In it.

Just make it short.

That’s how I started writing this. I said, “Just write a shortie.”

Have you ever been in the midst of things happening and stopped mid-happening and said ‘man, I am IN it right now’?

Have you?

It’s like somewhere between thriving and surviving.

I’m doing that right now. I am IN it yo!

I am so in it, it’s actually ON me.

If you know this feeling, then thankfully you know I need you to drive by my house real slow, roll down the window and throw a block of cheese at the door. Then keep driving. Like, speed away.

If you are so inclined, please repeat later with a bag of alcohol and a vegetable of some sort.

Thank you. I will return the favour when you are in it, and you will be.

And you will f*cking love it.

P.S. I’ve been censoring the blog because I have a sneaking suspicion my dad may have found it. Dad…send cheese. Also, my name is Ernestine Hawthorningtonshirester.

I need a minute.

What is so bad about the comfort zone and why are we always encouraged to get outside of it?

Like, why don’t you get out of my comfort zone?

Ok fine, I get it.

But I like it there sometimes ’cause it’s hard being a person. Like a real living person and not a puppet made of wood.

It’s hard with all the feelings and all the thoughts and all the circling that happens in your head when it’s too quiet.

So why? Why can’t I just stay here for like…a minute?

I know resisting change is normal. Change is different and we are afraid of what we don’t know. And dammit, there is so much I don’t know.

Changes are happening and more are coming. And it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard. It’s why so many stay in their spot, or drink too much or shop to fill a hole and who can blame them? I’m envious sometimes. How wonderful to be numb and filled with bliss and booze.

But it is coming.

And once you pierce through the thick mucousy membrane of numbness, the scratching restlessness is always there. What is worse — the numb unfeeling of bliss? Or the constant scratching of a nights worth of blinking at the walls when the heart — that is really your brain — knows something isn’t right anymore?

Just like the time I dug my heels in when my parents forced me through the gym doors to my first middle school dance. I want to hide from it. Everything is fine everybody. It’s just fine.

I think the things we fight so hard against, are sometimes the most important for us. Right? For evolution maybe?

But c’mon, even with the unrest that happens in your head, you must have the clarity to know that the alternative is not acceptable. And the jerk that change is, eventually turns into something so much better than what was.

And, I am reminding myself over and over, that in the middle of that mind riot, the wobbly stone I am trying to balance on won’t hold me. I know in my world because there is at least one person telling me to chill the fuck out, and another person saying ‘just leap’, that in the middle of that riot I can step off and be okay…and be okay that it took me so damn long.

It’s okay to be scared (I tell myself). Try not to doubt it (I tell myself). In the end change is good for you.

You’ll be fine and I will be too.

So now I sleep.

Dali and a hundred high-kicks

A few years after I graduated from high school, my friend Teej went through an experimental drug-induced creative stage.

I did not. I was too paranoid for that sort of thing. Like seriously, I thought every time a phone rang it was my mom. Imagine the heights of paranoia I would experience if I were high as a kite? Nope.

Anyhoo, while wearing his halo of hallucination, Teej would stare into the art created by Salvador Dali and write poetry.

The poetry was crazy. It was way beyond anything an 18-year-old could interpret. It amazed and intimidated me.

I looked at his print of The Temptation of St. Anthony with the spindly, spider-legged animals and it reminded me of a fever-induced nightmare. Like the way a dream feels so real, and you’re like “oh man, this is REAL.” Then you realize that no, it is in fact a dream and what IS real is that you have an assignment due in real life.

Obviously, it was so over my 18-year-old head because it wasn’t about the mall or about how my bum looked.

This week, I finally visited the Dali exhibit, which is why I’m waxing moustache poetic about Teej and his poetry and his Dali and how my bum looks.

I wasn’t into all of it, but it’s pretty amazing. I don’t need to like the art to appreciate it and we are all drawn to things that we can’t explain — in all aspects of our lives.

I like what I like. Don’t know why.

Sometimes it feels good to do a high kick. Just shoot a leg right out there. Don’t know why it feels good, but it just does.

So what’s my point?

I don’t know. I’m just gonna go do like a hundred high kicks right now and figure it out.

Blame. It’s lame.

Hi guys,

Let us start with this lil nugget.

No one is to blame but everyone is at fault — that’s how the drama unfolds in my brain before my rationale and reason kick in.

We all know someone who blames others for their failures. And sometimes it is someone or something that is causing those woes, and that’s fair.

I try not to do this. I really try….I won’t blame others. I take responsibility. I make my own decisions. Are you with me?

So then, why do I still do this? Here’s an examp.

When, say, the bus is 20 minutes late and I’m standing there like a jerk in -30 weather, I pull out my phone and madly text with fingers so frozen it feels like I’m using blocks of wood to press send.

Why, in the last seconds of life before my phone says ‘it’s cold bitch, iPhone out”, I will send a rant full of f-grenades and hate to a certain person? Note: It’s just a rant. It’s not directed at that person. Just be cool.

It’s not his fault my bus is late, or that I’m inappropriately dressed for the world outside my igloo…but it IS his fault I moved to this province — ok, that was actually a decision I made as a fully-formed adult with sensibility and life experience and money and my own thinks and thoughts.

Ok, just…never mind that.

