Just Keep Going On

I’m not entirely sure when exactly my life became the script of a really poorly written sitcom, but here we all are, she writes as she continues to eat the half of a chocolate pie she pulled out of the fridge for breakfast, as she is too damn lazy to make eggs, obviously trying to illustrate the point she was trying to make.

This is where I am at now.  Comical levels of sadness. So comical in fact that I could actually be Sadness if anyone ever did the live action version of Inside Out.  Which is a vast departure from the state I was in the last time I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard as it were) to write my story.  The last time you and I were together, I was sitting on the beach with Chuck, so happy to have a wonderful, beautiful new boyfriend.  I was enjoying our time together, and enjoying having someone in my life that I liked.  Of course, because it’s me, and my life after all is a sitcom, that feeling of joy didn’t last more than a full month after that.  I’m not sure if it was the sleeping with someone else that ruined it for me, the fact that he slept with someone who found out she had Chlamydia, or the fact that he couldn’t figure out why  I didn’t want to stay with him because of those two facts (he had apologized for cheating after all, AND he got me meds to take just in case I had gotten Chlamydia from him, and hey, he at least told me he cheated, he didn’t have to, so isn’t he a great guy, and can’t we just work things out?) and then proceeded to essentially stalk me for the following month till I threatened to go to the cops.  I’m not sure which of those three things really made me not like him.  I mean he’s obviously such a catch, I should have just been thankful that he wanted to be with me.  *eyes roll so far back into my head that I go blind*

After all that I took a little break from dating, haha, just kidding, no I didn’t, I got back onto Plenty of Fish and Tinder almost immediately, and by December, I had started meeting new people.  It was pretty slow going, not much to write about, until I got a message from a ghost named Max.  He sent me this really long message, apologizing for being such an asshole to me, and asked if I’d like to meet him for dinner sometime.  I messaged back laying down the law that if we were going to hang out again it would be on my terms.  So we did, and it was like a year had not passed.  I got the same feeling I had last year when we had spent time together, and it wasn’t actually until we were having sex, that I felt different.  Yes, I slept with him, can we save the judgment (I’m projecting here, I know this, shut up) for later in this post? Cause I’m betting you are gonna need all the judgment you got for later.  Anyways, when we were making the sex it was like my brain woke up and reminded me of how he treated me last year.  I started to give myself shit, like all he has to do is say he’s sorry, pay for your meal and buy you some really fancy expensive yarn (yes, he did that, and it’s beautiful and I can’t decide what I want to make with it) and you are back in his bed, and feeling like absolute garbage? What in the actual fuck is the matter with you?  So needless to say I left his place very unsettled and unsatisfied.  We saw a movie together a week or so later, and then after that you know what happened?  History repeated itself.  I just stopped hearing from him.  Again.  Because if I’ve learned one thing in this life it’s that if you do something you know you shouldn’t be doing, the universe or whatever the fuck will show you exactly why you shouldn’t have done that thing.

Which brings me to right now.  Yes there have been more funny dating stories that I could share, and a few more that are less than hilarious, but since we are talking about letting in blasts from the past when you fucking know better, and since it’s fresh in my brain, we come to last night.  After a few months of less than impressive dating stats, I wrote a big longwinded post on Facebook about the woes of dating, specifically online dating.  I was doing my best to keep things as light and funny as possible, but I obviously came off almost as dark and depressed as I have been lately, because no more than 5 minutes after I hit post, I received a text message from the infamous Erik.  If you don’t know who Erik is, then who even are you, and how did you find this tiny little blog in the most random corner of the internet?  Now, hearing from Erik is nothing new.  In fact, I’ve been hearing from him here and there a lot since Kevin and I split.  We’ve only seen each other in person a few times, but every few weeks I get a text from him, just him saying hello, or telling me something he knows I’d find interesting or funny, like a couple months ago, when a former football player I used to enjoy was working on a production he was involved with.  Our interactions have been very friendly, and while I am always painfully aware of our past whenever I see him or hear from him, overall I think we have made it to this place beyond the awkward where we can maybe actually be friends. With or without the benefits.

