This is no modern romance

Imagine screaming at the top of your lungs in a fit of absolute desperation.
All you want is help.
Nay, you don't want it, you need it.
You've no clue how to get out of this alive. You can't do it on your own.
So you scream.
But nobody can hear you.
Your head is under water.

I have drowned.

Well, I have nearly drowned, if you want to get technical.

The chlorine burned in my lungs and the sun stung my eyes as I miraculously surfaced - on my own. Nobody has ever swam so hard as I did. Good thing, too. Nobody else was going to save me.

The sun and chlorine weren't the only things that stung my eyes.

I was crying.

And still nobody came.

I've never forgotten what it feels like to drown.

One Hundred

Usually framed by black acrylic, his eyes seem naked in contacts.
As much as I hate to admit it, he never needed corrective eyewear to see through me.

The gentle vibrations of his baritone whisper recite cryptic vulgarities that send shivers from the conch of my ear to the arch of my foot.

My skin crawls with lust and loathing.

I want to be far away from him, but his eyes, the eyes that always gave away his lies, keep me from walking away.

Without the distracting frames, it's easier to see inside.

His mind reads like the diary of a heartbroken teenage girl.

And as he stirs his morning coffee, a facsimile of my morning-after coffee, I tell him about you.

He laughs.

Not at me for loving you, but at you for thinking that me loving you was something to fear.

The art of extinguishing a cigarette

Aftershave and imagination.

That's what his sweater used to smell like.

I wear it like a hug, and I am okay.

He's not around anymore, but I keep his sweater safe.

It smells like me now.

Like stale cigarettes, spilt beer, and, if only faintly, nondescript tropical fruit.




A single sensual draw off of an already spent cigarettes.

burnt lips.

the calculated twist of her ankle, as the cherry dies delicately under her shoe.

a shoe that was designed only to be worn while her legs are in the air.

She heeds not such a warning.




I can't get the smell of your pipe tobacco out of my favourite towel, so I don't use it.

Dirty blonde with a kiss of ginger. You are the only one who loves my natural hair colour.

If I had any patience left, I might grow it out.

I lost it, trying to love you.

Instant gratification is readily available in a variety of colours.




I am perpetually dressed for a funeral.

You don't kiss a one-night-stand goodbye in the morning.

He watched me as a slid my miraculously unripped stockings back up my legs and slipped on last night's high heels, one by one.

What had I done, and, more importantly, where exactly was I?

I felt uneasy as I slipped my dress over my head, and even a little queasy as I scanned my purse and took a mental inventory, checking that I'd not lost anything.

He walked me to the door and I kissed him goodbye.

After we had been dating for some time, I told him that I had intended for us to be a one-night stand.

He said, "Veronica, you don't kiss a one-night-stand goodbye in the morning.", and that he knew he'd make me his.



He turned the light on while I nervously searched for my panties. I tried desperately to hide how embarrassed I was.

Regret and shame are not in my repertoire of feelings, but in this moment of vulnerability, I was closer to both than I'd been in ages.

New Order's 'Bizzare Love Triangle' plays in my head as I tiptoe towards the door and think dreadfully to myself, "This is how my last relationship started. Shit!"

I wanted to kiss him goodbye, but I wasn't going to, until he asked.

So I did; Twice.



I'm not a fan of the one-night-stand. I rarely have them, and when I do, they tend to turn in to something more. But, there is something to be said for a successful one-night-stand. As a female, in the best case scenario, you leave feeling empowered and fulfilled. Worst case: regretful, sore and potentially pregnant.

Sometimes, the single girl's only logical solution to emotional trauma is to seek out a superficial facsimile of what love can be.

I think, tonight, I'll wear what my friend, Dave, calls "Come Fuck Me" boots.

Open Letter to Someone You Don't Know

There are a lot of really nasty things I could say to you. And I want to, but I don't think it would be the first time someone called you any of the things I'm thinking. And I so passionately hate to be unoriginal.

If you hate drama so much, don't do maliciously selfish things that cause other people to react in dramatic ways.

