Perhaps Happiness and Heartbreak

Perhaps happiness and heartbreak happen. Always. Together, or in ravaging separations.

This little suite I call home is full of loneliness and love. I will miss nights, second-hand sheets and pasta covered in cheese. Putting on a blazer and pretending to be the sort of person who carries business cards. Falling asleep on the couch to the sound of you struggling with a paper.

That's still away, I know. So this summer I'll lie in your arms in a yellow school bus, it's smell reminiscent of street Spanish and truck stops. And I'll sleep here by myself, on my side. cradling a new life growing inside.

It will be happiness and heartbreak. And maybe both together.

((Creotiv))

Broken Pieces

I think of you like yesterday,

(ElifKarakoc)

a smile on your face.

An array of broken pieces

all but dappled shades of gray.

I think of you as everything.

Deception that was chance.

The thought of what we used to be.

Fading error, trip and dance.

I think of us as nothing,

just the stories that we told.

The passion of a summer's morn.

Open water, flakes of gold.

I ponder.  Pensive.  Carefully,

a thought I should forget.

The heavy rest of midnights past

a glimpse I should regret.

For tightly tangled, hidden now.

Leather boots, my thoughts, this kiss.

The comfort of an autumn day.

So much I must dismiss.

Worth Having

Come Autumn I need change... and things. 

It's been a summer full of fun, confusion and living like I was free.  It was rope swings and barbeques.  Rock climbing and iced coffee.  It was boys and camping and a star spread sky.  To much rain and not enough lightening.  Best friends and family, the two of those combined.  Long talks, happiness and the world beneath my motorbike.  It was mistakes for all of us, decisions among us and more good relationships than I could possibly have hoped.

It was a summer worth having.

And now I'm here.  In a big empty beige house with no furniture.  And in classrooms discussing Philosophy, Psychology and knowing I'll be struggling through homework.  Learning how to write creatively.  Because I've never dabbled in that before.  Thinking about taking on more freelance journalism through this all.  With a blue-eyed boy I care for.  In a city I've always thought was unattractive discovering hidden places where beauty exists.

Feeling seventeen sitting on the back step drinking lemonade out of mugs because we don't have chairs or glasses.  Holding hands, smiling lots.  Opening crisp new school supplies and learning my way around.

It's more change than I could possibly hope for.  It should be a fall worth having.

Scratch That

I kind of forgot what blogging is about.  Actually, scratch that.  I never really knew what blogging is all about.  Quite honestly, I've always been confused there.  I know I don't blog strictly for myself.  I certainly don't blog for financial gain.  What is it that's so fulfilling about posting my ramblings on the internet?

Regardless, I still managed to somehow forget.  And, I suppose, sometimes a breather is needed.  I have no intention of actually going away.  I've been dreadfully sick with a tonsil infection but it's just now starting to clear up.  I still like mutual-like guy, and it's still mutual.  However, we just recently decided to just be friends for the moment.  Mostly due to my reservations.  It's kind of sad but also remarkably relieving and I'm happy with the decision.  In an ironic twist he gained a lot of additional respect by concluding that I needed to be confident with my decision and either jump in or step back.

Today it's raining and I have on my rainy-day mood.  All of a sudden I refuse to be carefree and I need to question everything.  Here I am.  Maybe that's what my blogging is about.

(Dannyst)

Here

This post will not be long. It will not have photos, it will not rhyme, and my wording will not be impeccable. I will not be telling you to vote (my ballot was cast advance) or commenting on certain political developments. This is the first full blog post I am composing via iPad, but my reasons are good.

I am in Prince George, en route in a two week back-country hard-camping road trip to the Yukon. Last night we slept under Jasper stars and watched a hint of northern lights streaking the sky.

I recently turned down a job promotion, met a boy I share a lot of mutual like with, found a room mate with a thirst for adventure and a long history of learning to appreciate each other (we're succeeding). Pre-wrote half a month of paid posts and put my car on the road after biking for a month.

It's nice to have an open road, a full tank of gas and two of the coolest brothers you can imagine to share this with. This is here.

Fought and Forgot

I listen to Eminem, sometimes.  My headphones on, the volume up, my angst and anger cringing in the face of pop's greatest claim.  But that's not why.

