Say thanks.

The holidays or any special occasions dedicated to spending time with your family always reminds me of the one I don't have. It's too easy to get depressed and feel dejected about what you don't have.

Yet, it's not right, in my mind at least, to waste time be negative. Carpe diem. There's just too much energy spent that way.

But, I'd be lying if I said I didn't spend a (fleeting) moment in that darkness. Today, I cried a little and mourned for that loss -- it is, after all, a mini death. A severed limb. To be without something integral to many people's lives. I am not that fortunate.

However, this isn't the sole reason for my post to wax lyrical about sadness. Contrarily, I want to emphasize how super fortunate I am for my life -- that's what I want to articulate. I am so incredibly lucky to have the people I have in my life, which I sometimes forget to realize. These people are my rock. And blood, kins blood, only runs so deep, at least in my eyes.

I just wanted to say thanks to the brilliant people in my life. My heart swells in appreciation for these people.

So, whether your family is related through blood or not, it doesn't matter because love manifest in so many other beautiful and different ways, and I can say staunchly that I experience the latter.

Thank you to my wonderful family.

I had such an amazing Thanksgiving.

I wrote something in my (flu induced) delirium

There are these exceptional moments in my life when I have connected with someone profoundly, but it is only after years from that moment do I understand its profundity. After a week, the moment fades and I temporarily "forget," not because it was forgettable, but because the brain is easily bombarded with so much, so much random inconsequential shit.

When I do remember a moment, I feel this instantaneous tenderness deep within. 

There was this one time when I was sitting in a Booster Juice waiting for my then boy friend. I had just moved out of my parent's place, again. I moved out when I was 16. After three years, I moved back home, tried to live with them again, but only lasted for 6 months, and inevitably wound up regretting the decision. I hate my family. And I've always regretted reconnecting with my family, even to this day. I'm 25 now. I luckily found a sublet not too far from the university. It was the first place I paid rent outside of the welfare the government gave me during high school.

I was sitting at this Booster Juice after class waiting for Alex to show up. He was finishing his last year of high school. We were meeting half way so we could bus back to his place. We always went to his place because he didn't want to come to mine. It was too much for him, I guess. Maybe my place was an embarrassment.

As adolescent, becoming young adults, we were both emotional volatile. He didn't trust me -- he never ever did -- but he especially didn't now because I made out with some other guy. He had major trust issues. And so did I. But, to preface, he always struggled to be with me, and I always felt unloved with him, my family, even my friends. So one night I found myself in someone else's arms who wanted me and said the "right" things. Alex and I fought like young people always do. I told him about the other guy both because of the guilt and because I thought he would love me if I told him the truth. And then he, Alex, somehow wanted me more...  Isn't that how it usually is?... But to be fair the relationship wasn't always his fault... We didn't last far beyond this; it was the final straw among other straws.

While at the Juice bar, I was sitting next to this woman. She looked over at me and asked me how to get to the Grand River Hospital. Politely I told her she could walk straight down King Street, but it would be quicker to take the bus. She said she was in the mood to walk. It was February, the coldest and most bitter time of the year. I asked her, are you sure? It's so cold. She said yes, she need to clear her head. And without thinking, and being too curious, I asked her why... Evidently, she was in the mood to talk and didn't mind my bad manners. She elaborated and said she was from Quebec, and was used to the cold, but particularly today, she needed to walk, to stretch time. She told me her sister was in the hospital dying of cancer. It was only a matter of days. The night before, her whole family (the sister's family) were sitting around her settling the final details. One thing in particular pushed her over the edge: Picking out the funeral songs. This woman sitting next to me, you could feel all of her emotions. Anger. Frustration. Sadness. Confusion. Helplessness. She said it was so morbid to be alive to pick your funeral songs when you know you are going to die. But on the other hand to do it in front of your family there is a sense of closure, a few more moments to say good-bye. To do something together one more time...

This woman next to me cried without realizing it in front of me. And I cried, too. I told her that she was so fortunate to have such a loving family. To have someone to cry for, to cry with. In the solemnest times. And to have familial love. I envied this woman so much because she felt so intensely for her sister, and loved her so deeply. I had a boy friend that didn't love me. I had a family that abandoned me. 