Lucky for you, I have excellent impulse control and my reputation means more to me that hurting you ever could.

Luminescent Incandescence

Your eyes don't shine in the suburbs.
No light is offered but that of dim, benign streetlights.
Their offerings don't shine bright enough to elicit a glow in your face.
The big city lights shine so aggressively that you can't help but sparkle under their flare.

I count crows.

One for sorrow...
Two for joy...

For the past two weeks I have been haunted by sightings of single crows, their somber solitude sends shivers down my spine.
I crane my neck and strain my eyes in search of a second, or even a third, to nix the omen of a lonely crow.
Never another in sight.
What could they be doing all alone, other than breaking my spirit and quashing my heart?
Have I fulfilled my own tragic prophecy?
The only thing that's keeping me from being happy is a circumstance I made for myself.
A decision I made, uncoerced.

Sometimes you have to hurt yourself to be able to grow.
It hurt.
It will continue to hurt.
But I will be better off when it stops hurting.

Today I saw two crows.

Tonight, under the lack of suburban light, I felt a presence that I could not see
And I heard the snow melting.

Il Parle Anglais, Snowman.

The past four months have been an exercise in my own ability to withstand heartbreak. I have never felt more romanced in my life, and I don't think I've ever used the word 'romance' as much as I have in this time.

I want to say that living in Montreal has been a wonderful experience, but I'm unsure of whether or not I really lived here. I never changed my phone number, and although my bed has been here for the past 4 months, my heart has been elsewhere. I spent November, December and the first part of January living out of a suitcase. I actually spent 16 consecutive days without sleeping in my own bed. Was Montreal ever really home?

It was snowing today. It's still snowing now.

I decided to take a walk shortly after 3h (that's 3am, to everyone outside of Quebec). As soon as I stepped outside I knew that my feet were going to get wet. I hadn't the faintest notion that a late-night walk up St-Laurent would conjure up memories that are so recent they shouldn't have held such nostalgia.

As memories filled my head, slush filled up my shoes, making my thoughts tangible. Making them real.

I walked farther than I had planned, letting myself fall in to a bit of a trance, induced by the romance that swells the air in this fair city. I watched as cabs drove by, not slowing down to see if I could be a fare. They knew that I was walking with a purpose.

But was I, really? I left my apartment, restless, in search of a hot chocolate and some cheese to snack on. What I found was an urge to see if the bottle that had been thrown out the window at that raucous, tequila-fueled party was still on the sidewalk; A desire to allow the slush to penetrate my shoes and soak right through my socks, to chill me to the bone, to let me re-live a moment. A moment that was nothing more than a hiccough.

And after I had walked farther than I had intended to, but not as far as I wanted to, I turned around and walked against the one-way traffic.

I saw him again.
He spoke English.

If the snow outside were the sticky kind, I would build a snowman. For there is no greater company than a man that you've built to your own specifications, whose expiration date is unpredictable, but impending. The death of a snowman is a death that you are always prepared for.

I'm not sure if it's poetic, ironic, or just pathetic that I see great beauty and sadness in that I am leaving the most romantic place I've ever been at the same time that all the bonhomme-de-neiges are melting.

Ask Veronica: Extramarital Relations

Dear Veronica,

I'm bi. Married to straight. I just came out a year ago to him. He encouraged my getting a girlfriend, and helped me in several ways (eg, setting up an online dating account for me and in meeting with a friend to explore her sexual interest in me). I suspect his zeal was due in part to a fantasy to participate in a threesome with me and my girlfriend, though he denies that motivation (mostly).

We have been together for 15 years. Married young. Still love each other very much. I had a secret fling with a woman several years ago, which I confessed to hubby when I came out to him. We also lived apart for a year about 10 years ago (me in Toronto, he in Halifax), and had been having marital troubles. I had a relationship with a man for 6 months of that year, which I also confessed. He has not confessed any extramarital relationships, though I truly believe he has had 1 or 2.

