What is the study of being lonely? By the hundreds and thousands I’m sure. After having sped through a lonesome self-proclaimed non-protagonist by Douglas Coupland and now a quarter of the way through another spiteful yet so incredibly lovable character by Wally Lamb, whom I had first been introduced to in Grade 8, by not my English, but my Science teacher; at the end of all this nonsense I find myself contemplating the universal idea of being alone.

Maybe it’s the damn Vancouver rain.

In any event, it’s an uphill battle starting the weekend…Now just strictly caught up on the off handed comedy in When Harry met Sally. So it really boils down to this romance thing. Not even 12 hours into my day and got bootied call superficially by the count of 3. Boy, you can say alcohol and loneliness has sent me on a good hunting in the last few months.

Having waddled through the morality, the principles and any amount of social stigma, it’s not a matter of expectancy that leaves me rather vacant. What else do I expect in the manner I meet these people? Sex doesn’t scare me no longer, it became a motion, and I will stand for the account to milk the cow before you buy it any day still. Maybe that is why I am so drawn to Wally Lamb books, the way he drafts his characters to be not just deliberately spiteful, as if the idea of a anti-protagonist-protagonist had not occurred to writers to psychologically backflip the small part of ourselves that is equally petty and disturbing to be perversely drawn to these creative figures…but that they simply are. Backed up with enough self talk and cut off dialogues that makes you reel at their self portrait. They’re simply quite terrible people with a lot of flaws mentally torturing themselves like the rest of us.

The obvious result of this a lot of people like to tell me is because I am selling myself out short. I ought to just stop letting myself go at the sleeping and hold off and enjoy being single. For the most part I don’t mind it. The last time I was a girlfriend it was fairly miserable for half of the relationship, so no, I don’t particularly mind. And with all my lustrous exposure to self dissection in counselling sessions counting the multitudes of years, I wonder if I’m in denial or simply impassive, at least at the present, to the concept of being alone.

Point being, I’ve finally turned 20 and feel equally as ready to meet the world as I am still to roll over and be a little girl again, underneath a big man to carry things over for the next little while at least.

No, I get it, girls don’t happen to ruin themselves on account of good self esteem.

However so, I find myself pointedly comparing experiences and thinking time and time again that same older family friend of mine whom I had written about here and posted in forlorn fashion…to finally get without trying a year later and realize it wasn’t that great. Then I wonder why is it that even in recalling the sensation of laying in someone’s arm, no matter whom – the guy that I’ve met once and have not seen again nor heard from in the last week alas…how another individual can be so warm, how easy it is to fall asleep that way. Shocking lonely hits your gut like that under sheets that are still warm from your embrace and now you try to tell yourself to just go to sleep.

Sensual | Sexuality

Trampled losses
Amongst my unfinished breath to
Nullify my sex, in the recess of absolution

This nakedness presents you
A stillness to thoughts unheard
Lithe weight in deadened hands

Tear drops pearl at night




*To the me who did nothing to perpetuate, yet nothing to stop things from happening. At what point does our sensuality divide from our sex?

Have I Become Independent?

I wonder if it is ever possible to be self-denial to the point where on the one hand you can relish in the scent of someone’s old t-shirt and also still feel detached enough to know you’ll be okay to never see that person again.

Perhaps self-denial is the wrong term for this oxymoron. Is it more like indulgent or just less co-dependent?

While coaching my fellow girlfriend on dirty wordplay and how it can be empowering for the female sex, I listen to her description of once again the perfect engaging relationship. The whole sharing, connection and universal stars aligning. I almost swear to myself that I see her eyes glistening.

It’s not that I’m against the monogamous relationship. Far from it; those who had read my last last post witnessed me through a bad break up. Certainly there is the trend of young adults nowadays that participate in the growth of open relationships, or less formally known as ‘taking it easy’. If somebody can’t forwardly confirm the status of their relationship with another, they shouldn’t be in one.

That being said, coming out of my break up, I wasn’t very healthy about it. Apart from being a functional alcoholic,  I also decided to take that enchanting life motto to get over somebody by getting under somebody else. Now that I’ve rolled over onto the other side of the bed (is that a bad pun?) I’m just taking a look around to see where that landed me now.

