Turning on the Tap

The concept of "fear of God" has always eluded me. I was brought up in typical modern-Christianese fashion, which states that Jesus is my best friend, he would never let anything bad happen to me, and life with him means a life devoid of fear. What changed us to be these people who have lost any respect for a God so much bigger than anything we could imagine or comprehend?

Going through life in the church only taught me one thing: God loves me. That's a pretty loaded statement. Do we realize what his love for us means? Obviously we have no clue. God: creator of the heavens above and of the earth we stand on, breath-maker, one who encompasses what it means to be good and holy and righteous, father who ordains every heartbeat. He LOVES me. Me. Creator of nothing but sinful thoughts and actions, gap-maker, one who encompasses all that it means to be prideful and self-seeking and stubborn, child who takes every second for granted. The God of the universe loves me. Unthinkable.

And going through this experience of growing up in the church, yet not understanding the full truth of what it means to be loved by God, I have fallen short on taking in the fact that I should hold God in the most amazed awe. He is awesome! He is powerful! He is wondrous! Yet all these human, English words fail to do him justice by a long shot. There is no word on this planet to describe the majesty of our God or the ways in which he works. I think that if we had any idea, we would be scared, literally, to death.

Fear of God is holy reverence, to revere him above all else.

Genesis 31:42 refers to our God as "the fear of Isaac." Here is a man who is so blessed by God, who is being given so many good promises and awesome things, and he knows the honour that his heavenly father is due.

I wonder what God would have to do to make it clear to us that he is worthy of our fear. Yes, he is my best friend. Yes, he loves me and has great mercy and compassion on my life. But no, this does not mean that I can take his tremendous power for granted.

I want to learn what it means to fear God, to live my life as a holy, living sacrifice to him. What would that look like? How much of this world would he be able to affect through me? I can't wait to find out.


Feeling the Pressure

Being stressed is one of my favourite states. I thoroughly enjoy having less than adequate time to accomplish something to the best of my ability. For example, right now I have six papers due next week, 120 chapters of the Bible to read and an assignment due Monday, as well as several other assignments and readings to be completed throughout the week. And then it's exams.

I, however, am not the least bit phased. As much as I know I shouldn't be blogging right now, I also am well aware that this state of confusion perfectly conditions my body to get the most done in the least amount of time. After this, I probably won't stop working on homework except to eat, but all the time in the last few weeks spent watching Gilmore Girls and doing things that are less than important have been well worth it. I wouldn't go back and change anything even if I could.

I'm going to cut today's blog short. I only partook in today's writing because I've so missed vomiting my thoughts in a slightly productive, if not marks-worthy, way.



Remember that big binder of my random writings that I mentioned a few blogs ago? So I was reading through it just now and got some inspiration.

About six months ago, I started reading this book called "Sex Detox." Before you run away with yourself, it's not what you think. The book is broken into two parts, one for people in relationships (and then it is what it sounds like) and one part for single people. The whole point of the book is to take a month out of your life to evaluate what is important to you, your values, and the things you'd like to change. I'm going to focus on the single aspect of the book, because that's the part that applies to me and the section that I was working through. Each day had questions to answer in a journal, and even though I only did it for the first three days (I'm such a slacker), I definitely learned a ton about myself.

Here is a small summary of what I learned about myself, without the too-much-information information. I found it so interesting just to see how I used to think, and how much of it is still the same.

Day 1: I had to answer 26 multiple choice questions relating to past relationships, my hopes for the future, my current (and at the time non-existent) relationship situation, and how I viewed my parents' relationship. (Sidenote: this is, once again, me being vulnerable. I share, but it's from my heart. Don't tear me up please).
From the quiz, I learned:
- I am very future-focused.
- I avoid dating to, in turn, avoid the rollercoaster of emotions that I always put myself through.
- I am beyond concerned with how others view me.