He has been generous, as he reminds me, in allowing me to explore outside the marriage with several women during the past year (since I came out to him). He would like to have a girlfriend now too, but I am having a very hard time with the concept. He says it will happen, b/c he would be a fool otherwise, so I should give my consent. I guess I'm scared shitless, and I can't rid myself of the images of him having sex with another woman (it makes my stomach hurt). Would it mean that my relationship with him is not as special? Would the other woman be 'better' than me? Would he do more fun things w/ her (our sex life is special, passionate, and super FANTASTIC - which leads to another question: why does he need someone else if his needs are met by me?) Would I reject him after he has sex with another, b/c of the images in my head? Would he compare our sex with their sex? Am I being an asshole by not being 'generous'? Is it different, my having a girlfriend vs him having a girlfriend?

SO CONFUSED AND UPSET. Need advice. Thank you!
TM

p.s. -- I have said 'yes' to some exploration: a threesome with my girlfriend, his exploration with a man (which he found he didn't enjoy), a play date with another couple, and a few visits to a 'swingers club'.


TM,

You seem to have a very touchy situation on your hands.

The impression that I'm getting is that he is resentful towards your extramarital relationships and has reached a point where he feels that he's being played a fool. I'm not sure if his motivation is that of revenge, curiosity or perhaps something else, but him telling you that "it's going to happen, you may as well give your consent." is not conducive to a healthy relationship. It sounds like he's been harbouring a lot of hurt and resentment towards you and this is how he wants to let it out, by settling the score. This is not fair to you, but it is something you will have to work through.

Generally, in my opinion, if you're going to be opening up your relationship, it's only fair for both partners to be allowed to experiment with others. However, from what you've said, you're only looking to have outside relationships with women. Obviously women are offering you something that your husband cannot. In that respect, it would only be fair for you to allow your husband to experiment with other partners who can offer him something that you can not (ie, a male partner, fetishes that are outside your boundaries, etc.). Where you draw the line of what activities he can pursue outside of your marriage is something you need to discuss together.

I think it's only fair that you concede to him experimenting with other partners, so long as you want to continue to do the same, but boundaries for each of you must be carefully discussed and implemented.

If you're truly uncomfortable with him having other partners, then it's not fair for you to have them. It would seem that this is something that has been bothering him for a long time and this is his way of dealing with it.

Tell him all the things you've told me, try to come to a decision together. Whatever you decide, what's important is that you are both happy and fulfilled, even if it means making sacrifices or going separate ways. I sincerely hope that you can reverse the damage that's been done to each other and figure out whatever arrangement you need to to continue on in your happy, fulfilling marriage.


Have a question or need advice on relationships, sex or sexual health? Email Veronica: ask.raw.knee@gmail.com

If I say I'm looking at a reflection in your glasses, it's to cover that I'm trying to peer in to your soul

I will never forget the look in his eyes.

The way he tried to hide the full extent of his joy.

I wish I had looked a little closer at my own reflection in his oversized glasses. I think I had the same expression of glee, but I don't know for sure. I could feel my cheeks using a muscle that is reserved for the most joyous of smiles, I know I returned the sentiment in my own way, I just wish I knew what I looked like in that moment. I'm sure I have never looked happier.

It had been years since we'd spoken. Not that there was ever a falling out, but that it's not easy to maintain a friendship when living in different cities and coming from different generations. Yet we talked with the comfortable familiarity one would find between long-term lovers or close family.

It was nothing more than a chance encounter and nothing less than fateful. I fell asleep in his lap that night.

It is that look; the look he had when he saw me for the first time in years, that I've been dying to see again in someone (anyone) whom I care for. A look that gives me a feeling not of being needed, but of being fully appreciated and wanted.

I didn't realize until well after the fact (read: while writing this) that his look and the feeling that came with it were exactly what I was looking for when I opened the door of my basement apartment on December 26th, 2009.

The person on the other side of the door had an undeniable look of happiness, relief and whatever other emotions that came with being reunited with someone you love, but it was not the same.

