Nobody But Me

A few weeks ago, as I was thinking of writing this, I was sitting on a beach near Lakeview, looking out at a handful of little kids, who were making sand castles, splashing in the water and having fun as only children can on the last weekend of summer vacation. It was bright and warm like summer days should be, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The days leading up to this one were almost unbearably hot (you know, for Canada anyways) but this day it was a touch cooler, as if it was a subtle reminder of summer’s finality and the weather that is just around the corner waiting for us. This actually suited me quite well, because even though I enjoy a hot summer day as much as the next person, a cool day at the beach meant that I could relax in the sun without sweat pooling in my ass crack. 

If that paragraph sounds at all familiar, then clearly you have been to this blog before as you may recognize it from my last post from almost three months ago. I will often plagiarize myself when I’m finding it difficult to come up with new things to write. I would just repost what I wrote three months ago, but thankfully, things have changed just enough that I can rewrite the rest. 

See, this time around, a good few months since I wrote the first bit, as I was sitting on that same beach my mind not once wandered to anything Kevin related like it had before. I looked out at the people on their floaties and only thought of how much fun it would be to have a pizza shaped one like one of the teenagers out there had. When I was in the (fucking freezing) cold water and saw the boats out in the distance drive by I thought only of how cold I was going to be in a moment when the waves that those boats created hit me and splashed up over my tits, whose nipples already had the ability to cut glass. And when I looked at the yacht club, I still thought of how fucking ridiculous it is for there to be a yacht club at this beach, but I also thought about how nice it would be to own one of the pontoon boats (or as the fancy people here like to call them, yachts) that was parked in the marina. But not even once did my brain think of these things in relation to Kevin.

This is probably because this time, sitting next to me on my beach blanket was a beautiful, kind hearted, sweet, caring, funny, intelligent man who for whatever reason had decided he liked me enough to call me his girlfriend. I’m still a little fuzzy on why he likes me; he seems to not care so much about the baggage that I have definitely brought with me into this relationship, and in fact, he seems perfectly ok with helping me carry this baggage. So there I sat, on my beach blanket, in the warm sun with a cool breeze, next to this half naked man whose dark chocolate skin glistened with sweat and lake water in the sun rays. We talked, he told me about his family back home, we swam, I froze, we snacked and relaxed and he even got mistaken for a football player (because apparently, in Lakeview, if you are black, you of course are a football player, so between this and the ridiculous “Yacht Club”, I see how cartoonish the place I live in is). 

We met at the beginning of August. It wasn’t in anyway an earth shattering exchange really. He messaged me online, and seemed far more normal than most guys that had been lately. Our first date was simple, we met at a Boston Pizza, which for those of you who are unfamiliar, is the sit-down restaurant equivalent of a McDonald’s in that there are no less than three of these restaurants in any given city, at least in my province anyways. We chatted, got to know one another, and then said our goodbyes and that was it. We met up a few more times, and had been seeing eachother every couple of days before we decided to be exclusive, and that seems to be that. 

It’s not that this new boyfriend has made me forget or not care about the past. I would never naively believe that that would ever be the case. I still think about Kevin from time to time, against my best attempts not to. And I still absentmindedly bring him up in conversation, in a “well when Kevin and I lived together…” or “when Kevin and I were booking our trip to Cuba…” kind of way. He was a huge part of my life for a while there, so while I try to do my best to suppress the Kevin-ing, it tends to raise its ugly head from time to time.

Things are thankfully getting better. I’m glad I found this new man, and hope things will work between us. So far our biggest issue is that we want to spend more time together and are finding it hard to balance our lives in a way that we can see each other several times a week, so I’m taking that to be a good sign. 
I guess only time will tell. All I can do is hope the best, work for what I want and bundle the fuck up, because that summer beach day has long since gone, the leaves are already half off the trees here, and winter is definitely closer than I’d like to believe it is. Fuck. Wish me luck. On all those things.



Basket Case

Well hello long lost blueberries.  It’s been far too long.  I had good reason for it though.  I went a little nuts.  Well, not actually, but it sure felt like I did.  In reality, what I was really busy with was various work things, and my new boyfriend.  If you follow me on Twitter you already knew this information about the new boyfriend (if you don’t follow me on the Twitter machine how in the fucking hell did you find me here?!?) If you somehow don’t follow me, I have some interesting news for you: I have a new boyfriend.  And not an imaginary one, nor am I jumping the gun and assuming a relationship exists with someone who doesn’t feel the same.  We both know and agree that we are in a relationship with one another. However if you follow me on Twitter, you’d also know that even though I’m back in a relationship, it certainly doesn’t mean that I’m any more confident in this one than I was in the last one.  In fact, in the 7 months that I have been single, I seem to have forgotten all that I once knew about the whole being someone’s girlfriend thing.