Last night he could tell I was down.  And no matter what the motivation to message me was, he was the only person who reached out to ask if I was ok.  He saw through the sarcasm of my post, and could tell that things maybe weren’t as lighthearted and humorous as I was trying to make it seem.  He took what could have been an awful night for me, and made it into a really fun night by doing something not many people in my life can do for me right now – he was just there.  All we did was text, but we chatted about everything from old Simpsons episodes to the thought of having kids one day to him telling me I should audition for a production sometime.  We even cleared the air about what happened between us.  He told me he still feels guilty that he couldn’t give me all the things I wanted with us, and I told him that it’s nothing to feel guilty about, that you can’t force yourself to love someone when you simply don’t.  We talked for almost 4 straight hours, and it was probably the first time since we met over 10 years ago that we actually opened up to each other like that.  Regardless of how I’m feeling today about it (slightly confused, and mad at myself that my heart still skips a tiny bit when I see his name appear on my phone) I’m so glad that it happened.  I’m glad someone, even the most unlikely person was there for me when I just needed to talk to someone.

So judge away.  I know I’m judging me.  And I know I’ll never learn.  But at least with me not learning, it gives me a reason once every 6 months at least to come back and work my shit out here.  Thanks for sticking around a little while longer with me.

Olivia

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Locked Away

As I’m writing this, I’m sitting on a beach near Lakeview, looking out at a bunch of little kids, making sand castles, splashing in the water and having fun as only children can in the summer. The weather isn’t even very nice. It was hot and mostly sunny out about an hour and a half ago when we first arrived, but then the clouds rolled up, covering the once nice bright shining day, turning it overcast and cool. This actually suits me quite well, because even though I enjoy a hot summer day as much as the next person, a cool day at the beach means I can relax and read a really great book without sweat pooling in my ass crack. 

I sit and look out on the water, and I try very hard to prevent my brain from wandering into the memory banks where the now distant memories of me and Kevin at this particular lake live. I’m failing at this by way, and not even just a little bit. I see people on a gigantic 6 person inflatable party barge, and it reminds me of when Kevin and I lounged on his party barge the first summer we were together. I see boats in the distance, people fishing or skiing, and my brain is back on Kevin’s best friend’s boat, and we are catching fish early in the morning because that’s when fishing here is the best. I see the yacht club and think, “why in the fuck do we have a yacht club here? You live here. You ain’t fancy. These aren’t even yachts, they are boats. Small ones in fact.” And then I remember last summer when Kevin and I took a drive out to the beach, just for something to do on a lazy Sunday and we went for a nice walk. As we walked past the “yacht club” I made a similar joke about how ridiculous it is to try to be fancy in this neck of the woods. It was one of the last days we spent just the two of us, just enjoying each other’s company. 

I’m trying (and failing) to move on in general. Sure, I’ve had the Maxes and Marks, and the Eriks and the Shamuses, and they have all been fun. Snapchatting, Tindering, and Tweeting have filled my time, and given me brief moments of flirty entertainment, but they have all been a distraction from the fact that I am so unbelievably miserable with my life. Sure, on the surface I seem fine. I crack the jokes, I smile a lot, and my selfie game is on point, but I’m fucking miserable. And I have been since October. 

And it’s not just the loneliness. Well, it’s mostly about that, but not all about that. I’ll also spare you the lengthy essay about my depression over being 31, single and childless. To say that that record has been overplayed would be the understatement of the century. 