I hear the term, why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free. That’s neither here nor there for the sensible argument of being 19 and free versus esteeming yourself higher than the social norm and waiting out for ‘the one who cares’.

What if caring came in a lot of different levels? What if the depths of compassion for somebody is as inherently selfish and inwardly concerned for oneself in the sense of ensuring your mental survival through the worse case scenario (as girls will entertain in their head – guys, feel free to jump on board), but could also mean that you still actually genuinely like that person as well. What if the alternative was being single for the majority of your twenties – the golden age – they say, wasted. What if you just like feeling attractive and slutty in the patriarchal sense because it’s purely fun and addictive.

The point of the matter is that I stand between two friends on very different platforms. The one who was my age at one point and slept with people to which both parties openly admitted did not like each other, but was attracted to each other. Pit against the one who is only a few years older and feels cautious against the advances of modern guys because who knows what’s real and what’s not anymore. I’ve alas gotten myself to the mental state where I no longer feel the need to incessantly check my phone and wonder at which point of their day their usual schedule lands on. I just want to relish myself for a little bit – like how the porcelain in my bath tub shines to the effort of a very determined functional alcoholic.

Now, all I can think about is the fact though I have this guys’ t-shirt, when will I get my watch back if this doesn’t pan out? Does that make me a bad person?



Post-Humorous Breakups

So I ended my poetic triumph by claiming :
“If you do not want my love, then take steady with no affection at all!”
Denying at any rate the childishness of this scheme. I warn you not to expose me. It is an assault on my senses.

To ask to consider a proper proposal of a communion, a compromise, a well laid defeat  – well sir, I only come with a single mind, no better or worse for your fanfare. Fortunately for me, no such tug-a-war of strife or vexing mechanism of human indecision bothers me to such degree of high entity. I am as ridiculous as proportions tends to go, with no intention of withdrawing my forces. “Selfish to the very end, Miss Scarlett O’Hara!” Then so it be dear friend, and let me make a remarkable mark on this world. A boot to the end.

And that is my plan thus far. No, it has not gone too far, but I know within these short, stamped sentences, were the precise moments when you fell in love with me.

** I found this as one of my drafts from some months ago last year. Funny to read your own words and scarcely recognize where you could have gotten them from. I somewhat laugh and admire my overdone belligerence. Having drowned myself steadily in red wine and old comedic Chinese movies, I’d say this self-denial stage of post-break up is heaving itself along.


“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.”- Stephen King




A picture of yourself is like a version of who you think you are.


This is me. 

I’ve had a lot of trouble trying to explain and prove to myself who I am. Sometimes it’s even hard to tell ourselves who we think we are. Being to me, has at this moment left me speechless. I’ve spent a great deal of time telling myself that people are like nuclei; you’ve got to be a whole, fully functioning member with a semi-permissible membrane in order to co-exist in a relationship of any level. The center being the DNA, the declaration of your distinct separation. To ensure you’ve got all your gathering around you to make this sense of being continue to tick, it can’t collapse with any other atoms out there.

I’m at a point in my romantic relationship that it seems my defensive membranes have collapsed. And there is no way to go about this without getting side tracked because when you talk emotions, you talk about this whole spectrum. Talking about yourself, especially to an anonymous internet audience, makes you want to explain yourself. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe that’s just another part of me that wants you to think you know who I am when I don’t.

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I am sexual. I am sensual. I am free.
These sketches were some of my favorites in my pastime to create something aesthetic with my own hands – like metaphorically it would help me add that onto myself. That idea hasn’t quite caught, but they at the least serve to speak without words.

In my previous post, I spoke about how debilitating it may be for someone you’re in a romantic relationship with recommend you to see a therapist. It’s not the intention that is offensive, but the certain underlay tone of writing off somebody because you simply don’t know how to help them. This happens for a lot of people I’ve known. It is certainly difficult to be in a faultless and seemingly helpless situation with someone who is most apparently asking you for help, but has no way to offer instructions. A small part of me was devastated that the consistent stigma with therapeutic counselling appeared convincingly in my mind to strip away my sexuality.