It was not innocent.

The best sex toy cleaner

I'm often asked what is the best way to clean your sex toys.

The answer isn't as simple as you might think. It really depends on what kind of toy you are talking about and what the surface is made of.

For the point of this post, I will be covering how to clean insertibles (butt plugs, dildos, vibrators, etc)

The best sanitizing method for pyrex or silicone toys that DO NOT have a motor or any electronic parts in them is to boil them. Make dildo soup once a month by throwing your toys in a pot of water, bringing it to a boil and letting them boil for about 5-10 minutes. Some sources will tell you to clean these toys in the dishwasher. I'd advise against it - the harsh soaps that you use to clean your dishes will leave residue on your toys that could cause you to have a bad reaction. I suppose you could run the dishwasher with nothing but your toys in it and refrain from using soap, but that would be a shameful waste of water!

Remember that only pyrex and silicone toys can be boiled. Latex/jelly and acrylic toys are not built to withstand those temperatures!

So, what to do with your cheaper toys and toys with motors? The thorough way of cleaning them is to use a warm, wet washcloth and unscented, anti-bacterial hand soap. Take the batteries out first and be very careful not to get water in the battery compartment. Most battery-operated toys are waterproof when used correctly, but that's no reason to be careless or submerge your toy under water.

What I usually recommend to everybody is to get some hand sanitizer and keep it with your toys for a quick cleanup after each use. Hand sanitizer is almost pure alcohol, it will kill 99.9% of the germs and bacteria on your toys (at least that's what the label says...); it dries quickly and is very handy for when you just want to roll over and go to sleep.

The only problem with hand sanitizer is that it's becoming increasingly difficult to find the straight-up alcohol kind. Make sure you use one that is not coloured, scented or containing vitamin E or aloe.

You may need to clean your toys, but you don't need to moisturize them.

Buttsex? But, sex!

The following is another of one of the same questions I am constantly being asked. Although it may be a little redundant to keep answering them in my columns and blog, it's a question whose answer needs to remain visible and accessible.

How do the boyfriend and I go about anal without it hurting like hell? He really wants it but I don't want the pain.

Anal sex is not supposed to hurt. If it hurts, you're doing it wrong.

Rule number one: LOTS OF LUBE. When it comes to anal, there is no such thing as too much lube.

Rule number two: RELAX. There are two sphincters in your lower colon. You have far more control over the one on the outside, let it be loose. The second will follow. Most people walk around at all times with their assholes clenched tight. This is not healthy! Learn to relax your butt.
I would never recommend having anal sex while drunk, especially not for the first time, but having a drink or two, and only a drink or two, could help loosen you up all over. This includes your inhibitions and your sphincters.

Rule number three: COMMUNICATION. Go slow. Verbalize your feelings to your partner. Whoever is on the bottom needs to be in control. The bottom needs to say exactly what feels good and what doesn't. They need to dictate the depth and speed of the penetration. The top needs to oblige the bottom for buttsexing to be successful.

Rule number four: CONDOMS. Bums are yucky. Also, the fragile anal tissue is more prone to tearing than vaginal tissue is. If you're doing it right, there shouldn't be any tears, but just in case - be safe! Broken skin on one's genitals is the easiest way to transfer an STI or STD. A condom will greatly prevent this possibility.


The best way to prepare or "train" yourself for anal sex is to stimulate the outside of your anus, either on your own or have a partner do it. Use lube and your fingers. When you're ready, slide a single finger in and get used to that feeling. Try using plugs and vibrators of varying size to get yourself used to having something a little larger up there.


Finally: Even though anal sex can be uncomfortable, it should never hurt. If it hurts, stop. Pain is your body's way of telling you that something is wrong. Don't let it stop you from trying again, though. It's possible that the person doing the penetrating has been blessed with a penis that is just too damn big to fit in your butt. Lucky you. Enjoy it where it actually fits.

Fare Well, My Love.