I’m in a rut. A big one. My life feels just like I’m going through the motions, no ebbs or flows, just steady monotony. I have far too much free time to think and overanalyze every detail of my life, and unfortunately because of this, Kevin continues to live rent free in my brain. We’ve been apart for 9 months (has it really been that long already?!) and yet I still haven’t moved on like I wish I would have by now. I have never had such a hard time getting over someone. Mind you, I’ve never loved anyone like I loved Kevin, so I guess that makes sense. I just want this to be done. I want the fact that he unfriended me on Facebook to not bother me. I want to not constantly wonder if he’s got a new girlfriend (pretty sure he does) and wonder what she’s like, and if he loves her yet; if he can see the future with her that he couldn’t see with me. I know I said a few months ago that I wouldn’t undo all that Kevin and I had for the world, but after 9 months with this soul consuming, gut wrenching pain, I want it gone. All of it. All of the good and every last shred of the bad. 

They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? I call bullshit on that. Maybe this is only true when you are old and on your death bed and have spent your entire life madly in love with your soulmate, only to be taken away from them by the fate of death that plagues us all. But if you have your heart smashed into a million pieces by the one you love when you felt like you had your whole life ahead of you with this person, fuck that. It’s better to not have loved at all. Life shouldn’t be about pain. Love shouldn’t be about pain. Love is supposed to make your life better, not indescribably worse. 

I feel sorry for the guy who wants to be my next love. He’s going to have so many walls to climb over or knock down. I’ve put these all up to protect my heart, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it be that easy to get to it again. Hell, forget getting to my heart, he’s going to have a bitch of time just getting me to go for coffee with him in the first place. As it is, I’ve only met one new guy since I broke up with Mark a month and a half ago. I even deleted my dating profile, although I still have Tinder. I guess a small piece of the pre-Kevin Olivia still lives on, even if post-Kevin Olivia would prefer to go live in a cave somewhere. 

My brain keeps telling me that all this will pass. One day I will wake up and feel like my old self, and I won’t give a single fuck what Kevin is doing. My heart however is like the weather. Some days it’s warm and sunny, but in a moment’s notice it turns dark and cold. 

One day I’ll be better. 

But today is not that day. 

Olivia

In a Blur, In a Day

A lot can happen in a day. In a mere 24 hours, things can go from absolute shit to great, or vice versa. Actually, things can change in the matter of a minute. That’s why I’m baffled by the fact that it seems, somehow, a couple of week ago, in less than 24 hours my seemingly great life went to absolute shit. Because I became single again.

We were exactly 90 days short of our 2 year anniversary (I’ve never celebrated 2 years before. I even had a countdown in my phone for that one). I thought he was the one. I thought we were it. I could picture a wedding, kids, and a life together. Just turns out that he couldn’t picture the same life with me.

Now, none of this is anyone’s fault. As much as I want to hate Kevin, and scream at him for not figuring things out sooner, and throw things, hard things, at him just so I can maybe feel the tiniest bit better, I can’t. Because it happens. It’s life, it’s relationships. It fucking sucks, but it happens.

I knew he was pulling away. I could start to feel it months ago when he took this job so far away that we were drifting apart. And not just in the actual distance of it. It was in how we’d talk (or not talk much at all really) when he was home and sitting three feet away from me. It was how when we would talk, it wasn’t about anything of importance. He would talk about his work and what was going on in his life, and I would rarely have anything to tell him (how many times can your day consist of nothing other than watching Netflix and knitting before what you did that day becomes redundant?) and when I did have something worth saying, he seemed like he was some place else. Distracted. He changed. His body language was different. It was a subtle difference. He didn’t take my hand quite as often, or kiss me hello or goodbye somedays. He never seemed as excited to see me or to be coming home to me after weeks apart. My brain knew that all of these small things meant something, but my heart decided to ignore it.