But before I get into the whole “I suck at dating thing” I will tell you about the guy first.  His name is Mark.  He’s 34, will be 35 later this year.  He’s a flight attendant who flies all over Canada, and to the States on occasion. He is cute as hell, he makes me laugh, he says what he thinks, he’s a total goof ball, and he’s a complete sweet heart.  He wants to get married and have kids.  In essence, he’s pretty much everything I am looking for.  We met at the end of April, and right away I liked him.  After our second date I knew I wanted to be his girlfriend.  And that was before we had even kissed. It didn’t take him long to get to that same conclusion too.  About 2 days after our second date, I got a text from him asking me if I’d be his girlfriend.  Now, I know that you judgmental fuckers out there are probably thinking, “What the hell? He asked via text?!” to which I will tell you that he was out of the country at the time, and couldn’t wait to see me in person to ask me.  If you ask me that is cute as hell.

I, of course said yes.  I liked the guy, and who the hell was I to turn down an offer like that from a good guy I actually liked?  However, because I’m still me, panic immediately set in.  It was too fast.  We didn’t really know each other.  I jumped into things just as fast with Kevin and look where that got me. And I hadn’t even kissed him yet, let alone anything else. What if we didn’t have any sexual chemistry?  In a matter of 5 minutes, I went from being downright giddy that I had gotten myself an awesome new boyfriend, to being a panicked mess, wondering if I had made a huge mistake. But then I saw him later that week, and remembered why I said yes to dating him in the first place. Never mind the fact that the kisses turned out to be pretty damn good and I had nothing to worry about in the sexual chemistry department.  We have sexual chemistry in spades.  And it was so nice to wake up next to him.  I forgot how much I missed that part of it.

I wish I could say that all that was the end of the freak out, but what I didn’t realize at the time was that it was actually only the beginning of the freaking out.  Why you ask?  Well, because of his job.  Now, as I mentioned earlier, he is a flight attendant.  This means that he flies all over the place for his work.  He technically lives in Lakeview, and has lived there his whole life, but the airport that he is based out of is in another city, about 750ish kilometers away in another province.  Because of this, he doesn’t get back to Lakeview very often. In the 6 weeks or so since our first date, I have seen him a whopping 4 times.  Remind you guys of anyone?  Cause I know it sure reminds me of someone.  Someone by the name of Kevin.  Thus, the panic attacks.

Of all the things that have been super hard about coming to terms with my break up with Kevin, the hardest is remembering that what happened with him will not be what happens with every man, and that I need to drop what is left of that baggage if I ever want things to work out with someone else. Sure, this situation may be eerily similar to the situation with Kevin, but it isn’t the same. They are two very different men.  I’m just having a harder time with it because these first few weeks with Mark have been a lot like the last few weeks with Kevin were.  That is an awfully dreadful situation to start a relationship in, and the root of that problem is that I hadn’t come to terms with the issues left behind from Kevin.  Fucking figures that I’d be single for 7 months without actually dealing with the baggage I had.  Leave it to me to bring all that shit into this new relationship, using it as a reason to maybe not be with Mark.

Luckily, I didn’t jump the gun on anything.  After talking things out with Lucy and Annie (thanks ladies BTW) and escaping the city for a weekend to my brother’s cabin at the lake to snuggle my niece, chat the days away with my sister-in-law and get my drink and hot tubbing on, I came to the conclusion that I can’t end the relationship just because it feels so similar to life with Kevin. Ending a new relationship because of what happened in the old one is bat shit crazy. Mark and I are going to have a different relationship one way or another, because Mark is a much different man. And yes, I’m still me, but my relationship with Kevin, and the breakup of that relationship changed me in a way I can’t really explain.  For better or for worse I am different now, so I need to give this thing between Mark and me its due, even if it turns out in the long run to be doomed.   And who knows, maybe in the long run we’ll not only be able to survive a long distance relationship, but will be that rare instance where it’s been built on it.

I guess only time will tell.  In the meantime, I’m sure you guys will get some interesting tweets and posts out of me while I continue to lose my shit and find my way.

Consider yourselves warned.