I am the type of person who always has music on. It's not just for ambiance. I like to attentively listen to the heartbeat that is the bassline, the palpitations of the drums and the salacious sound of a human being using their voice as an instrument, turning poetry in to a whole new art.

I know, I know. I'm an artsy-fartsy sap.

Sometimes I get fixated on one song that, excuse the cliché, speaks to me.

Today it was "Four Letter Word" by Gossip.

After listening to it 19 times, according to my iTunes play count, I decided to press that handy little Genius button that creates a playlist for you.

Most Genius playlists are unimpressive and lackluster. This one, however, was so perfect that I listened to the whole thing without skipping a song and nearly cried at the end as The Kills' Black Balloon played. I'm not one to cry, ever. Bad girls don't cry.

This is my playlist.
Love it.
I do. More than I've loved anything in a long time.

Four Letter Word - Gossip
Tape Song - The Kills
Hold On - Hot Chip
Teeth - Lady Gaga
Taste In Men - Placebo
Heavy Cross - Gossip
Get Myself In To It - The Rapture
Feel The Love - Cut Copy
Front Row - Metric
Careless Whisper - Gossip
Of Moons, Birds and Monsters - MGMT
Jimmy - M.I.A.
Konichiwa, Bitches - Robyn
No Wow (MSTRKRFT Remix) - The Kills
Without You I'm Nothing - Placebo feat. David Bowie
In The Privacy Of Our Love - Hot Chip
The Bitter End - Placebo
Hearts On Fire - Cut Copy
Whoo! Alright-Yeah...Uh Huh - The Rapture
Man - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Pop Goes The World - Gossip
Where Is Home? - Bloc Party
Sex Bomb - Spinnerette
Nantes - Beirut
Black Balloon - The Kills

It is these last two songs that sum up the whole playlist and tug on my heart strings. If you're only going to look up 3 of these songs, please pick the first one and the last 2.

Your Dime, My time.

Sexual confidence emanates with every click of a woman's high heel. Click, clack, click, clack. Heaven forbid she runs, delicately pounding out a Morse code mating call.

My own high-heel boots are clicking almost inaudibly over the music in my headphones as I walk down York Street in Ottawa. I'm walking an all-too-familiar stretch, Eastbound from The Dominion Tavern. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought I was walking to my ex-boyfriend's apartment. For a moment, I forgot that his place was not my destination. In that moment, something shiny caught my eye.

A dime.

What a beautiful piece of Canadiana.

Dimes haven't always been significant to me, but for the past few years they have meant more than a stack of hundred dollar bills ever could. At this particular point in time, all you need to know is that, to me, finding a dime is a sign. It's rarely a warning, but a reminder that someone is watching over me. I tend to find them when I am uncertain about something. A job, a lover, a purchase, decisions big and small - the dimes guide me.

The dime on York Street, a rare occurrence thanks to the resident crackheads and panhandlers in that area, is an unignorable sign.

I pick up my shiny treasure and cut through a parking lot towards Rideau Street. I have no more business on York Street tonight.

Later in the evening, right before boarding a Greyhound back to Montreal, I drop some currency from my pocket. Of all the change that's been burning a hole in my coat for days - only two dimes fall to the ground.

Surely I'm making the right decision.

My high heeled boots are sitting by the door. I will put the on again tomorrow. I'm sure they'll be clicking a more confident tune than they have been for quite a while.

Is this what 6am is for?

Molson Dry 8.5 goes down like water to me.

I like to blame (or accredit) my French-Canadian heritage for this but I know other Francos who can't handle the stuff.
Maybe I'm just dirty.

I'm sure that when you imagine the personal life of a burlesque performer you don't envision a girl sitting on her couch in a dirty wife-beater at 6am, swilling from a 40.

But this is who I am, or rather, where I am.

I can't sleep tonight. I say it's for a multitude of reasons, but the simple fact is that I am packing up my life and moving again. A mere four months after the last time I relocated.

I hate moving, but I love packing. At least, I usually do.