And I’m sure I changed too. I’m not for a second going to sit here and say that it was all him, because I know (as does everyone else) that I am so far from perfect. He told me that he felt a shift too, that he felt like maybe I didn’t love him any more. But I did.  I loved him with all my heart.  I have never loved anyone like I loved him.  Ever.  Maybe I didn’t say it out loud as often as I should have, but when I said it, I meant it.  Every single time.  I tried to let my actions speak for me.  I cooked meals for him and made sure that the house was clean, and I got all dolled up to go pick him up from the airport.  I wore camo (which is his favourite, and my not so favourite) when we celebrated his birthday, because I thought he might like that. Now, don’t give me any anti-feminist crap about being like that for him.  I wanted to do all those things for him, he didn’t expect them from me.  I tried showing him that I loved him.  But I didn’t speak up when I really should have, and for that alone I am fully willing to take 50% of the blame as to why the relationship failed. I felt the shift months ago, but didn’t speak up, at least not like I should have. I kept telling myself things were okay, and that it was just a rough patch, or the long distance, but I should have spoken up. I should have said something. Anything. Maybe we could have worked through it. But instead I did what I always do. I ignored how I was feeling, I pushed it away, and built another wall, as if that was going to soften the blow if this day ever came. That’s probably why he felt me pulling away too. What a fucking idiot I am.

During his last 2 weeks away at work, I saw and felt things that I couldn’t ignore any more. I started hearing from him even less than I already did, which wasn’t much to begin with, and when I did finally hear from him, I got the bum’s rush where he would only talk to me for a couple minutes at a time so he could go to the gym for an hour and a half every night. Going to the gym in itself is not the issue here, to be clear, it’s the amount of time in which it happened every single day because it felt like he was prioritizing every thing over me and us, as if our relationship was more of a burden than a pleasure to him. And the biggest tip off that something was wrong was that he stopped saying I love you first.

That in itself may not seem like much, men are like that. But Kevin was never like that. In fact, it took several months for me to be comfortable saying it first, whether it was out loud or even in text. Hell, just saying those words out loud at all were hard enough for me. I had never been in love before. I had never said those words out loud to anyone other than family before, and even that was new, because I don’t think I heard “Love you” being thrown around the house much if at all the entire time I was a kid. I was never used to saying it, which was why showing it through my actions always came more naturally to me. It was actually a joke between the two of us, and Kevin used to tease me about it throughout the first months of our relationship. So when I started to notice that I had to almost coax him into saying it, even via text, I knew something was up.

So I asked him about it while we were laying in bed two Wednesday’s ago. I was expecting (and hoping) for a response like “oh, I just like to see you do it first.” Or him tell me it was just to bug me. Instead, he came clean about how he’s been confused lately, he’s not sure what he wants out of his life and future any more. He doesn’t know if he wants to ever be married, or have kids, or if he’s even in love with me any more and just doesn’t want those things with me.

I felt like I got punched in the stomach. Actually no, I felt like this. Simpsons Heart Rip  (I’m Bart here by the way) All of a sudden, in less than 3 minutes, it was gone. All of it. My idea of our one day wedding and our someday kids, and wondering when and where he might pop the question or what cute way I might find to tell him I was pregnant one day. Gone was what I imagined the house to look like when it was done being renovated, or what our house would look like if we decided to buy one together. The Christmas plans, Valentine’s plans, anniversary plans, gone, gone, gone.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s allowed to not want those things, and even to not want those things with me. As much as it breaks my heart into pieces that he may not see a future with me, I am glad he figured this out now and not a year or two down the road. He has every right to find whatever life he wants to live. I want him to be happy with his life, even if that life doesn’t have me in it. But I deserve to be blissfully happy too. I’ve known what I want for so long and while I’m more than willing to make compromises with marriage and kids for the right person, I’m not willing to give up on either of those things completely for anyone. At least not yet. I want the husband and the kids and the white picket fence idyllic idea of family.  So, if he doesn’t want that life, or at least not with me, then there is absolutely no other choice than for us to not be together.