As Long As I Got You

Hollywood has definitely given me unrealistic expectations of love and relationships. In almost every movie or tv show I have ever seen, relationships and love are portrayed in one of two ways; either they come off as perfect, with the couple never having an argument they can’t get through, or it’s incredibly complicated and messy. In those portrayals, the couples fight all the damn time, they treat each other poorly the entire relationship, and for some reason, they often stay together far too long, and end up causing both parties to leave the relationship with gigantic pieces of luggage. Or, they are meant to be with not a single bump in the road aside from one ridiculous, trivial fight that “threatens the relationship”, but ultimately makes them stronger, and every rides off into the sunset completely happy.

Don’t worry, I know that I am part of the problem with Hollywood. Because I eat that shit up. I sit there all gooney eyed, drooling over the Ryan Goslings and Channing Tatums of these movies and TV shows, wishing that I had a relationship and yes, to a certain extent, a boyfriend like that. Not because I don’t love my boyfriend, or our relationship, but because in the movies things just always work out. Always. I enjoy buying into the idea that there is a perfect relationship to be had out there, and that if you love someone enough, that happily ever after is only a couple of hours, and a few romantic montages away.

I’m starting to see how ridiculously out of touch both me and Hollywood are when it comes to relationships and love, and how ridiculous I am for actually wanting that to be my life.

This is something coupled people don’t tell you when you are single. They don’t tell you (or at least the couples in my life didn’t convey it strongly enough to me) that relationships have their perfect moments, and their messy moments, and to make things work there seems to be a need to always be balancing between smooth sailing, and getting through awful, bumpy times. Relationships aren’t like the pretend ones that big wigs get paid truck loads of money to make in order to sell tickets to a movie theatre. Real life is far more complicated than that.

Coupled people also don’t convey just how insecure and crazy town banana pants you might possibly become when you fall in love. And even if they did, you probably wouldn’t believe it’s as bad as they say. But let me assure you, it is. You will be batshit crazy, at least some of the time. And if you are like me, you will be batshit crazy almost all the time.

For me, I’m a crier. I don’t know why, I don’t know if I’ve always been so sensitive, or if it was a chain of events from a few years back that made me the blubbering basket case I am, but I find myself always within arms reach of the waterworks. Kevin (Boyfriend’s new fake name! And yes there is a reason for this name. The story behind it makes me giggle, and no, I’m not telling you about it, because frankly I don’t think anyone will find the story funny like I do) is starting to see that. There hasn’t been any argument or disagreement or feelings sharing that hasn’t ended with me in tears, and Kevin trying to make things better. Bless his heart for putting up with me. Seriously. I Kim Kardashian ugly cry at least once every couple of weeks. I’m starting to wonder what he sees in me…

Recently, what I have been crying about more than anything, is our living arrangements. Since July I have spent at most, 3 nights in my own bed, at the condo. The rest of the time I have been living out of a couple (or 4) duffel bags at Kevin’s. I go back to the condo once or twice every couple of weeks to grab something from my room, or check on the cat if Lucy is gone and her sister can’t check on Pancake, or to drop of the rent I still pay but rarely use. Then I go back to Kevin’s, and live rent free there, basically free loading off him, while paying for a place I can barely say I’m living in.

I feel like pointing out that Kevin and I have talked about the whole money thing, and not once has Kevin ever complained about the fact that I don’t (well, can’t) help out financially. He understands completely that I can only afford one place, and has said flat-out that he loves having me there with him, and that he doesn’t want me to leave, nor is he concerned about me not contributing to his house or living expenses in any way. Just in case some of you thought that the whole “loving being together all the time” thing was all me. He loves me guys, so shut up.

So,you ask, why don’t you just move in to his house?

That is a good question, anonymous question asker. It’s a question I wish I had a clear answer to. We’ve been together for 8 months, we love each other, there is no sign in sight of a pending break-up, and we have been “living together” in peace for almost 3 months already. In the movies, the “happy couple” is only ever together for a week or so before they are living together. We’ve been together for so much longer than that! So why wouldn’t actual living together not work?

Well, first off, again, this is Hollywood. And second, it really is a big step. I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the last couple of weeks, and I can see why there was hesitation when the subject of living together came up. Yes, I was the one who was guns blazing, ready to move in like fricken a month ago for crying out loud, and he was the cautious one. But now the more that I think about it, the more I can see his point of view. It is a big step. And a big first, for the both of us.