I listen for the blonde crew cut.  For the baggy jeaned white wife beater of a culture not my own.  For the thrill of memories I'll never have except scrawled in this poem.  And with you.

For those times we parked and fought or didn't fight and I forgot.  For the words that say you better then I ever could.  For the ones that are actually good.  For Stan.  Haunting obsession and dysfunction.

Do you listen to Dido, thinking of me?

For regretting your past, for you.  My present, with you.  A future without.  Not dreaming I'd end up with  some commercialized beats on a mix disc of songs we could both appreciate.  For Cleaning Out the Closet.  Our one common conquer of communication.  For the times that disagreement and you lips on mine were a confused passion.  A plethora of emotion, of action.  And of painfully knowing I could never like Eminem.

Because he reminds me of you.

Crushes and the Blogger

I have a blog crush.  Yes, I do.  But, warning:  You can read this whole post.  I'm still not going to tell you who he is.

See, because this is a real blog crush.  There's the "Hey, Girl!  I think you're funny and a great social network connection so, guess what?  I have a crush on you!"  Those are fun.  They're fine way to tell people I like their writing, I like chatting, I like their twitter and the pictures they take of themselves in the mirror (just kidding.  I don't "crush" on anyone who does that.)  But I think it's a lame use of the term.

Then there's the real crush.  As in, I think I'd like you for real.  I'd like to hang-out with you, go on epic adventures with you.  Maybe, you know, marry you.  That's all.

I think you're funny, intelligent and kinda cute.  Yes, I think about you.  Mostly when you post.  I wish we could be friends.  It would be nice if I could see if we're both the same as we seem to be when we write.  If we could really argue about music on road trips to places we're both excited about.  If we could really talk about what's important and where we want to go.  If you'd let me tag along when you do fun, creative things.  If you'd want to learn to do the things I know.

I never had any sort of never-met-before crush until I started blogging again.  I thought it was stupid to like celebs or people you'd never meet.  I still do, actually.  I like myself better in real life.  I simply like the real part.

Still, though, this post is about someone specific.  The only blogger crush I've ever had that I honestly thought maybe I shared values, lifestyle opinions and interests with.  But he's far too far away.  I've never stalked his Facebook (because I've never thought about it before.  I know what I'm doing after this publishes) or anything silly.  I'll just keep reading his blog and thinking that he's a pretty cool guy.

The internet sucks.

I Hate the Fact

I hate the way he whispers

(AvrilkaTff)

in your hair when I'm around.
I hate the way you close the door
And pretend there's not a sound.
I hate the way you giggle
like you're happy, 'cause you're not
I hate the way I tell myself
I won't give this a thought.

I hate that this is temporary,
everything will change.
I hate the way you look at me,
you think that I'm insane.
I hate his twisted eyebrows
and his soft but piercing stare.
I hate that you convince yourself
you make a perfect pair.

I knew you as a child,
yes, I knew you better then.
Getting to know you better, now,
is something I intend.
It's hard, though, when he holds you close,
and knows I know the truth.
It's hard, though, when you hold his hand
and won't accept the proof.

I've made my own mistakes, you know.
I'm not one to pretend.
I'd take my own advice, you know,
if I could do it all again.
I've learned a few hard lessons,
guess they shaped me as I grew.
I think about it now,
the same will happen to you.

I hate him for the way I know
he'll let you down one night.
I hate there's nothing I can do
to help you learn to fight.
I hate the fact I care to much,
I just can't help you see.
But I know you're just becoming
the beautiful woman to be.

---

Hello to any awesome new followers, and welcome!  Don't worry, I only rarely inflict my "poems" upon you all.

Getting in Hot Water

"Can you girls just hand me that beer?"

Let me back up a little.

After taking the wrong back road we managed to arrive just at dusk (this is Canada in January so, like, 5:30).  My Civic braved the mining road like the gem she is.  We'd parked on the far end of the pull off and set up our tent on top of two feet of snow and three tarps.  After unrolling our sub-temperature sleeping bags (that means "You will survive."  Not, "You will be comfortable.) We finally shivered our way into bathing suits, hoodies and snow boots.