Who knows, maybe this break up won’t be permanent. Neither one of us is closing the door on the potential to get back together down the road, if that’s how things play out, but for now this is just what needs to happens. He needs to get some clarity and perspective to figure out what he wants for his life, and I need space and distance to keep searching for what I want if Kevin isn’t the one to create the life I want with. I don’t mind waiting a little while for him to figure things out, but he already knows that I won’t wait forever.
Two weeks ago, my life changed.  So much has happened since then, that it’s almost impossible to comprehend it all.  I moved out (exactly 1 year to the day that I officially moved in) and I’m starting to try to put my life back together.  I hated being single before I met Kevin, and it’s good to see that some things never change, because I hate it with a passion even more now.  I am in no mood to start dating any time soon, and if it were up to me, I would hibernate till March, so that I don’t have to suffer through Christmas, New Years, Valentine’s Day and what would have been our 2 year anniversary.  But, life goes on, and somehow I have to get through it without being in a coma. Fucking bullshit, if you ask me.

In the meantime, I’ll just enjoy my cute new apartment, my Netflix and knitting (which is just like Netflix and chilling, except the only sex I’ll be having is with myself), and maybe even do some long overdue writing, while I mourn the loss of this relationship, and look forward to finding all the things (and the man) that I’m looking for.

See ya later blueberries.

From Snowstorms to Sunshine

Hello Blueberries! I am back yet again for another entry in a month. That’s a whopping THREE entries so far this year for those of you keeping track at home, which is only about 7 or so shy of my record for the entire year of 2014. And it’s only February. Look at me go. This could mean a lot more Olivia for you all this year (and the crowd goes wild!!) Mind you, it could also mean that I only have 7 entries left, and if I’m a good little nerd (I am) I will power through those so I can coast through the rest of 2015. If I can get through 4 years of high school and 2 years of college that way, I’m not going to fuck with a system that is working.

Actually, this isn’t going to be a full entry about anything. It’s actually just a quick entry apologizing for a lack of entry till the end of February. That’s how fucking Canadian I am. I’m apologizing for your lack of me this month.

Why am I missing almost a full month of writing, and my annual Valentine’s bash fest? Well, while most of you are enjoying this:

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(Which by the way is a winter scene of Lakeview that I pulled off Google because I’m far too lazy to go outside and get an actual picture of it snowing like a motherfucker right now.)

I will be enjoying this:

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(Which by the way I also pulled off Google because my time machine is still in the shop, and my flight doesn’t leave till Friday.)

Yup. I am going on an actual vacation. Kevin and I are heading to Cuba for 7 glorious days of sun and white sand. A week where my biggest goal is to get tanned enough that my make-up no longer matches my face. It will be my first big trip with a significant other, so hopefully things go well. If I don’t come back, it’ll most likely be because Kevin got sick of me and decided to leave me there (but depending on the weather back home at the end of the week, I may not be opposed to staying in Cuba for life anyways.)

To answer your question of what the purpose of this entry was, yes it was just to brag about my awesome trip. I will be thinking of none of you while I am there. Sure, I’m an asshole, but at least I am an honest asshole.

I hope you all have a fantastic week, and while I won’t be thinking about much else other than me, Kevin and my tan, I will be working on my next couple of entries on the plane. Maybe. Which by the way is all I’m getting you guys in the way of souvenirs.

You’re welcome.

Olivia

P.S.: For those readers out there who live in climates that never resemble the snowy fuckery of Lakeview (you know who you are, you sunshiny bastards), I would like to apologize for the post trying to get you to be jealous of me. But seriously, screw you. 🙂

What’s YOUR Number?

20130925-221239.jpgWhen I am on holidays, I often don’t know what to do with myself.  It always occurs to me that I should spend some of my free time writing, but usually I procrastinate far too much to get anything actually accomplished.  This is the primary reason why the blog is late this week.  So sue me.  I’m a holiday having lazy ass.  And truth be told, I am bored out of my fucking mind.