Having my room at the condo is a safety net. A rather expensive safety net, but a nice one to have, just in case. It’s there if a clean break is needed in case of a big fight or a break-up, or If I bash my shin on his great big coffee table for the 500th God damned time, and I need space – from the coffee table. Not that I foresee any of these things besides the coffee table thing, happening in the future, and I hope to hell to never be in need of a “safe house”. But shit happens. Even though we have been doing well, and have been able to work shit out like adults for the most part (minus my continuous blubbering), you never know. Shit can go sour in one hell of a hurry when you least expect it to. And unlike the movies, there usually isn’t the foreshadowing that tips you off of the trouble to come.

Now on the flip side of that, if things go well, like I’d hope they would, then living together, in theory will be great. And if we continue on the way we have been, in all honesty, it wouldn’t change anything in our relationship. Plus, if we have the motto “we can’t do that, because we may break-up” we are just setting ourselves up for failure. Yes, it would suck if shit hit the fan, yes I would be scrambling for a place to live, yes it would be awkward. But if we always hold back in fear of the relationship ending, we’ll never get to that next step in our relationship, because that’s the perfect excuse for every big step in a relationship. Moving in is a big step. In fact, it’s the one right before one of the biggest relationship milestones, which of course is recording TV shows on a shared PVR. That’s a big deal, I tells ya. Kevin is already nervous about the amount of episodes of The Mindy Project and Long Island Medium are going to be on the PVR. But that my friends is a subject for another blog one day.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I think moving in together is a good next step for us, and I think we’ll kick ass at it. Which is a good attitude to have seeing as though in this last week since I started writing this entry, Kevin and I have indeed decided to live together, officially.

So in between my brief panic attacks, feeling overwhelmed by how much shit I need to do before the 26th of October (tentative moving day) and constantly asking Kevin if he’s absolutely sure he wants to live with me, I’ll be packing all my stuff up yet again, and leaving Lucy and Pancake, for a life with Kevin. Holy shit. I’m going to be living with a boy.

If you guys thought that watching me figure out how to have a boyfriend was entertaining, my moving in with said boyfriend is just going to be a hoot. Grab your popcorn guys, this is going to be a fun ride! Actually, grab a box. I need all hands on deck for this move!


I’m Glad You’re Mine

Longevity of anything in this life, especially when it comes to love, seems almost impossible to achieve. Look no further than the current divorce rates around the world and my point is very much proved. I actually googled that stat because I was curious. And now I’m a bit depressed. I’ll share the chart that I found, because I don’t think I should be depressed all by myself.

IMG_4434 (2)
Note to self: do not get married in Belgium, and maybe consider going to Mexico to get hitched.

Now, what I didn’t post here is the rest of the information I found on that website, and the one statistic that scares me the most. It’s the one that says that children with divorced parents (like me) are more likely to never marry, and are more likely to divorce if they do. We are also twice as likely to have anxiety, depression and self esteem issues than those whose parents are still together. So, thanks for that mom and dad.

My parents have been divorced for almost 20 years. They have been divorced longer than they had been married. And they have both been remarried just about as long as they were married to each other. So in theory, we all should have moved on by now. And for the most part, we all have. I rarely think about it. My family is doing great, and my step families are both awesome. But every once in awhile when I think of my own relationships, and especially my current relationship, I can’t help but think about those divorce stats, and how that may affect me without me ever really knowing about it.

I am always worried that the rug will be pulled out from under me when I least expect it, and when I am the most happy. I play it safe, I keep people and relationships at a distance so that if something ends, or people leave, it won’t hurt as much. I’m far too pessimistic for my own good. And like I said, it’s hard for me not to be pessimistic when it comes to love. I’m sure my parents loved each other at some point. And then one day in the 17 years they were together, they started drifting apart. They slowly stopped loving each other. I saw it happen before my eyes. It was slow, and painful. I’ve already felt that pain once in my life, I’m terrified of it happening again. So sue me.

Today, as I write this (on the 21st, and partially on the 22nd), it is the official 6 month mark of boyfriend’s and my first date. Now, to most, a mere 6 months is nothing to really write home about. I used to scoff at people who used to celebrate monthaversaries. I used to think that it was childish, and immature and ridiculous to celebrate or even just being excited about staying with someone for only a handful of weeks. “Pfft, 6 months? Whoopdy friggen doo, you stayed together the average span of a Canadian winter. Congrats, but any maroon could do that.”