Cue: Classic natural hot springs.  A beautiful set of pools surrounded by snowy overhangs.  large flat rocks, river within fifteen feet, the toking crowd and snowflakes that melt in your hair.  A star spread sky.

What makes it all worth it, as inclusion to the joy of getting in hot water, is the chance to spend hours with people you care about.  The rare opportunity to do so without cell phones.  Without texting, social etiquette concerns or pressing engagements.

Finally as our single water proof time-piece neared one AM the girls in our group climbed back onto the path.  By now the only people left in the pool were the guys from our group and a few others we came to dub "The Canadians."  Strange, yes, seeing that the rest of us excepting one fit that definition ourselves.

Rather then braving the outhouses at the top of the trail we opted to change on the path.  Four of us took turns holding up towels and dropping our wet suits into a frozen heap on the ground.  I stood holding the towel for a very naked friend.  The other two of us were also engaged in providing and using these make shift change rooms.  That's when The Canadians piped up.

"Uh, girls.  Is there, like another beer up there?  Just, yeah, do you see a Molson?"

I glanced down.  three feet to my right I could spy the top of a can.

"Yeah.  There's one right here."

"Oh, yeah, cool.  Do you, like, think you could just hand it to us?"

I glanced down.  My friend was looking for a bra in our snowy pile.  I was balancing a flashlight and a the two corners of the towel.  Since we'd been at this ten minutes already I would've thought that The Canadians could have figured out the inappropriateness of the request.

"Seriously?  Hand you your beer?  Umm, yeah.  Just let me drop my towel on my friend here and hand you your beer."

No, I didn't say that.  I mumbled something about in a minute.  Canadian dude started scrambling up the bank.

"Oh, there it is.  Just out of reach."

Luckily girl number five managed to reach us in time to hand him his Molson and they faded off to the bottom pool.

Why did we call them the The Canadians?  They were proof as to where our stereotypes actually come from.  And very much thanks to this quote.

"I f***in' drink beer all the time.  F***in' Christmas shopping, I drink beer.  In the f***in' shower I drink beer.  Driving to these hot springs I drink beer.  F***in' love beer, man!"

We figured out a better process the next morning.  Arrive at the pools when there is nobody around.  Toss a frozen chunk of suits and towel into the hottest pool.  Proceed to change.  It's really too bad that the colder it is in open air the better the hot spring experience.

I Like Boys Who Wear Bandannas

It seems as though I think it's hot every time I see a guy rocking a bandanna.  At least in real life.  But I didn't just say that.  

Well researching this topic I discovered that online I can't like boys in bandannas.  First of all, "research" means, of course, that I was lurking Google images and Deviant Art looking for good looking males wearing bandannas.  Imagine my chagrin when I realized there were so many bad pictures of said topic, and virtually none worth showing my readers.

The idea started when I was watching this music video on Youtube.

Of course I soon remembered that I can't possibly admit to watching this band even if it's because it has this guy and I'm checking out this wrist bandanna.  I then started to think about how I could list off all the super cool ways of wearing them.  It wasn't long before I realized that I can't really do it without sounding like a douche.

I can't do it without sounding like some degree of hippi, redneck, punk or emo (whether or not I am has yet to be seen...).  I'll sound like I like smelly old bikers, highly image-conscious jerks, wanksters or illegal skater kids (whether or not I do is quite well established.  Negative, thank-you very much).

(colinhill)

(loudxmusic)

So, on Because or Why Not I formally find guys in bandannas a very large turn-off.  I also would never consider wearing one myself.  Nope.  Bandannas are not hot.  Bandannas are, in fact, unattractive.

I won't let on that I have checked out young guys wearing bandannas the right way (no do-rags please!).  I also, without a doubt, believe that good looking young women should consider it a serious strike against their self esteem if they've even considered wearing one of these trashy accessories.

Unless I actually meet you.  Then, maybe, we can talk about bandannas another time...

Foreign Flavour

(Jahblessme)

I think I think I like you
'Cause I really think you're cute
You're sweet but you are edgy
Like you're trying to improve

You smile, hold the door,
but in every conversation
I'm really very certain
you swear without realization

You're genuinely thoughtful,
even when I know you're wasted
Like a new and foreign flavour
that I've never really tasted.