For many women out there, our sexuality has been throughout history decidedly been our favorable contingency. My sexuality was something that I have harvested and come to embrace significantly overtime. It was something that I could offer, rather than the only thing. A part of me that I saw beauty in. And that would appeal to only a specific part because in the midst of trying to figure out who I am, I found that I am also still the me who found herself laying the same old scar atop another. Rocking on my heels and trying to catch that breath. Red. No one tells you how guilty you feel, not when you’re trying to ask for help – not looking in your mother’s eyes, trying to explain unfathomable thoughts of how much you have always thought yourself as ugly. Ugly in a pungent deep unseated root feeling of unease and of being soiled. I watched her tear up because she couldn’t begin to understand how long standing these ideas had been in my head and a dull thought relayed itself to me that I really should not be thinking like this.

That these two sides could find a place within me is baffling to be sure. Then I picked up a book at a local Indigo and read in the summary that women today are taught since young that they need to suppress their anger and desires, particularly to learn to abhor the signal of a hysteric. That 1 in 4 tries to quell their innate oscillation of emotions with prescription medication (also another subject I had touched on) when really we should be empowered by this empathetic ability. I think about this now while trying to digest the decision I’ve come to this evening about ending my relationship and ask myself whether I am making the right choice. So caught up in the delivery, I’m afraid I won’t have the guts to stand up to them should he challenge it – if that’s even what I would want.

And perhaps to a lot of you out there, this is a small thing. Certainly it hasn’t been all that long, and with another issue, not that serious. I look at myself and kind of don’t know what I see when we’ve been told and taught so many ways to look at things. I took a peak into my phone photos and see the many pictures I had taken of him just a few days prior and interrogate myself unfairly again whether I am really out of giving second chances. Whether I’m really just scared to be myself again; when you’re not being brave or happy or attempt to be beautiful for somebody else. Perhaps another innate born syndrome we’ve specially developed was this rather dumb martyrdom reasoning to only feel good and be capable on behalf of others. As if it isn’t time we ought to have developed a better sense of self.

In talking to my mom she said, You obviously like this man more than he likes you, and you have tried to give yourself to him, and if he won’t take it then it’s his loss. But Sarah, listen to this, your emotions towards him is a beautiful thing, it means you have a big heart, and there is absolutely nothing to be at loss for in that particular sense.”

Strictly speaking because she is my mom, I will believe her and see the beauty in that. And I do. I have loved every minute of caring for someone else and thinking of how to surprise them next and make them feel special. I plan gifts to the lengths where my girlfriends suggest I be their boyfriend instead because whoever this guy is, he must be fucking lucky. I guess he was.

Within reason, I know I will be okay. As all things pass, this too shall pass. In the meanwhile, I guess I’ll figure it out somehow, get back to myself again.

Cat Cafe + Pill Talk

Cat CafePeople have always said there was something about animal companionship that made life a little easier. Nothing like coming home, or staying home entirely for that matter, and just allowing yourself to be coveted into a fur infested feline pillow. Watching how utterly satisfied they are with their lot in life, to be an North American house cat – life doesn’t get much better than that after all. That said, my sister decided to take us out to the Vancouver Cat Cafe that has just recently re-opened its door since it had been looted of all it’s resident cats from hopelessly disturbed cat adopters. Sick.

Now I realize those who have known me previously here would be entirely too familiar with the ways of my, not one, but two fat asses I call my one and only. As I am typing this at work, I cannot supply you with hilariously inappropriate photos, though I hope you feel the tickling of my perverseness through the screen. And I may be laying it on thick right now with the sarcasm, with due understanding you see – when you’ve suffered through an in-explainable week of nervous break downs you sort of got to belly flop your way in the day to day stuff to get by. Granted, I’ve caught myself clutching my jeans, meaning to be dressed, while being rocked by a sudden onslaught of self loathe and tears. So in that respect, I think I have outdone myself in unreasonable douchebaggery.