However, in my dating life, 6 months is a long fucking time to be in a relationship with the same guy. I’ve never lasted 6 months with anyone. Hell, making it to 6 dates with someone has been difficult for me. Even Dave #4 and I only made it to about 5 and a half months before all hell broke loose. And it’s not just about staying with someone for that long, it’s also being happy with someone for that long of a time.

So 6 months for me is an accomplishment. I’m happy to be at this point in our relationship. I’m thrilled we made it here, and that I’m as happy in my relationship as I am. I’m trying my best to remain optimistic that this one, this relationship, will be the one that sticks.

So far it seems promising. Honestly, we are one romantic montage of scenes from our time together away from being a romantic comedy starring Jason Segel and Rachel McAdams. I pick him because he is probably the actor who boyfriend is the closest to resembling, and her because I love her, and she’s far more beautiful than I am.

Getting back to the point, things have been going well. I definitely see a future with him. And I am looking forward to the next 6 months with him, and the 6 months after that, and so on. I just have to keep reminding myself that. Like I said, I have a tendency to expect the worst. And if you’ve been reading my blog for the last couple of weeks, I have some serious walls up.

I just need to focus on the good. The fact that we still get along after 6 months. The fact that all our arguments have been very small and have resolved themselves very quickly. (For the record, it’s not a god damn goose, it’s a motherfucking DINOSAUR!) The fact that he still makes me laugh my ass off, and how he still gives me the feels in my lady parts on a regular basis. Actually, the fact that everything is working quite well in the bedroom department is a very good sign. Usually that has been the first thing to go in my previous relationships. It’s also to the point that when I spend a few nights sleeping in my own bed instead of his, I don’t sleep as well, and I start to miss him. All these things are good signs. Although our lack of selfies together is cause for concern. I guess it can’t all be smooth sailing, right?

Guys, if this is the love that I’ve been looking for for so long, you can understand why I wouldn’t want to lose it! It’s pretty great!

So congrats to me for being with someone for so long, and congrats to him for being able to put up with me for so long. It’s been a great 6 months, and I can’t wait to see what the next 6 will be like.

And yes, I just spent a full entry gushing over a monthaversary. I’m lame and immature and incredibly awful.

Like you didn’t already know those things!



These last 5 months have gone by in a blur. There have been many ups, a few downs but things for the most part have been good. So good in fact, that I just realized today that it has been about a month and a half since my last post.

I’ve had ideas for entries, but because my dating world has been such smooth sailing, I haven’t really been able to muster more than a paragraph or two. Which I guess is good. I do miss writing, and I actually miss the drama of dating the tiniest bit, I’m sad to say. That drama gave me something to write about at least.

It’s not as if boyfriend and I haven’t had a drama free relationship so far. You just haven’t heard about it because when we have had small fights and disagreements, they don’t go too far. It’s usually that one of us gets something that is bothering us off our chest, and the other apologizes, and we kiss, tell each other we love one another, and then that’s it. The only time it lasts longer is when one of us is crying (me, it’s always me) and it’s taking longer to smooth things over (and by smooth things over, I mean to say, calm me the fuck down.) I have to admit, I have cried more in front of boyfriend than I have in front of all the other guys I’ve dated in the past. Combined.

But this past weekend, boyfriend pointed something out that really got to me. Something that I hadn’t realized I was doing.

We were on our way back from our camping trip. We had taken the first week of July off to go camping with a friend couple of boyfriend’s. The plan was to stay in his nice big camper at this big lake known for it’s excellent fishing. So there we were, “roughing it” (staying in a camper like boyfriend’s is hardly roughing it. The worst part of the camping experience was the lack of decent cell service, and the inability to make the football game come in crystal clear on the TV.) and in close quarters for a full 10 days.

This by the way, is the first time where we have spent a full week, living together, and spending pretty much every minute of the day together. Before we left, I was worried that we would be wanting to kill each other after 3 days of being together out there. Instead, after 10 days (including 2 straight days of pouring rain where we literally did nothing together cooped up in the trailer) I’m finding it incredibly difficult to go back to my house. In fact, we got back 3 days ago, and besides the 5 minutes it took for me to drop off my dirty laundry at my house, I haven’t been home.

All in all, the camping trip was a lot of fun. We fished (I actually caught a bunch!) we swam (well, I swam. Briefly, after I jumped off the boat, into the lake to catch the fishing rod I accidentally dropped in the lake) and boyfriend and I got shitfaced on the gigantic inflatable party barge he bought from Costco. On the way home from the lake, boyfriend and I talked. We talked about our sex life (giggity) we talked about the fight we had the night before (and yes, I cried) we talked about our families, and we talked about what we wanted our future to look like (both if we’re still together and if we’re apart).