But it IS his fault he’s the one I miss sometimes, and it IS his fault he’s the one I want to talk to when some weird kind of good happens — not just temper tantrums.

Why does it make me feel better to blame something? Is it just to take the burden of an outcome from my shoulders for a few minutes?

It’s still his fault.

And now my coffee is cold. That is your fault.

(Ok, it’s not)

Dry January (not for me thanks)

I have been faced with this atrocity many times in the past few days. Peeps declaring January as a dry month.

Pals, listen to me. January is the worst month to stop drinking. You know this.

January already makes me bitter, so may I please have a glass of alcohol to help me through the beige oatmeal of months?

Now that the majority of people I know are abstaining from the stuff, my guest list is guestless on wine-and-sweat-pant Fridays.

Why do I even have sweat pants if not for the wine?

A friend of mine, who is doing a booze-free January, asked me to meet him for breakfast or for lunch.

How. Dare. You.

See you in February dear sweet friend.

So, yes, it seems my former lush puppies are saying — not spraying, cuz they’re sober — “I’m not drinking till February.”

Are we cleansing our souls here? No, just our livers.

I did not overextend my slimy, shiny, little liver over the holidays. I was good to it, so now it’s good to me. It’s giving me what I need to get through Blanduary.

You know what contributes to Blanduary? No one’s drinking.

Why has everyone suddenly turned into sister wives?

Not drinking in January is about as boring as hearing a man talk about his carb intake. Boring. You are so January.

My bff’s birthday is in January. What now? We clink glasses filled with cleansing sludge or pour mugs of birthday cake flavoured tea down our poor unsuspecting gullets? No we do not.

So, me and my liver will be in matching sweat pants this evening having ourselves a time.

January, as als, you are the worst.

Winternet

So, unlike fall, winter rings your doorbell and when you answer, it punches you in the face.

Fall just pulls up into the driveway and honks the horn until you’re ready to come outside. On occasion, fall won’t leave the driveway until you give up some gas money. Pfft, classic fall.

Winter has no patience. Winter is alllll about winter. Winter has that pretty face but a real poor attitude.

That’s why I have consciously decided to uncouple with winter….after this winter.

I remember breaking up with someone once because he ate my lunch. Wait…I know that sounds a little eehhhh, but just wait. He walked to the fridge, opened it up, and saw my packed lunch waiting to fuel my body for my work day ahead. He ate it. He stood there and ate it.

Obviously, that was the last straw of a huge bale of selfish jerky behaviour.

That’s winter. These next few months will be one long last continuous straw.

That is what will get me through this winter…that and my remote car starter.

I am not investing in new mitts, or new winter sleeping bag jacket. Just a toque, since I only recently learned how to wear one and can wear it any ol where. Versatile headgear.. head wear.

I henceforth heretofore herenorthere declare this my last go round with winter.  After that, I’m blocking winter’s number.

Since I am a transplant and plan to replant my body in one of my other recipient cities when I graduate this spring, I need to make the most of this hawinter (say it with a whisper).

I sometimes research what’s going on around town and there is a lot to do right through winter. Really cool things…to do.

The coolest cool thing I ever did done was skating that mofo of a river at -100 and sliding into and through and out of the warming huts. I remember turning to my friend Chantalle several times and yelling “this is so cool….I’m so cold,” but my face was frozen so I was just making sounds at her pirouetting silhouette.

That’s a one-of-a-kind thing that happens in a one-of-a-kind town. Right? So what else?

I don’t want to bury myself in internet exploration this winter. I want to get outside and try everything that needs to be tried.

My box is open…for suggestions.

I heart you with all my emoticons

You know it’s not all you, right?

Like, it’s you, but it’s not all you.

You didn’t get here on your own. You have people that helped you — sometimes just enough to reignite that cold kernel of belief in yourself. Other times, heeeeey new highlighters…or an ice-cold bottle of something alcoholy. What.Ever.

My survival of life has been dependent on my very own tiny village. A palm full of people who, without them, I just couldn’t have.

I have trouble expressing my emoticons sometimes. It’s hard to be vulnerable, yes? So, in the way a psychiatrist might make you communicate using hand puppets, I must do this to get my feelings out of my inner innards.

This…is my puppet.

Thank you: a note of thanks…to you.

Peeps.

You’ve really done me a solid.

You come in here like you’re all “whaaat?” but you know.

You’re always there.

You keep me sane. You make me crazy. In a way, you keep me regular.

But you are there.

When you are weak, hey I get it man. It’s ok. But I like it better when you are strong.

Your strength makes me stronger — strong enough to lift my 45lb head even when my heart feels 10x heavier than my huge head…that I just mentioned, like, two seconds ago.

You are the birthday kid I elbow through a crowd of 9-year-olds to stand next to during the cake presentation.

You are the grown-up I race home to with my macramé dinosaur/macaroni crown/masterpiece painting of confusing color combos, barely able to stop from hopping up and down with excitement, because you are attaching my work to the fridge.

I value my village. I heart you. And because there are no emoticons in this program: hug, kiss, hug, kiss…BIIIIIIG hug, BIIIIIIG kiss…now back to some regular sized hugs. Now some hand sanitizer and a breath mint.

While being your own island is desirable — like, so, so desirable — sometimes, it’s so not worth it.

You need your village people. You need them to live, man.

P.S. I am not high.