Day 2: This exercise was definitely less controlled. I had seven vague statements that I had to link together in any way I wanted, and explain.
Example: mushrooms, love, friend, coffee. coffee is connected to mushrooms because my first date was at a restaurant that only served mushrooms and after that we went for coffee. mushrooms are connected to friends because...and friends are connected to love because...and it continues.
So in the connections I was making (which I won't list, but I assure you were much deeper than mushrooms and coffee), I learned:
- I used to believe that, indirectly, sex = love. The part that I missed was that sex with the wrong person = heartbreak.
- I am breakable. I like to imagine that I'm solid, a wall, but the truth is that I am easily shattered.
- I used to have a serious addiction to compliments. Thankfully, I'm now in a place where I can allow God to speak to me to the point where His affirmation is the most important.
- As important as it is to find someone who fits my idea of the right guy for me, it's nothing if that same guy doesn't see the traits he needs in me.
- Because of what I saw as a child (or lack thereof), I was convinced that once I hit marriage, life would suddenly make sense and be perfect. And because it had been ingrained in my head that sex only comes after marriage, I somehow drew the conclusion that sex must make everything perfect as well.

Day 3: I had to make a pro and con list of different events that I experienced in the past. All of the situations had good lessons for me to learn, but in the process were also damaging in some way.
I learned:
- I tend to have ideals that can NEVER be matched up to. I cannot put those expectations on anyone and expect them to be perfection for me.
- I grew up thinking my worth was based on beauty.
- My previous relationships actually had a purpose. I learned what I need, and what I cannot, under any circumstances, put up with. My expectations are now more realistic as a result.

And that was where I stopped. I can't really remember why. The reason I'm sharing this? It's self-awareness, as well as a snapshot of who I was at that time. I can look back on it, see how far I've come, and see the way that God is moulding and shaping my thinking to be more like His.

None of this was meant to be too revealing or uncomfortable to read, so if it was I apologize and please let me know.

The more I write, the more I'm coming to understand what this blog is for me. It's my way of communicating to myself and the world who I really am, behind my walls.

So This is Me Being Vulnerable

So this is me being vulnerable. To the max. There's my mini disclaimer. Here goes.

I use sarcasm and harsh jokes to cover who I am. Yesterday someone asked me in all seriousness why I treat him horribly one day, and the next day I "actually have a heart," and then I go back to being...not so nice. The truth is that I bury my heart so that no one can touch it. When I'm kind and open, I've only ever been trampled. So I hide myself away and put up a front that unfortunately (yet according to plan) no one sees through and they just assume that this harsh, crass person is who I really am at the depths. And the part that scares me most is: what if I wake up one morning and discover that the person who I was trying to protect doesn't exist anymore, and has been body-snatched by this alternate-Leanne who treats the world with disdain? Worse, what if I don't notice at all?

To hide the fact that I have my own horrible insecurities, I put on a show of pride and disguise my pain as a joke. The truth is...I'm rarely even comfortable in my own skin. Just when I think I have this whole liking myself thing down, I let someone tear me down with the smallest comments. And of course, I react in typical me-fashion.
"Thanks so much for pointing out that I'm pale! It's not as if I've never looked in the mirror before."
"I'm skinny? Really? And here I was, all this time, thinking I was fat! Well good thing you pointed that one out, or I could have been really embarrassed."
I suppose people say the things they do because they assume that I'd like to know. Do you not understand that I can see my own faults well enough without you pointing them out? I know everything that I do and say wrong, I'm well aware of my numerous physical flaws, and I'm more than capable of beating myself up over it. I honestly don't need your help.

So in response to my own brokenness, I erect these impregnable walls which I hide behind and only appear on top of occasionally...and usually only to hurl down tomatoes and insults. It's not you...usually. It's me. It's all me, and my own selfishness and pride.

I don't really believe the things I say about myself. I know I've said this before, but somehow people take me literally every time I say something extremely-over-the-top prideful. If I honestly thought I was wonderful, trust me, I'd be the last person to mention it.

And then, to top it off, I get the typical response: "What do you have to be so embarrassed of?" Because I'm not allowed to have issues or problems I'm struggling with. It's not as if someone "like me" (whatever that means) can have self-esteem issues.

I love the person I'm becoming as I change. I really do. I am just so sick, so physically ill at the thought, of how I'm viewed. But it makes sense. And I take full responsibility. I keep people at arm's length, I treat them with disrespect, and I'm cold. I deserve it.

Just one last note, though. I did let myself be vulnerable a while ago. I put myself out there, thought I had made a careful decision on the people I was letting into my life, and my heart got trampled. Nice one, Leanne. You really know how to pick 'em.