This weekend, I took a much needed trip to Riverview. It was exactly what I needed. Being there gave me a lot of time to visit friends, and have an actual social life, something I feel is lacking greatly here in Lakeview. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to arrange a meet up with Shamus while I was there, who I admit I was hoping to nail while on this trip. I have no idea why, but lately I have hornier than usual. 

It was while sitting on Molly’s couch watching the movie “What’s Your Number” that I got the inspiration for this week’s blog. The premise of the movie is that a 20 something woman decides after sleeping her 19th sexual partner, her boss (the absolutely delicious Joel McHale – seriously fuck me now) that she should probably start looking for Mr. Right instead of slutting it up around town. How she does this without slutting it up even more (she doesn’t want her number to be higher than 20, because 20 is twice the national average, according to some bullshit article in the magazine she just happened to read one day) is to go back to all her ex-boyfriends in hopes that one of them will be the soul mate that got away. 

Fine in theory, but first off, who in the hell wants their old boyfriends back? I dumped all of mine for a reason, and the ones that dumped me did so clearly because they didn’t want to be with me anymore. They didn’t get away, it was a catch and release. To me, when it comes to relationships, it’s either going to work, or it won’t.  Sure, sometimes the space away from a person gives you time to grow, and find out who you are, and yes, people do change.  But at the core of it, we all remain who we are, and who we have always been.  So chances are, if you didn’t work the first time around, you won’t work the second or third time either.  Yes there are couples that break up and get back together years later and realize that they never should have broken up in the first place, but I think those people are the rare exception.

Besides the whole plot point of going back to your exes, it got me thinking about my own number right now, and what that number could potentially be by the time I find my future husband. Or, even worse, what that number will be if I never marry. Will my tombstone just have a number in the high hundreds on it, and an obituary that reads, “Olivia died today. She was never married, no kids, but is survived by her hundreds of sexual partners, one of which gave her hepatitis and was fucking her brains out when she died of a sex related heart attack. Olivia was 45.”??

Right now, my number is 9.  That’s crazy to me, especially considering it is the 2nd anniversary of the day I lost my virginity.  2 years ago today, I had sex for the very first time.  Let that sink in.  I have had 9 sexual partners in 2 years.  For someone who spends most of her nights sitting on the couch watching TV with my cousin’s cat, I sure do get around.  (Humblebrag)

Ayla says it’s because I am making up for lost time.  Which is probably true, if I had lost my virginity to Dave #1 in high school, you’d think I would have gotten all this sleeping around out of my system by now.  Or maybe my number would just be way higher.  Who knows.  But I wonder how much of it is making up for lost time, and how much of it is a combination of always being horny and just not giving a shit. 

How many sexual partners is too many?  Or is it not the number, but the amount in a certain time frame?  Is it dependent on the quality of sex? How about the quality of sexual partner?  Do I get a pass if I have had feelings for at least half the guys I’ve slept with, or is that point moot considering I couldn’t tell you the last names of the other half of those guys that I didn’t care about? 

What do your numbers actually say about you?  To me, mine says that I waited a long time to date, and after I got screwed and screwed over by guys who I genuinely cared about like Dave #4, and Erik, I just wanted to have fun, and get mine. Because sex can be fun when done right.  Granted, it can also create a gigantic clusterfuck in a person’s life as well.  If you want proof of that one, look no further than my situation with Jason.  But hey, if I can’t find a guy who will genuinely care about me, and want to date me, but who wants to have sex with me, I can always just have the casual “fun” that I railed against a few posts ago.  I might as well let my vagina have some fun while the rest of me is so miserable.

This may be one of the most depressing posts I’ve ever written.   

See you next week blueberries,

Olivia    

Being Olivia

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Last week, I broke my resolution to take a break from dating, and signed myself up on the dating site again, for the hundredth time in recent memory.
I didn’t regret this decision until a couple days ago. I had gotten the usual messages from the same kinds of guys that I have heard from in the past, nothing has changed since the last time I was on there. I know how this rigamarole goes. I’m used to it.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened, I gave 2 different guys my number, I got the brush off from the first one after we made plans to meet, and I met the second one on Monday. We had fun, he was cute, I wanted a second date, and he just wants to be friends. So again, nothing new there.