In the midst of all this talking, boyfriend mentioned that he feels like I still have a lot of my walls up. I apparently keep a lot of things to myself, and I’m not very open with my life. I should have been hurt by this, but I wasn’t. Cause it’s true.

Now, I don’t want to get all “sitting on the therapist’s couch, talking about how much my parents and past boyfriends are to blame for all my issues” but in a lot of ways this is the case here. And also, fuck you, it’s my blog, I’ll blame whoever I want.

My parents were busy people when I was growing up. Aside from when my younger brother was born, and my mom was on maternity leave, both of my parents had full time jobs, plus ran the family farm when they weren’t working. That’s actually why as a kid I loved winters more than the summer; it was the only time of year when my dad wasn’t out in the field till after my bedtime, and gone again before the sun came up. During the winter, my brothers and I got parent filled Saturdays of ice skating on the dugout (in case any of you don’t know, the dugout is just a giant pond-like water supply most farms around here have) and sledding down the big mountain of snow dad would plow from the middle of the yard and pile in a corner of the yard. Inside the house there was usually fresh baking to be had by mom, and snuggles on the couch while watching movies or reading books on Saturday nights.

That was before my parents got divorced. After they got divorced, they were even busier when there was no snow on the ground, and my brothers and I were being shuffled around, back and forth between two houses and two lives all year around. I was 10 years old when my quality time with my mom and dad went from okay, to practically non-existent.

So it was then that I learned to keep to myself. I knew my parents were very busy, and to a greater extent, very stressed out and had little time for my stories, as they rushed me through things that I was trying to tell them, so they could get doing something else. I got used to being like that. To this day I’m very choosy about what I tell my parents. I live in the same city, but don’t see them more than once every couple of weeks, and I can usually go just as long without even talking to them. I love my parents, but those walls we’ve built up over the last 29 years are hard to get around sometimes.

But I can’t let my parents take the full blame on that one. I can also throw some of that blame onto my exes, because honestly, the only purpose for exes, is for them to be there to blame for all your current neuroses.

Now, not all my exes were self absorbed idiots who didn’t care what I thought or felt. Some of them felt the same way boyfriend does now; that I put walls up and couldn’t open up to them. But there were a few who spent all their time talking and seemingly caring only about themselves, to the point where there was little to no time for me. Dave #4 was the worst for that. For the very little actual talking we did after our first date, it was usually about him, and his life. He would tell me all about his day at work, what he wanted to do on the weekend, how he was feeling about a certain situation. And when I would try to tell him about my day, or my plans for the weekend, or how I was feeling, he would pay attention and listen for about a minute, then tune me out. So then I just stopped telling him stuff. He didn’t care anyways.

And don’t even get me started on Erik. Sure, we weren’t in a relationship, but if I had a nickel for every minute I spent listening to him go on and on and on about his life, the play he was in, the music he was listening to, the book he was reading, the trip he went on or whatever else he could think to tell me, without caring what I had to say in return, I’d be an extraordinarily rich woman.

I can tell you though (for about the millionth time) that I have found me a great boyfriend this time. I think I’ve mentioned before how he is very open and honest with me, and is always asking me about my day, and my work and what I’m thinking, He wants me to be comfortable with telling him how I’m doing. If I don’t have much to tell him, because I don’t think a story is worthy of retelling, he’s always the first to ask, “That’s it? Nothing happened today?” as if he actually wants to know what is going on in my life.

It’s hard for me to talk about these things that I feel like aren’t big deals. However, I am working on it. Keeping my mouth shut because of the fear of being shut down, is a harder habit to break than you’d think. It’s hard to be comfortable enough to share my life with someone when I couldn’t even do that well with my parents. And they were the ones who gave me this life for fuck’s sakes. It’s not the easiest thing.

I’m going to try though. I need to learn how to open up (tee hee) so that boyfriend can get in (tee hee hee) because I don’t want my stupid issues like that to come between us. I want Robert Downey Jr to come between us. Boom.

In all seriousness though, my walls are going down. I’m yelling timber. You better move. You better dance. Wait….what?! How did that get in there? And why is that song so motherfucking catchy?!

And yes, in case you were wondering, I did indeed choose the title of this blog entry based solely on this song.

Don’t tell me you didn’t miss me, cause I know you’re lying.