So I guess for now I'm walled up within my fortress, waiting to be rescued. What does that look like? I haven't the slightest clue. All I know is that until then, I'm not strong enough to break the walls down myself. I'm definitely not strong enough on my own. Wow. That was hard to admit.

So, that was me being vulnerable. Sorry. Wait, not sorry. I'm not apologizing. This has been bothering me way too much lately, and I had to get it out.
Amazing. I can open up to the world (or whoever decides to read my blog) but I can't tell the people I've hurt why I wasn't able to treat them the way they deserved.


Anything and Everything

Lately I've been under the strange impression that it's wrong for my blogs to be getting more serious (thus the most recent one). Maybe it's just who I am underneath; I forget that I'm way more serious than I let on to most. I guess I had even myself convinced.

I have a massive binder on the shelf above me that is full of poetry, stories and songs that I've been writing since I turned fifteen. Out of the hundreds upon hundreds of entries and hastily written scraps of imagination, I can maybe find three funny articles. I don't think humour suits me in writing.

From this collection, mostly poems about love and jealousy and the woes of a typically rebellious teen, I can see the progression of how I reached the place and person I am today. I still screw up...a lot. Way more than I admit; but I guess this, in its own way, is an admittance to the horrible brat I can be sometimes.

I love sarcasm. I feed off it like a frat boy discovering his first mini-bar. I incorporate it in every possible moment, but then get hurt when it's used against me. This, of course, makes me a hypocrite: the type of person I despise above all else. Once again, in itself, a hypocritical paradox. Sometimes I wonder if I'm completely mentally unsound, or just in desperate need of a padded room for awhile.

The inner workings of my mind always amaze me; I'm able to pull something out of thin air, present it in a pleasing way, and somehow remain objective enough to not rip it apart. I tend to over-analyze anything and everything, particularly that which I said and was said to me. For some reason, however, my mind is able to keep that judgmental side of myself at bay while I write. The same is unfortunately not true in regards to other aspects of my life. I used to criticize my mom for needing to constantly analyze absolutely every situation. Then I became her. It's not a bad thing, honest. I love my mom. And now that I have a deeper understanding of what it means to think somewhat the way she does, I can better appreciate the way she views the world. I think seeing her from the outside also gives me fascinating insight into my own tendencies.

Should I be committed for thinking the way I do? Probably. For the way I act? Most definitely. But as this is highly unlikely due to the shortage of space in mental hospitals lately, I think I'm being given a new outlook into why I am the way I am. Also, more importantly, I'm constantly in the process of changing myself to (hopefully) become a better person. What good is realizing my deficiencies if I never plan to do a thing about it?

I remember the first time I really attempted to change who I was into the person I wanted to be. I was eighteen, just graduated, and had finally realized that I was not happy with myself the way I was. I was absolutely determined to become the woman of God I was called to be, and not just sit around waiting on the world to change. I started a journal with a hard-hitting theme: anything and everything that's wrong with Leanne. Every time I conquered a new issue, I immediately tackled another. Sometimes I backslid and ended up working with the same problem for a few weeks at a time, but after only a few months I was a completely changed person. Looking back on the things I used to struggle with, I can hardly believe that was ever me. The problem with the system came when I thought I finally had it all together. I stopped working on new things that God was bringing to my attention and simply let myself be where I was in that moment. Now when I look back, I can see the foolishness in that decision. I've still come so far since then, but not at the same rapid pace as when I was consciously working on all that I was struggling with.

I think I need to get back into the same old routine. I won't post what I'm working on, but every time I see this blog, it will be a reminder to continue working out my issues. I honestly want to change, I just desperately need God's help to get there.


Piece of Pie

I'm basically the funniest person I know. That isn't meant to sound prideful, so if I come off that way just ignore it.

People who laugh at their own jokes are a dime a dozen, so I don't try to pretend that makes me special in any way. But tell me this: how many people do you know who laugh at a joke as it's forming in their head to the point where you wonder if you'll ever get around to hearing it? Exactly. That's how funny I am.

The witty remarks that frequent my mouth are so deliciously original that I often tell myself that I should have a personal slave to follow me around and record every word I speak. That way, none of my brilliance will go to waste on the unobservant and those who have been ravaged by society and are no longer touched by humour.