There's something very zen about taking the time and care to properly arrange one's belongings in a box like Tetris pieces. Everything in its place. It's almost poetic how my eclectic collection of souvenirs and evidence of a life lived fit together perfectly, erotically. Like a couple meant to be together; Like falling asleep inside of the one you love.

When something doesn't fit, I wonder if it even belongs in my life.

I am pack-rat living the life of a hermit crab; A nomad in desperation of belonging

I've been putting off packing. I fear it won't offer me the serenity it usually does. I know that I need to rid myself of a lot of my belongings before I can move again - but I can't bring myself to part with many of them.

I have a small stack of books resting carefully on my headboard: Unmarketable, Dandy in the Underworld, Portrait of Dorian Grey and The Elements of Style.

I have started all of them, nearly finished a couple and have fully skimmed through one. Each having its own meaning to me. Why else would I have 4 books on standby? These books fit neatly in a stack on my headboard, but I can't bear the thought of cramming them in to a box.

What if they don't fit neatly, perfectly?

What if these 4 books aren't the interpretive summation of myself that I have deemed them to be?

What if I go back and I still don't belong?

I can't get Molson 8.5 in Ottawa.

Breaking up is hard to do.

I've always felt like a bit of a nomad.

Born in Halifax, raised in Ottawa and growing up with strong emotional ties to Montreal, I was never quite sure where I belonged.

When I was a child, my parents used to take my brother and I to Montreal about once a month to visit family. As a very depressed child who always craved something bigger and better than what I had, these visits to Montreal were my little getaway.

I would grab my pillow, my sony walkman (complete with my Dance Mix '95 cassette) and sit patiently in the back of my parents' Chrysler Intrepid, a car that would later be mine, for what felt like hours before we finally hit the highway eastbound to Montreal. If we go even further back, I remember doing this with a teddy bear and the Hyundai Stellar.

Montreal has always been a home to me. It felt warm, welcoming and full of a heritage I never fully understood and still don't, but will always claim ownership of.

When my father passed away and the Chrysler Intrepid finally became my own, trips to Montreal with friends became one of my favourite activities. Sometimes we'd plan them: we'd drink and smoke at Foufounes Electrique then stay in the cheapest motel we could find. Sometimes it would be as impulsive as "I want a real poutine.". and we'd find ourselves eating La Belle Province poutine at Club Supersexe, trying to stay awake. Sometimes we'd come down just for a show. T(i)NC, MSI, NoFX, etc - all fantastic reasons to escape Ottawa.

Even after giving up my car in favour of urban living, trips to Montreal remained part of my lifestyle.

By 2009, it was about damn time I took a chance and moved my entire life there.

I've been here for 3 months, and I must say that I have been very unhappy. I had taken for granted the leisure of being established in a community, of having favourite nightspots, of having my friends within arm's reach. I thought I wanted a new start, but what I needed was not a new start. It was a break. I've had a break and I want it all back. I love this city dearly, but I do not want to start all over and make new friends, develop a new network, start from scratch. None of it.

Ottawa exhausted me. It wore me out. Those who saw me on stage at Zombie Strippers, right before I moved, couldn't help but notice how burned out I looked. I could not perform. I needed a break.

Well, I've had it.

Montreal, I will miss your clear cream soda; your appropriately timed last call; your abundance of GOOD food; your cheap beer and your alluring exotica that is the French language.

But it's about time I head back to Ottawa - at least until I burn myself out again.

No, Woman, No Cry

Nary a day goes by that I don't see a woman crying on the Métro.

I sometimes wonder why she is crying, but I think I know.

There's a man behind it.

When I see these women, I want to hug them - to tell them it's alright. But that would be weird. Approaching a crying stranger is always weird. The last time I did it was on an OC Transpo bus in Ottawa. She was happy that I asked if she was alright and she shot me a thankful smile, but just went on crying alone.

In retrospect it was very fearless of me to do so. A woman scorned is a dangerous thing. Interacting with one is about as safe as taking up residence beneath Mt. St. Helens (It's about time she blew again.).