Probably this whole style of self-denying narration delves into the many, plethora and myriads of problems in my human psyche…but we’ll keep it simple.

I guess I have a problem (yes, I will stick with my denial if it’ll make things easier). But so does everybody else in this damn bloggosphere – like why else are we here? What, you’ve got friends outside? So how do we dignify my abominable possible OCD with your loner aspect? I suppose you can’t. And I should stop thinking so much. Easy fixes and all. That’s where I was headed when I was talking to my sister over dinner about headed to the clinic and asking for a referral (as most suggested by a lot of people I know) or being prescribed (more opt for by myself) some on-the-leash medication to stop myself from being entirely too ir-radical in times when logic escapes you. My argument being it’s not fun to lash out with my accelerated over-concerness for things that are blown out of proportion with my invisible dialogues to people I actually care about. And if self-loathe was one of those things I’ve secretly been hoarding underneath my comfortable feline ass then expect the mental self beating I will give myself when logic returns.

The arguments against these medications are old though. I, myself, had written an essay about it back in high school more or less saying it was a useless sense of government approved escapism. My sister had personally been in a 3 year relationship with a guy who was on anti-depression medication and when this guy tried to cut down his doses, things went bad. I was only 14 at this time so I don’t know the full details, but I appreciate her saying she wouldn’t want to see me become like that. Drugs are addictive in the end and we are addictive beings. I get it. But let me just cut to the chase and say this: it is a fair amount devastating to have the most intimate people in your life tell you that you need/should go talk to someone – i.e a therapist. 6 1/2 years counselling took over my life in school. I’m not complaining, I’m sure it’s pulled me through a lot of stuff. But if the fear for drug reliance is evident, it should be noted that so is the goddamn dependency of an audience all your life. I am afraid of my own thoughts when things get too quiet – that’s my problem, and a lot of other people’s too. Now that I’ve spent almost 2 years outside this realm of counselling or therapy or any sort of help in my mental health I find myself entirely too reluctant to go back.

I quote my pride when I think about how badly I had clawed my way out of there. It’s not that it was bad, but social stigma will be what it is and even if I’ve been there before, nobody wants to take a look and subjugate themselves to people probing your minds again. It’s a humility thing, and I’ve lost that particularly streak of it. It’s the part where you try to hold yourself together and explain things you can’t explain in your own head; things that require a back ground of inner thoughts nobody else could ever guess.

My sister says everybody is just trying to help.

It’s hard not to get worked up talking about it. For the moment I’ve just been digging up on all my old books again – the ones that have stared at me while I slept every night. All my self-development, self-imagery, success minding and etc books. Things I thought I could oh so easily put behind me after the first grueling year of being on my own. It’s not permanent. Things still get to me on a minute to hour basis and it’s hard but I try. Try harder to believe that people will know I’m trying without having to be obedient as a mull or over compensating for my week-long sulliness with undue extremities of happy.

Mostly it’s probably just my pride again, sauntering its way into my happy-go-lucky attitude telling people (mostly myself) that I’m okay. My partner says he’s worried about me. I suppose when someone you’ve only known 3 months unleashes 10 years worth of self-destructing thoughts, you tend to get a bit winded about their sanity.

And just like that, I’ve ran out of words again.

Tonight when I return home, I’ll simply be eternally grateful for my two cats. Just for the soft purring, the sweet warmth of their paws. Their undeniable impressionable face that tells you how little they think of you. All great. Things that should further occupy my mind than anything else, that seems like the best therapy.

The Concept of Kindness


Getting these words for this post really began in the twilight dawn of a vertical hang over that strictly forbade me sleep for a solid good two hours. I suppose I was so out of it that even having dreamed of a freaky ghost story did not sober me up as it would usually.

It’s a stupid thing to get drunk at the bar and not handle your liquor too well. Before this year I have never understood what it is about alcohol that drew people to them. I saw it as an escapism, I judged people who could not speak their mind without some liquid courage. I believed in owning your words with a clear conscious and whatever may be from them may be. Except I didn’t do that last night. I spent those long dawn hours thinking of what I could have done instead and what to do here on out. To be clear guys, I fucked up.