My brilliance, however, has been slowly deteriorating with old age and I'm beginning to fear that I may lose my cleverness altogether in no time at all. To fight time and its evil plan to rid me of my magic powers, I plan to simply live forever. Starting...now. Ha. Now I will forever be at least this funny, if not more so. I have the rest of eternity to grow my laughability powers to the point where I could take over the world based solely on said powers (and that's not even taking into account my superior beauty and breathless charm).

Oh, and did I also mention that I ooze humble pie?


I thought I'd post an example of exactly how funny I am. Just for the record, all quotes are only approximate because my memory ain't what it used to be (re: getting old).

J: Hey, can I buy you some sleeves sometime?
L: Is that a come on?
J: No, you just never have sleeves.
L: I've never heard that pick-up line before.
R: You know Leanne, not everyone wants you.
L: Oh, I know. There's married people and children.

Update number 2:

This was far too good to not post!

L: (speaks vaguely about someone with potential)
R: That's filthy!
L: Yeah it is.
R: No, not the good kind of filthy.
L: There's only bad filthy.
R: No, the productive kind.
L: Don't you mean reproductive?

Peter Pan

Writing came a lot easier when I was younger. I don't exactly know why, or if something inside me has chemically changed to make the flow from mind to paper so much more painful, but whatever is different seems to be set in stone. I can't just sit down and pen out a rantacular monologue filled with the ever-so-high highs and never-been-so-low lows of early adolescence. In fact, I can barely sit still long enough to find a pen anymore.

My brain has turned into one of those machines that operates to survive and do so with the greatest success, never mind the heart's desires. I think some people would refer to this as the act of "growing up." Ugh. Just typing those words hurts. I never asked for an adult brain, the kind that can be enjoying a beautiful moment, but still be thinking about what I still need to clean before bed, or how I'm going to afford that new sweater I want. I have officially gone over to the other side.

From the time that I was very small, I have always likened myself to Peter Pan. He never had to grow up. One of my favourite people on the planet passed away several years ago, and I'm so glad to say that she never lost her childlike attitude. At the incredibly old age of 5,223 (give or take a few), she was still able to giggle about boys with me and enjoy gummy bears and get lost driving from McDonald's to my house. Occasionally I've caught myself wishing she could have been around to see me grow up, but that's lying to myself on so many levels. I went through a space in my life that would have destroyed our friendship if she'd been around to see it, and in turn destroyed me. The only good part about that time in my life was what I learned, and that she didn't have to be humiliated by the person I became. Part of me will also never grow up; I determined that a long time ago and don't plan on changing my mind. And then, the hardest one: what if I somehow outgrew her? Grew up to the point where we could no longer relate because I became an obnoxious, self-serving adult who was above it all and could not have cared less for the simple joy of running down the pier at midnight in the dead of winter with no jackets on? Shoot me now.

I want a wheelchair with spinners. I want to giggle about boys until my face gets stuck that way. I'd like a massive box of chocolate to be open in every room of my house until the day I die. And I never want to stop relating to people who are younger than me.

Where is the joy in growing up? Please don't confuse this with growing older. I think that aging is a beautiful thing and, if done with grace, is the marking of a life well lived. What I'm talking about is the notion that getting old means putting away childish things. I love sticking my hand out the car window while I drive, and laughing at Napoleon Dynamite, and singing obnoxiously along with 90's boy bands. I don't want to lose that part of myself. I'd hate to be lying there dying and all I can think about is if there are dirty dishes, while everyone I know stands around me thinking what an old cow I am. I want to go out exploding into laughter! Popping a lung because Cyrius was too funny to deny. I don't want to be regretting that I spent my last weeks, months, years making sure life was being lived "properly" or "as expected" or "respectably," while the whole time I was wasting away the last precious moments of life.

So I just got way too serious again. What happened to light and cheery blogging before going to bed too late (must be up in less than 7 hours)?

Writer's block seems to have eluded me again. I try and try, but the more I talk about how I can't write anymore, the more I write. Maybe it's just different. Maybe I'm different. As long as it's just because I'm old now, not grown up.


Where Has All the Sanctity Gone?

There has been a lot of discussion going on around campus lately about the subject of soulmates. Is there any such thing? Is there really only one person on this entire earth for each of us?