But today, it all hit me. I was sitting on the break room couch, next to Jason, reading this text from this guy telling me that he wants to be just friends (because apparently that’s all me and any guy will ever be) and something snapped. I waited till Jason went back to work and I quietly went into the staff bathroom to have a good cry.

Because honestly, what the fuck is wrong with me? Will I never learn? (Obviously not.)

So, a few minutes later, I calmed down, wiped the tears from my eyes, left the bathroom and just as fast as I could sit on the couch, my fingers were quickly logging in to my dating account, and promptly deleting the account I had created only a week ago.

I do this every few months. I get fed up with it all, and say to hell with men. Since this blog started, I’ve done this at least 3 times. Don’t worry, I annoy me too.

What I realized is that I don’t really know who I am. And what I do know about who I am, I’m not sure I like. I have a hard time just being me, and an even harder time sitting around waiting around for my knight in shining armor to show up.

And let’s face it, you all don’t know much about me either. You know I’m obnoxious, you know that even though I claim to be such a writer that I sometimes can’t spell, and that I am awful at proper grammar. You also know that when it comes to men I am completely handicapped.

But you may not know that my first love isn’t writing, but is music, and that long before I started writing this blog, or even my novel, I wrote song lyrics. I even went so far as to save money to record a demo. A demo that actually got half recorded before I pulled the plug because I chickened out. Before that happened though my music producer/friend invited me to sing on the Christmas album he recorded with his other artists that year. So if you get ahold of my iPod around Christmas time, there is a delightful version of me singing “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”. I love singing so much in fact that I even auditioned for the ill fated Canadian Idol, but I didn’t even make it past the first round of auditions at the freaking mall. I’m glad nothing came of it, in fact I am proud that I actually went through with it.

Speaking of music, I don’t know if you all know that the Backstreet Boys are my favorite “band”. Sure, when I’m on a date and get asked about music, my favorite band is always the Beatles. Which is true. I love the Beatles. They are arguably the greatest band of all time. But deep down in my heart I know that they come in second place to the Backstreet Boys. And yes, I know how ridiculous that makes me.

If you follow me on twitter (@dating_olivia) then you already know that I love my Canadian football. Fuck hockey. I mean sure, I’ll watch hockey when there is nothing better on, or the brief 1 or 2 series that the Canucks are in the playoffs every year, but I’d much rather watch football than hockey. I watch CFL, not NFL though. I’d watch the NFL too, but I can’t decide which team to cheer for. I’m a home team kind of girl, and know more about football than some of the guys I know.

My favorite movie is Wayne’s World, my favorite TV show is Gilmore Girls and my favorite book is “The Truth About Forever” by Sarah Dessen. My favorite season is spring, because that is when my birthday is, and my favorite flower is the lilac, because we had lilac bushes on the farm I grew up on, and anytime I smell that it reminds me of being a kid. It smells like home to me. My favorite number is 28. I have a 28 in almost every sign-in name I’ve ever had online, and I even had that number when I played soccer briefly in high school. Why 28, you ask? Well, Nick Carter’s birthday is on the 28th of January, and seeing as though he was my favorite Backstreet Boy all those years ago, it made sense to me then that my number should be 28.

It’s starting to become much clearer why I’m still single isn’t it?

I’m a random person. I always have been. I’ve never been still for too long, and I’ve never had any consistency in homes, towns, friends and obviously men in the last 28 years. That’s me. I love it, while hating it all at the same time.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to just be me, but I can try. People keep telling me that nobody will ever love me if I don’t love myself first.

Fuck do I ever hate when people are right.

Olivia

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Yup.  That just happened.  Now you know a little more about me.  See you next Wednesday, blueberries!