. This could be one of those stories where my life changes for the better when I finally let go of my fears. But it's not. I went back to Montreal and stayed the same, for the most part. But that's not the point. The point is that I did it. I left Prufrock at the top of the hill. For a glorious half hour I sailed through life. I opened my heart and touched the sky.

Let us go then, you and I,
when the evening is spread out against the sky...

oh, do not ask "what is it?"
let us go and make our visit.

T.S Eliot - "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

I'll be Curled on the Floor Hiding Out From it All

I think I am one of the most socially retarded people ever. I just cannot carry a conversation. After the how-are-you's are exchanged, I smile awkwardly and leave the room. Either I'm like "what's going on" or "ok" and both of those are not good ways to present yourself as an intelligent person. People who have only met me once probs think I am a monkey in disguise. That's why I like to stay inside and live in the world wide web 'cause it's harder to look like a dumb shit, unless you are SO incredibly lazy that you have to save ALL THIS TIME by typing "u" instead of "you" then I look down on you and judge you. To your (internet) face. Just sayin', it makes me think that you've never opened a book before. I just kind of want to poke those people with a pitchfork sometimes. For the most part I hold back on judging people and I'm very open minded, but if you do not have some kind of disorder (dyslexia) and your native language is English, and you type like a three year drooling on the keyboard and you write things that make you sound like a drooling three year old, I do judge you. This is also why I'm a pretentious liberal arts snob, but don't get the wrong impression, they're not all as retarded as I am. They're more charismatic and friendly, which (kind of) brings me back to my original problem of being socially inept.

I also just want to throw out there another one of my general flaws, is bailing at hard times, ie, I will NOT STEP UP TO THE CHALLENGE that I most likely started in the first place. Sometimes I do. But a lot of the time I just say "no". Rereading this mini paragraph makes me realize that it's hard to decipher and I'm just talking crazy to myself.

That being said, I think this just goes to show that I'm very good at analysing myself. I'm very aware of all my flaws, thank you, I like to confront them in ways that people can't give me harsh criticism, i.e, by writing it here. See, hiding again. I'm so predictable.

One real problem I actually have though is, what do I change and what should I leave alone? There's this prayer thing, and I'm usually not into Jesus and the Bible and whatnot, but it really touches a chord with me, and I'm about to go off into a tangent here so bare with me; isn't that what religion's all about? Not really, but I mean, if just one thing, one prayer or something else religious I have no idea what makes you feel better, then doesn't that serve the whole purpose of god? Now I'm totes talking crazy shit but from my point of view, god is supposed to bring comfort and make you feel less alone. Religion has obvs turned into something else, but I like that simple sort of blind faith that things will get better. I like to hold on to that. Anyways, prayer time:

"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference."

Now I obviously don't have this wisdom which often leaves me in a state of confusion. To save myself from thinking hard and making choices and solving problems I often wish I could hide under my blankets all day, sometimes I do, it never really helps anything in case anyone was thinking of trying it.