Apparently this has been on lots of minds lately, especially because of outside expectations on us to find our significant other while at Bridal College. Being the ideal place to find a potential mate, the more commonly called Bible College has earned its alter-ego from the number of marriages which have come from meeting under the pretense of learning about God. Don't get me wrong, I have no doubt that all of us come for the same reasons: drawing closer to God and preparing for our ministries. The trouble comes with outside pressure to be hitched before the end of week one. Other comments on the topic are generally sarcastic as well; we cannot help feeling bitter towards the intense pressure put on us to immediately find "the one" and settle down with two and a half kids, a mortgage and a ministry in place just in time for graduation.

So back to the original question: do soulmates exist or not? Some will argue adamantly that there is no way that only 1 in over 6-something billion people on the planet is perfect for any one person. On the other hand, others will argue that there's a reason so many people are getting divorced these days: they're too hasty and just jump into marriage, rather than waiting for the person who is meant/created for them.

I have seen enough examples of failed or regretful marriages in my life to know that this isn't a choice to be taken lightly. And certainly not a choice that should be made within the first seven seconds of stepping onto the college parking lot, no matter how good the options may be.

My personal view is that God did create one person for each of us, who in a perfect world we would end up with, and everything would be perfectly dandy. We do not, however, live in a perfect world, and so we do not always end up with the one created for us. Because sin gets in the way and our own selfish desires mess up what might have been, we make choices that inhibit us from receiving what could have been ours. Aside from that one person, I think there are a handful of people that we could be perfectly happy with, and these are often the people we end up with. Although they may not be our perfect other half, they are more than capable of making us happy, and vice versa, and will be more than able to build a satisfying life with us. And then, there are the thousands upon thousands who we might look at, and at first glance appear to be a favourable candidate. However, this is just an initial impression, but we are more than willing to jump straight into a long-term relationship, get hitched, and THEN realize that they may not be who we thought they were all along. Suddenly, it's the D-word and heartbreak runs rampant in all lives involved. Divorce. The big, ugly breaking of a soul-binding relationship that steals love and life from children who aren't at fault but are dragged through the mud by parents who (hopefully) have the best intentions.

Yes, I am cynical. No, my parents haven't split up so I haven't personally been through the situation. But I am a huge believer in true love, the kind that transcends the moments when passion fails and the warm fuzzies go away. If love is based on physical attraction, then I want nothing to do with it. I firmly believe that once you choose someone, your choice is made, and you do your absolute best to make sure that it works. Of course there are exceptions. Infidelity and abuse are more than good enough reasons to end a marriage; a dry season is not. Second thoughts or wondering about a former flame are not. Marriage and commitment are thrown out the door so quickly these days that it makes my head spin. Where did the sanctity of vows go? What happened to "for better or for worse?" What happened to pushing through until death, because you know beneath it all that you really do love them, despite it all?

I don't believe that there is only one person we can be happy with, only one person to share this life with, or only one person who we can build a home and a family with. I do, however, believe that there is only one person who we would be perfectly compatible with. And I do believe that it is a choice, but that the choice made is sacred and to be upheld. Maybe I'll change my mind one day. Maybe I'll be in such a state of anger and hurt that I will no longer want to continue the fight to stay afloat with the one I chose for my life. But for now, I am more than fine with standing on the foundation that marriage is of worth, love is a decision, and that it is so important to choose wisely.

So here I sit in Bridal College, feeling pushed and prodded towards commitment ASAP, but I'm not giving into the peer pressure. I'm more than willing to wait for the one I was created for, and to trust God that in His perfect timing it will happen.


Always the Advocate

I've never been much of a drinker. I don't think it ever really occurred to me except in too-hot-to-bear summer weather when my mom was making iced tea by the bathtub. And you thought I meant alcohol.

But then again, I never really drank a lot of that either, especially since I turned my life around. Back in the days when I did, though, it was never something I needed or a way to prove my own significance like so many I hung around with at the time; I was simply expressing myself in a new way until something different came along.

I remember last summer when it suddenly struck me that water was probably healthy. Doctors and family had been telling me for years that water was delicious, nutritious and cool, but it wasn't until I had a medical check-up and found out I was severely dehydrated that I began to seriously change my ways. For several months I was drinking up to six or seven glasses a day, and I felt amazing! Not only did I have the clearest skin of life, I also had so much more energy and far fewer headaches.