You wear death metal t-shirts.
Yeah, you seem a little shady,
but you really are exceptional
at helping out old ladies.

I think I think I like you,
and I know you think I'm hot.
So this may seem a little crazy...
I won't give us a shot.

The Biggest Role Boobs Will Ever Play on My Blog

I want feedback.  I specifically want feedback from my male readers out there.  I'm sure you guys exist.  Even if I never do post boobs for real (sorry for the tease).  But I have a very specific question.

First of all, I've never watched Jersey Shore.  Not even a little piece of a little clip of the show.  But the general impression I've formed about the show made me think it would fit this post well.  Here's what confuses me.  I know girls who channel Jersey Shore with all their might.  You know.  Pale lipstick, excessive eyeliner, trashy hair extensions, that disturbing orange hue, single line eyebrows.  That kissy face.  I wish I was rude gutsy enough to snag some of their ten million pictures off Facebook and show them to you.  But I'm not, so these shots of Jersey Shore are gonna have to do because, frankly, it's pretty much the same thing.

So, the thing is, I've never heard a guy say they like that crap.  As a girl I honestly think it's a little disturbing (and I feel the same way about the fake orange males wearing Ed Hardy and trucker hats).  It's trashy.  Period.  So, guys tell me they like girls who act like ladies.  They say they like girls who can rock the natural look.  They say all sorts of stuff, and then chase after girls who leave the house looking like, well...  Check attached images.  Then...  then they get all over these girls like their the hottest things their poor horny selves have seen all year.  I've seen it, and I know you have too.  

I have three theories.

1.  Boys are shallow.  They think they like genuine girls because they like the idea of a genuine girl.  They also don't quite understand how much of the Jersey chicks are fake.  

2.  They actually like genuine girls.  However, the thing is that genuine girls take a little more work.  The Jersey chicks are easy.  What other kinda girl would put this out there?  And, really, why go hard when you can go easy?

3.  The Jersey chicks just know how to play they guys.  They know when to smile, when to flash boob. And, oh yeah, they know how to flirt.  Flirt like you'll get somewhere.  They know how to make any boy feel like he really matters.  Like sex is the biggest objective in their life.  And, yeah.  It probably is.

So tell me, guys.  Why does this work on you?  And girls, do you get it?  Or are you a little bit Jersey yourself (in which case I do apologize).

Don't be surprised if this post only survives a week or two.  I doubt I'm brave enough to risk the Jersey chicks in my life eventually stumbling across it.

Sometimes

I mismatched my hair elastics sometimes just to piss you off .  Because you needed to lighten up and learn that red and orange on my braids was fun.  Sometimes I pretended I didn't care, and you didn't call my bluff.  Sometimes I held your hand in the backseat and decided to think that no one noticed.

Sometimes I told people it was nothing.  I told them what I couldn't stand so they would believe me.  I told myself it wouldn't happen, and wasn't happening, and would never happen.

Sometimes I got tired of being the strong one.

You let me cut your hair, and wore the shirts I got you.  I looked in your eyes.  That was my mistake.  Your eyes, your phone voice, your endless adoration.

Oh, did I say endless?  My mistake.  Oh, no, wait.  Yours.

(luna-aino)

When Skater Boys Strip

(Source: Afireoutsideme on Deviant Art)

Pretend it's June in North Ontario.  The sun is weak, the town is tiny and the area is stunningly beautiful.  It's also St. Jean Baptiste which means the Quebecers in my little group want to get wasted* and declare their sovereignty.

Now, I'm not all Vivre Quebec, but I enjoyed hanging out with the biggest Libre believer of them all.  Thom was a guitarist of the tenth degree.  A ponderer with a French-guy afro.  Funny, deep, and a little bit lost.  Being as it was Quebec's national holiday he got all introspective and wanted to wander off to the beach with his guitar.  I was bored on our free block and decided to go along.  Mostly, I confess, I wanted to sit looking over Lake Superior and listening to Thom's acoustic guitar.

As we got closer to the beach a cop car pulled up and informed us that a bear had just been reported on the beach.  There's another thing about this town.  It wasn't unusual to see black bears crossing the street in the middle of town.  With a dejected Thom I turned and meandered down towards main, stopping at their little skate park.

Laying on the curved concrete Thom played and I listened.