If it weren't so dangerous, I would offer her my ipod, and tell her to listen to Lemonade by Tsunami Bomb.

A cute song at best, it's still a helpful little reminder that you're worth more than what whomever has made you cry had appraised you for.

Isn't that always the case?

And I Made Lemonade Out of it

I've decided that this blog needs revival, but in a new format. Welcome to my personal life. It's sexy, it's exciting, it's humorous, but most of all, it's mediocre.

If you've followed my blogging over the years you will remember the years of personal exploration and expressions of heartbreak that I etched in to various webspaces. These blogs are all long gone. It wasn't easy. Deleting years of honest and heartfelt words was like taking a sandblaster to my heart, but it's something I felt I had to do.

Rockalily was in it's fledgeling year and my profile was rising in the Ottawa scene. Someone I didn't know recognized me on the street and tried to talk to me for the first time and it scared me as much as the first time I had sex. It was new, exciting - and it kind of hurt. I immediately made every effort I could to delete my personal life from the internet. Nobody needed to know that I had been raped, that my father had died, that my favourite fruit was avocados, that I peed my pants once when I was 16 or what my religious views are. More importantly, I didn't want anyone to know.

I spent another year building up a profile of the public-figure versions of myself, only to realize that I was a dumbass and didn't give myself a proper pseudonym. Perhaps it was my subconscious masturbating my ego; maybe I was entering into a habit of slow self-destruction, like smoking. All I know now is that in the long run, there has been no point to it. Everyone who cares about any aspect of my public life is aware of all of them. All that I'm left with is a confusion over which persona I am at which times.

The first time a journalist bothered to properly research me before interviewing me, I was flattered. The most recent time, I was flattered, but I kind of felt like my privacy had been invaded. I want to blame twitter.

Norma Jean was a fan of free association. She found it to be therapeutic. Long after her death, Playboy Magazine published a transcript of a recording of when the lovely miss Marilyn let her mind wander and her thoughts be free. That's how I know that she enjoyed enemas in a sexual context. Kinky!

I've always found it extremely difficult to fall in love with something that had the capacity to love me back. I love avocados, I love Montreal, I love Desperate housewives. These things could never possibly hurt me.

I don't have the capacity to be in love with a human being. There are many people whom I love, but I have not been in love in years. Even in an intimate situation, I have difficulty amalgamating my personalities in to one. Which one am I? Am I all them? They are all pieces of me, only exaggerated and often with fake eyelashes. Some of them can love, some of them can't. You can love my stage presence, but it's merely a facade. Loving her might garner you affection from a part of me you don't like.

Sounds fucking crazy, right?

Which kind of brings me back to where I started. I deleted all of my blogs. I didn't even save them for myself. Right now I would like nothing more than to look back on an entry I titled "The last person I let break my heart" I know what it was about, but my memory alone can not mimic re-reading my own words. It's not the same.

I've just spent the first 3 weeks of the year in a miserable relationship that I didn't want to let go of. I tried desperately to work it out, but he gave up, rendering my efforts futile. I'm not heartbroken. I feel more like I've been fired from a job because the business was closing. I sure hope I still get a good reference.

I am both sorry that I couldn't offer the totality of my love to him, and relieved that I didn't.

I'm sorry to myself that everything I do is "terribly public". Perhaps I could love someone if I felt that I had any privacy left.

But, I'm coming to terms with my lack of privacy. I put so much of myself in to my public personalities that I don't feel like a fake, but I don't feel like I should hide my thoughts and feelings anymore. Chances are that most people don't care, anyway.

So here it is. My heart on my sleeve.

When I started deleting everything, I stopped writing poetry. I recently started again, but haven't shared anything.

Here is a poem for you. Yes, you.


Tiny fists
the glitter in my peripheral
the tickle of a feather
the last drop of toothpaste
a bus ticket
I can fit it all in my pocket
for you to look at later
in our fortress made of books.




p.s. please don't tell anyone about the time I peed my pants. It was terribly embarassing.