But, as everything always seems to go, all good things must come to an end. In this case, it was summer and the accompanying heat wave. With the last warm-tinted breezes and bikini-wearable days went any desire to take any water into my body. And that's where the story ends.

...Until it picked up again several weeks ago. Half way through the semester I realized that instead of gaining the "freshman ten" (the ten pounds every college freshman in the history of the planet has always gained as a rite of passage into adulthood, until me), I had in fact LOST ten. Due to my already heightened insecurity on the topic of weight, I set out to gain fifteen pounds by the end of the semester. The only problem with my daily eating regime was the inevitable break-outs I knew were bound to erupt with that kind of volume of snack food entering my body in such a short amount of time.

The solution? Water.

I started with three glasses a day. Which progressed to four. Then six. I was finally at an average of eight glasses a day when I eventually plateaued. Since then, not only has my pees per day ratio gone up, but so has my self-esteem and skin-wonderfulness. Although I am currently at only about three or four glasses, I still feel amazing for it.

I know that some of you may not believe me, and others think I'm drugged up again. So not the case! Water is refreshing, tastes delicious (especially if you add small slices of cucumber, lemon wedges or do it the old fashioned way: use an old 7-Up bottle instead of a fancy $40 job), and cleanses your system from impurities you never even knew you had!

So like I said, never really been one for drinking. The thing is, though, I plan on looking this way until at least forty, and there's no way that's going to happen without a little bit of sacrifice. So why wait until I'm 35 to start taking care of myself, when I'm fully capable of starting today?


I'm a Big Kid Now

When I grow up, I don't want to be famous, have groupies, or anything else the Pussycat Dolls try to imprint on impressionable minds. In fact, I'd rather not have more than enough money, be photoshopped until I'm not me anymore to be on the cover of a magazine, or not be able to walk down the street without being recognized. Now don't get me wrong, nice cars and seeing the world would be really nice, but that's just not where my heart's at right now.

I want to grow old. And not sitting alone in a pile of cash, while my plastic face slowly melts to my feet and my tattoos sag until you can't tell what they are anymore; I don't want to have everything the world can offer, but have no one in the world to remember the good times with because I spent all my time trying to have good times instead of letting them happen. I want my face to be scattered in laugh lines and permanently creased from the times that made life worth living. I'd love to be covered in scars from all the times I took chances, not all the times I was too hammered to walk properly.

And the older I get, the cooler I want to get, not the other way around. Of course I'll have purple hair by the time I'm fifty (who really wants to spend all that money dying their hair to cover the greys, only to have it look natural? Ugh), learn to salsa and breakdance, and definitely go skydiving every chance I get. I'll go to bingo every Thursday and play the real way, with dobbers instead of machines. Best of all, I'm going to be the kind of grandma who bakes cookies and cake and those cute little custard things ALL THE TIME!

I know this isn't my usual, but it's just been hitting me so hard lately all the things I want, and everything I can definitely live without. I'd rather be in love and in debt than gloriously rich and full of regret. I want a house that's always full of laughter and Lucky Charms. And best of all, I never want to look back and wish I had done something different. I will never let myself live in the past...or without bingo.


Sweet Dreams

Today started like any other. I woke up way too early to go eat a breakfast which somehow never fills me up to my satisfaction, mostly due to my pickyness in breakfast food. I'd skip the whole ordeal altogether except that, whenever I do, I have horrible headaches and feel physically ill until I finally get some nourishment. So I ate breakfast in record time, went back to my room and got re-undressed, and went back to bed. Normally this would be just enough sleep because of the combination of 5 hours before breakfast and 2 after, but on this ill-fated morning, my mother decided to call.

To properly understand this story, you need to know my mom. When we were growing up, she was the kind of person who believed in only-healthy-filled-with-veggies-but-never-in-any-circumstance-dunkaroos for lunch kinda moms. She also went through a phase when I was about eight where we only ate stuff with kamut in it. Until my brother was nine (he's four years younger than me), he never even knew what spaghetti sauce with meat was like. I always felt sorry for him. She was also the kind of mom who only had whole grain cereal, and NEVER Lucky Charms.