I realized a few things from waking up to watch the Mindy Project on my phone (yes, I needed a pick me up) – that it wasn’t the concept of losing somebody that scares me, it was the concept of not having fulfilled this sense of fullness in my life that I have most likely imposed on myself. Perhaps it doesn’t make much sense from the get go. Many people remind me that I am young and that it takes time to grow into ourselves. They look at how far I’ve come in my living situation to my work front and my friends that I am doing well for myself. Maybe this is the part of me that wants more than that – it’s just that I’ve been single-handedly spearheading to find my own place and do the very things that people did not believe I could do, it gets a little lonely. No, I am not alone. I spent the morning talking to the very two friends who had to witness me throw up from a cab and pay the driver double the amount for me to get home safely. To be fair to their wasted money, I threw up in the cab too. Classy. I am not alone, but the feeling of loneliness is something different.

This isn’t really the part that I fucked up on though. You see, I’m probably just running around in circles again. Things made so much more sense in my semi-conscious mind while I was up in the vertical. What had I wanted to say was that I let my demon out again, and with her, alcohol just makes her tongue that much sharper. It wrecks all filters that I would otherwise put up and rationality to even put effort into stopping myself from blaming the person I am seeing. People ask me if I am happy, my mother particularly is concerned to be sure I am happy with this person. I feel I am happy, though I feel that I don’t allow myself to be happy.

To paraphrase this as I had to with my friends: when someone gifts you a beautifully aesthetic ceramic art piece, it’s brightly glazed and smoothly hardened. When you glance at the beautiful craftsmanship and the delicacy of care put into it’s design, the artist then tells you of its resiliency too, which is suppose to add to its value. And just because it is so beautiful and because they say it won’t break, what do you do but to drop it and see for yourself. Perhaps the first time it won’t. Doesn’t even hold a scratch. Then the second time it doesn’t either. But then the third puts a crack, or a dent, or an imprint of your crazy anxiety and the fourth may just rip it all apart.

Now I may be melodramatic, because this man has proven to me throughout all the times I have had my freak outs that it has never touched him the same way morality wrecks me. Things supposedly slide from his plate from today onto the next day; a clean slate. In the same way that I am grateful for this easygoing attitude in life, I can’t help but defeat myself in matters which concern my trust towards himself in relation to me. I sit there and wonder where it is that I have gone wrong, where it was that made me so anxiety driven to start conjuring up nonsense in my head again. Aren’t there suppose to be any warning signs to tell you that you have gone off the rails again and that this is all in your head? How do you stop hurting somebody else to hurt yourself?

My girlfriend tells me that maybe I should just be single for awhile. My guy friend asked me something I could not answer but want to know about : So, why do you think you keep breaking it?

I suppose I don’t understand the concept of kindness. Nor do I see myself in the warmth of trust and dependency. It’s not that I don’t want to, but it would appear in these recent cases my body literally and mentally revolts against it altogether. Of course I would love to have a partner to trust and confide in. In all honestly, neither ends scare me that much to think that he would leave me. After having been hit on on multiple occasions by guys in non-drunken states (to declare formally), at the very least for now, my sense of erotic validity is confirmed. Leave that as it may. I suppose it isn’t a big deal in the long run of things, I mean that’s why I’ve always told myself I was in the scene for – the long run – anything else was a waste of my time and money. Yet I can’t seem to keep my shit together if we don’t see each other in a week, or bring myself to feel that I haven’t taken away from any of his happiness in taking his time. And as all of these things whirl wind together in my head, to make it go away all that I have to confess is that I have been very happy with this person, and he has been kind to me, and for whatever the turn out this time, I have been happy. That’s the catch though, it’s only not scary when you don’t believe there is hope at hand and you simply let things fall as they may. What of when you’re in the middle of battling for things and you want to win? Fuck if I know.

He did keep his words from last night though, he texted me goodnight though he hung up on me earlier that evening. All I thought about as I stumbled out of my drunken steaming shower was that I was thankful he kept that part of my trust. Brittle as it may be.