And I cried for her, for me, and the whole thing. We cried together.

She was in her 40s. I was 19 at the time. We parted ways. Before she left, we hugged each other really hard. It was very beautiful. We connected intrinsically. For that brief moment.

I only recently remembered this moment. I think I told Alex what happened but it didn't strike him, obviously, as much as it did for me. He had his own emotional turmoil. I'm sure if you asked him today he wouldn't even remember me telling him about this beautiful moment. 

Because it was beautiful.

It's strange how you forget these type of memories.

That day, I know I grew up a little bit. And I know that despite everything Alex and I went through to stay together, I grew apart from him that day. 

This was just one of those beautiful things that I endured in my life...

Coveting

Images via venetiantumblr and pejper pininterest

Some of my friends are in far off places doing amazing things, seeing amazing things, and experiencing amazing things. They speak of worries or woes of being mugged, crossing borders, lost things (phones, watches etc), not having enough money, all of which are the trappings of being a (seemingly) nomadic traveler. Some of my friends are living in these places semi-permanently and enjoying random cities, big and small, and discovering the vast crevasses of the earth. And albeit these worries should not be trivialized or envied because it is legitimately distressing, I can't help but otherwise feel an immense yearning to embark on an adventure. For whatever woe there is, there is always something great to experience at the end. If you are alive and can live to tell a tale, that is the greatest feat in my eyes.

I long. I long to meet strangers and have different conversations. I long to see new things. I long to experience new things. I long to learn new things. I want to throw caution into the wind, and just go without a single worry and embrace the world. 

The idea of staying in one place feels like jail, suffocation, stagnation. I know that I've only just settled in this place for a few months now and I already feel restless. I am ready for something new -- nothing here feels new anymore... It's lost its lusture.

I want to feel small again.

Living with Artemis

Some people don't understand what having a dog is like, especially a Weimaraner. I write this post in defence against anyone who has never owned a dog or to someone who doesn't understand a breed outside of a retriever/poodle/shitzu (insert common family dog here) that has criticized me. I get the feeling that people think I coddle her, that I can't leave her alone because I choose not to leave her alone. They lack understanding of owning a domesticated animal. No one understands that Weimaraners are notorious for their neurotic disposition, and when left alone they become destructive and extremely vocal (cries loudly), and can't cope well because they have been ingrained to be pack animals. This is her separation anxiety. People see her attachment to me as endearing -- I do not. She's a dog that operates unlike most other breeds.

Neighbours complain or think I'm torturing her when I try to train her to be more independent. I am trying so hard to ebb her separation anxiety, but the process is challenging because you are essentially "correcting" one's biological makeup. Any attempt to modify their behaviour has to be beaten out of them. A (mild) feat isn't a great one because ultimately the condition never fully goes away.

Another thing I struggle with, aside from not being able to leave the house for long than a few hours, is having her not sleep in the same bed as me. She's a sucker for sleeping underneath covers; she has a thin coat and gravitates toward heat. I've grown way too comfortable having her in my bed. It only became apparent to me how abnormal it is to have a dog sleep with you in their bed; I guess I completely normalized the behaviour because I've been sleeping as a single for so long. While in Vancouver, it was another story (she slept in her crate) and I was sharing the bed with someone. I suppose I understand the criticisms: stinky and dirty dog paws, dirt, shedding, ... But I love her, she is great. I love this hyper-genic culture we live in; everything has to be so damn "clean." What's wrong with a little bit of dog love?

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is simply this: It's easy to criticise someone's life when you're on the outside. And, it is only until you find yourself in a similar situation if not the same that you realize how fucking hypocritical you are. It's so goddamn easy to judge someone from the outside without knowing the entire circumstance. Really, it's unfair judgment.

I wrote this because I was criticised by a dick who had the audacity to tell me how disgusting it is that my dog sleeps in the same bed as me. He made me feel self-conscious at the time, but now, I'm just pissed. I shouldn't have to defend how I love her and how I like my dog to be treated.