My favourite cereal in the whole entire world is Lucky Charms. It is the only cereal I'll eat, and I don't plan on changing my ways any time soon. Not only does it take longer to get soggy than anything not made out of cardboard, but who doesn't like fun, coloured marshmallows with a catchy jingle that never quite leaves your subconscious?

So my mom gave me a call this morning at 9am, a full hour before I needed to be up to become adequately beautiful for my Bible Research class. She had pure motives, so I can't actually be mad.

Two months ago I was in a car accident that not only totaled my car (which my insurance gave me next to zippo for, thus leaving me carless and get-around-like-normal-less), but also wrecked my back...again (I was in a similar accident 2 years ago). So to get to all my numerous massage, physio and doctor appointments, my mom has so awesomely driven me around and made sure that I make it to everything on time. Basically she's wonderful. So when she called this morning, it was just to remind me that she'd be here to pick me up at 1pm. I'm sure I was perfectly polite before I hung up and tumbled back into bed.

So how does this all fit together?
For my birthday this year, my parents bought me the lovely laptop I'm currently typing away on. My brother, being the superb young man that he is (and the poor 16-year-old-without-a-job young man that he is), got me Lucky Charms. It made my life. I screamed louder than for any other gift in the history of time. Even when I pretend I don't, I definitely love him for his thoughtfulness and sensitivity to my needs. My mom rolled her eyes, took a picture, and gave me a look that spelled out my ridiculousness.

The point I'm trying to make is that my mom cares more than most would normally be willing to admit that their mothers care about them. Did she shove kamut down our throats for five years out of hatred? Of course not. Did she deny me my favourite sugary meal of morning glory because she wanted me to be unhappy for all the years I lived in her house? For sure not. And because I didn't rebel and hide a box of my personal cocaine in my closet, I think it's safe to say that I also love her far more than I love those delicious marshmallows.


You Know You Should Flee the Country When...

Just a quick story, because I couldn't not post it.
Today I was getting ready to leave for church, and I don't quite know how it happened, but I suddenly found Stephanie (my crazy roomie who was introduced in blog numero uno) with her entire self attached to my leg. I brought up a comment I had made about her earlier, that leaving her would be like kicking a cute puppy, and said she was reminding me of the puppy story again. I told her not to pee on me or something, and she looks at me dead serious and says: "What if I do?" She then latches on as tight as possible and gets this look of intense concentration on her face. She finally got off and collapsed in piles of laughter.
The worst part? Even if I had gone downstairs with a massive pee stain on the leg of my pants, no one would have believed me.


Figure 3.12

The summation of my experience on this planet has served to teach me only one thing: boys are dumb. I can be walking down the street wearing my baggiest sweats, with the dirtiest hair and no make-up, and receive the same number of honks and "ow OWWWW"s I would if I were wearing my shortest mini and had somehow "misplaced" my top. This can only lead me to believe that in the long run, looks don't really matter. All I need is proof of my womanhood and KABLAM! Interest pops out of thin air.

Sidenote: This isn't to say that I in any way deem myself desirable. As much as I say "OH EM GEE, I'm lyk, the hawtest thing ever!", no one can expect that I'm actually taking myself seriously. Don't get me wrong, I'm finally in a place where I can love myself and have gotten over the fact that I will never tan or be labeled as not too skinny. This, however, is in no way an indication of pride, just because I don't hate my body. In fact, I despise pride; every time I catch a hint of actual pride in myself, I immediately do my best to kill it. I loathe it with a passion usually reserved for breathing in autumn air (ask my bathroommie, I nearly fell out the window yesterday).

So, back to interest. My biggest self-deprecating issue is that in the past, I have found that as soon as initial interest wears off and a guy realizes exactly how much of a handful I am, he loses interest and things draw to a rapid close. This, in turn, leads back to my biggest internal struggle: I am always too much, yet somehow never enough (but this is deep-rooted hurt that I just don't have time to get into LOLZ [my annoying, common way of taking a serious statement and half pretending I wasn't serious at all]).

I once dated a guy who, after several months, informed me that I didn't have to bother shaving my legs anymore if I didn't feel like it. He said he didn't mind. So I stopped. He then told me I looked much prettier without make-up. So I stopped bothering with make-up. He also encouraged me to wear my hair up as much as possible because it brought out my eyes. So I wore my hair up, which led to washing it less (now everyone say "EW"). He also, I noted, paid me the same compliments whether I had tried to impress him or had just come from the gym. So I stopped trying altogether. And then, with shocking clarity, I realized that I had turned into a complete slob, and he couldn't have cared less.