Groups of fourteen year-old boys can be a little obnoxious.  Especially when it's a birthday party and they're on the way to the corner store to try scam cigarettes.  They spotted us like prey on a field mouse.

"Dude, you're amazing.  Man, play us something."
"What do you want?"
"Play us some Slipknot!  Know any Metallica?  Dude, Slash!  Who's she?"
"Kris.  She sings."  I shot Thom my "way to try switch the heat" look.
"Dude!  Play us something and she can sing."

Kids don't shut-up easily.  Thom cued the opening bars of Hotel California, about the only song that we both knew he could play and I could sing through.  Amid just-breaking voices and experimental swearing he glanced at me.  Kind of a "just do it, I dare you."

As I started on dark desert highways and cool wind in my hair the miraculous happened.  The group shut-up.  They stood against the graffiti and stared.  When the guitar died they were all, "Man, that was amazing.  Amazing!  Beautiful!  Really."  That's right.  We got a fourteen year old male to use "beautiful" as description.

Then the birthday kid dropped twenty bucks in Thom's case.  Twenty-bucks!  We were on a youth volunteer program, so that was a night out at the Legion (yes, the Legion was the happening night life).  It was his birthday money, but he wouldn't take it back.

They headed off to the convenience store.  We returned to our non-heavy metal under the night sky, but it wasn't too long before they were back.

"Dude!  You were amazing!  But we're out of money, Man.  Here.  Have a rock."
"No way, Man.  They're too good for a rock!  Here, have my shirt.  No, seriously, take it!"
I was laughing.  Thom was like, "C'mon guys!  You can't go home without a shirt.  No, it's cool."
"No really.  Take my shirt.  Take my shoes."

"Here!  I'll give you my pants!"

To our chagrin a barely teen dropped his pants.  Right there on the skate park of a little northern town.

"Want my boxers, too?  I'll give 'em to you!"

Thom was freaking out a little.  I couldn't stop laughing.  We managed to get the kids to (mostly) keep their boxers on.  Eventually it was us who had to leave them running around the ramps partially dressed.

"I was scared," Thom confessed.  "Man, like, maybe we get in trouble for little kids strip in front of us!"

It was perfect.  My first and only St. Jean Baptist.  But regardless it'd probably be my favourite.

*Yes, I see the irony as the holiday is (apparently) named after a saint.

It Tastes Like You

It tastes like you.  The rush, the thrill, the novelty.  Pressing it to my lips.  The driftwood behind my back.  That endless lake, the setting sun, our handprints in the sand.

Salt tears and blood.  The tensity and an allergy.  The cold that I'll inhale.  Bruises and your hand at my waist.

Bandanas, denim and soft plaid shirts.  Mine and yours and maybe a mix.  Sweat beading at my neck before I lift my hair.  Leather cuffs and the tang of their metal buckles.

Daisies and a hard dirt trail.  Labatt beer, wild strawberries, foam and that photograph.  Dust.

It tastes like you.  I'll hold my breath and wait for the bitter aftertaste.

Alberta Boy

Through the patio window I see his truck pull up and park.  Lifted and black, like the rest of them.  There's no plate on the front.  I know right away that the one on the back will read "Wild Rose Country."  He saunters around the front of the bumper and squints at the meter well reaching in his pocket for forgotten change.

This side street meter has a knob he'll have to turn after inserting his quarter so the yellow "paid" tag will pop up.  We've installed digital ones two years ago, but only on main street.  I'm sure he's amused.

By time the door opens Donna has a menu ready and seats him in the front.  Now that lunch rush is over she wants to mop the back.  He's at table three, his profile framed by the backwards white letters reading "Marty's Diner."  My section.

"Did you read our lunch special on the way in?"

"Yeah."

I can hear Donna moving chairs in the back.  He glances up from scanning our burgers and smiles.  "But you can tell me again."

I look at his Oiler's cap, and the glasses he's rested upside down on the brim, and smile back.  "Grilled bacon, mushroom, swiss with your choice of side."  Or, in your case, fries.  "Can I get you anything to drink?"

Large Pepsi.  Could he make this a little more interesting?