I love her and we are a good duo.

I'm very attached to my love for Artemis. You would be too if she were your dog.

The Antiquated

Lately, I've been listening to wayyyy too much classical music, from Bach, Beethoven, Mozart to contemporary artist like Yo-Yo Ma and Charlie Siem. I've been feeling a particular mood, one I can't exactly pin-point, but one that seems to be satiated by the tones and octaves of a concerto or symphony.

This solemn-inducing weather has affected me in other ways, too. It's gotten me thinking about things in excess to the point of spiral-thought process of no answers. This week I have been living with a familiar anxiety that goes back to the recesses of my teenaged memories; I can't sleep, I wake up at the god-forsaken hours and sleep half consciously. I forgot what my anxiety felt like, and it's surfacing at inappropriate times like when I have to work the next day or when I have a facking rugby game in the morning.

On a brighter note, things will ease this weekend as I will be throwing a fiesta of sorts for my anniversaire!!!

Tons of friends, tons of alcohol and tons of everything -- albeit in excess -- will be had and all of my fucking crazzyyy ass nerves will be eased. I will be fine.

I need to not...

Suck it.

 

Images care of Stylefsn

Men that dress well are nice and all, mostly to gawk at, but in the grand scheme of things, they don't mean shit. Most times, I find that men who make a concerted effort to dress "well" are douche bags, vain as shit. I mean the guys who really fucking try. I don't know their politics (or maybe I do), so what is really so special about them? He could be some misogynistic, piece of shit homophobic fucker who knows more about Margiela and the like than know what is happening in the Middle East. I'm totally being hyperbolic.

Obvs this is like a massive generalization, but what I'm trying to get at is this:

Dressing well is a superficial endeavor, trivial. What really counts to me is one's personality, sincerity and compassion. If you are kind as hell, you'll touch my heart in more ways than any sartorial endeavor, any deliberate hallow act. I'm becoming more and more jaded and cynical about the fashion industry. All I keep thinking about are my relationships, what they truly mean, and what actually count not some inconsequential collection that fades as quickly as the dye in shitty pair of jeans.

I learned about kindness back in October by some gracious dude. He was compassionate as hell and didn't give a damn about all stuff that now feels to me like costume. I'm definitely re-evaluating my emphasis on this thing called dress and the meaning we put behind it. 

I don't give a shit for your selvage denim, your heritage whatever, or your fucking handmade shoes. It just blankets your boring personality; your clothing doesn't define you, you let it. Game over.

Throwing on a fucking white t-shirt, some hanes, and blue jeans, coupled with a stellar personality, and you're sexy as fuck in my books. And if you can make me laugh, dddddddamn.

And if the inseam is right, 1 point for you.

That's all, folks.

La lumière

 Image via Park&Cube

If you know me at all, it would be a great surprise to hear me say what I am about to say: I think I'm happy (or near to that state). Lately, I've been feeling incredibly positive and wholesome about my life, I feel like I'm in a really great position in my life, and my head, finally, feels like it's is level, coherent and on track. I never thought I would ever utter these words about my life, but I suppose, to sound cliche, I discovered the light at the end of the tunnel.

I'm incredibly thankful for so much in my life, especially the friends I have right now; the beacon(s) in my life. I've had my ups and downs, yet, despite how incredibly bitter and sardonic my personality is, they have remained close to me, supported me, and stood by me through all my hardships. What did I do to deserve this?

I am trying hard to be patient with myself, those around me, and to him. I can't lose these people; they are the closest things I have to family. Whatever negativity I've harboured for whatever reason, I want to vanquish, dispel and move on from that old self. It's so detrimental for a healthy mind state, I'm realizing -- who wants to be around someone like that?








I'm making a few promises to myself to grow up, stop being that angst Wendy that I once was comfortable being, and just fucking stop. I need to not. I really really love the people in my life, and being a piece of shit person won't keep them around. Thank you for always being there for me. I am forever indebted to your kindness and patience to me.