The idea of a guy loving me even at my grungiest is sweet, don't get me wrong. The problem comes when I no longer feel the thrill of being beautiful for someone; the rush of having the one I care about looking at me and not being able to say a word, because he can't breathe. So while having my man not mind when I don't dress up once in awhile is fine, I infinitely prefer someone who notices when I try.

It seems we have come full circle. Boys are dumb. End of story.

...But not quite. I have never really been one for caring about my figure, mostly because my metabolism is killer, and likes to play tricks on me. Like taking every particle of fat in my body and flushing it out no matter what I eat. Once, I gained 15 pounds, and only my mom noticed. I looked exactly the same! But as the years have gone on, I've realized that it's a good thing I never tried to fit a certain mould. Every guy on the earth has a different idea of what is beautiful! Some like blonds, some like brunettes; some like short, some like tall (usually more to do with their own height than anything else); some prefer deathly skinny runway models who wouldn't know a cheeseburger if it ran them over with a lawnmower, while others like 'em curvy. This epiphany has birthed in me a surety that this bod is the one I'm meant to have, and one day I'll find a man to appreciate it for what it is.

Even if he's dumb.

The Biggest Convo of Life

It's not too often that something pops into my head worth putting down on paper, but what comes out of my mouth is often of far more use. Too many in the past have suggested that certain forms of mental activity are considered symptoms of psychosis, as well as a danger to the rest of the world. I, on the other hand, would argue that this specific "line of work" is actually to the benefit of all, especially my roommate. I am referring to...talking to myself!

I'm sure we've all done it at some point. You know that crazy guy who always sits across from you on the skytrain, muttering about the birds and what will happen when they realize their own intelligence, as he spits into an old tuque? As much as we want to sit around and judge him, we've all been in the same place at some point. Picture this: you're in Aeropostale trying on a sweater, and you know you're meeting your sweetie in exactly 47 minutes for THE BIG CONVERSATION (dun dun dun). Will he want to continue the way things are going? Move forward? Take a step back? Break up altogether?! But then you breathe and remember, "Oh yeah, I still have 46 and a half minutes to get this perfect." And so you begin. "Well, you see, Petie, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately," (throw in the hair twirl) "and the thing is..." (loooong, dramatic pause) "...I care about you way more than my dumb words could ever say! In fact, I don't know how I'd ever go on living if you decided to just leave me here like this!" (Enter my good friend, Mr. Desperation) "I need you Petie! Not just for now, but for forever!" (Here come the waterworks) "Don't l-l-leave m-m-me like this!" (And cue frustration). "No no no! Dumb me! DUMB ME! Because THAT won't scare him away! Gosh, WHY DO I HAVE TO BE SO DUMB?!" And it's in that moment that you realize you're no longer having a fanciful monologue in your head, but are in fact screaming out your hopes and dreams of a life with Petie to the entire store. We've all been there. Or, at least, that's been my experience.

So what led to this onslaught of horribly thought out blabberings directed at my defenseless keyboard? As I was sitting on fb (facebook, for the under-informed) and desperately seeking out the meaning of life through no-thought-required wall posts and less than satisfactory chat conversations, I realized that for the last hour I had been laying on an assault of mind-blowing proportion. My roomie (her name is Stephanie, you will come to know her very well) was lying on the floor, completely helpless, as she was mercilessly exposed to the inner workings of my mind via talking to myself. And it's not enough that I just let slip out whatever first comes to mind. No, of course not. I'm far too obnoxious for that. I'm also the kind of person who sits on her laptop, headphones in with the rest of the world tuned out, watching Gilmore Girls and laughing and giggling like crazy...while other people sit in the room and have no clue what has brought on my newest psychotic episode (sidenote: I have a horribly ridiculous laugh that makes you wonder if I'm choking, hyperventilating, or just never learned how to laugh at all. But this will all be covered in more detail at a later date).

So, in summary, I probably do have mental issues. However, the most important part of the entire talking-to-myself process is learning to be ok with myself...no matter what comes through my scattered, mess of a head and out my mouth.