I'll take my time filling the cup, waiting for the foam to recede.  Taking his order, biting my pen lid, laughing when he jokes about our classy menu, not glancing back when I return to the kitchen.

Why drive through the Crowsnest listening to Sirus radio, alone?  Stopping too often for diesel and energy drinks.  Maybe he just wants girls to flirt with and small town teenagers to admire his truck well it's parked at 7/11.  Maybe he's from here, somewhere back home.  Maybe it's his Mom's birthday and he wants to get stoned with his high school buddies and brag about his pay.

Whatever it is, his sandwich is fine, and could he get a refill on his Pepsi?  How does he get back on highway two?  He leans on the counter well he pays with debit.  His Dodge key chain already out and resting casually by the till.  His name is Jordan and he tips five dollars on an eight something bill.

Locals will swear and his red and blue plate as he speeds through school zones on his way back to his rig job.  Whatever that actually is.  We'll end up there, too, in those oil suburbs.  Because we want a 4x4, a snowmobile, a nice bike and maybe a seadoo.  We can always haul it out to B.C. where there's a decent lake.

First Northern Lights

That brilliant green streaked its way through the night sky above us.  He drew me close on that icy granite monument.

"What other firsts do we have?"

First song written for me.  First beard to run my fingers through.  First crush with glasses.  First time lying in someone's arms in the snow, or sneaking in at night past a sleeping roomate.

First time flirting makes me fully forget the job to be done or the fact that I care what people think.

First active lack of judgement.

First time forgiveness fails me.  First cold hard lies.  First time crying to my sister on the phone.

The vivid display fades it's hues into a black star-studded sky.  My head rests on his flannel shoulder and my trust is hopelessly gained.

"Let's have as many firsts together as possible."

Top Ten Sexiest Accents

Let's face it.  Girls like boys with accents.  So, my countdown.

10. French-  Oh, I didn't want to put this one in.  I have nothing for French Men, and care little for the language.  But in interest of of girls everywhere I'll pretend I mean Quebecois artists.

9. Italian- Italians are a little dangerous.  Nice to look at, but that's all.  Actually, they're also a little nice to listen to.

8. Finnish- Had to include a Scandanavian country.  Fins are cool.  Plus, Finnish is mildly related to Asian languages.  Spoiler warning: I hope that lets me off the hook for not including any real Asian languages.

7. The Drawl- Let's be straight.  There's nothing hot about Texans, stetsons or cowboy boots.  Nothing.  What I'm going for here are Southern Gentlemen who want to treat you like a lady.

6. Canadian- Well, the Americans get the drawl, so I have to be patriotic here.  And there's something about a boy from home.  Besides, my good foreign blogger friend Mel says they sound nice, and I trust her judgement.

5. British- They just sounds better then us in the silliest of ways.

4. Australian- Again, probably not smart dedicated relationship material.  It's like summer fling on steroids to listen to.

3. Spanish- Not the Whiney Mexican accent that popped into your mind.  A deep Spaniard accent, all the better if punctuated with real Spanish words.

2. Jamaican- I don't know what makes them so cool.  Do you?  Sounding cool when you talk just ups attractive factor by quite a bit.

1. Scottish- Number one.  Period.  Now and forever.

Recently I had a huge thing for Channing Tatum.  By huge I mean that I'd watch Youtube fan videos.  I know who he married and dug dirty deatils like his stripper past out of Wikipedia.  Fortunently I don't get celeb crushes very easily, and when I do they're easily worn out.  In fact, the only other current celeb I remember googling for my own interest was Avril Lavigne.  I'm actually sorry.  I was sixteen and she was still pretending to be cool.  Other then that I've never cared for celebs.

Except... You know those black and white prints you find in trendy retro shops?  I can't help but love the aura of that era.  I used to crave saddle shoes and get my Mom to sign Buddy Holly cassettes out of the library.  I rarely have the patience for a classic movie, but I do love stills and reprints of original posters.  Audrey Hepburn, Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe, Steve Mcqueen.

Which leads me to confess my other, longer lasting, celeb crush.  That's right.  James Dean.  Really, though.  Who wouldn't love that leather jacket and smouldering gaze?  An immortalized rebel without a cause.  To bad Wickipedia told me he was gay.

"Live fast, die young and leave a good looking corpse" -James Dean