It is Feb 1. This is when resolutions start to fall by the wayside, the gyms start to clear out, depression starts to set in etc. And although I would like to think that I am immune, I am not. There are clouds over the city and my mood is even less sunny. This weekend was full of realizations, the biggest being that I can’t and won’t always get what I want; that skinny bitch Mick Jagger was right.
Allow me to explain; for months I have been pining for this one man. He is dreamy, beyond dreamy if you can imagine. The moment I saw him, I thought “FUCK ME, literally, can you please fuck me”, if I had balls I would have asked him to, but I’m a chicken shit so I just tried saying it with my eyes; he didn’t get the message. For months it has been little flirty visits here and there and text messages that go nowhere. A few weeks back, I made what I thought was HUGE progress; but it turns out it was nothing, a fucking tease. So after months of wasted time, emotional energy and money (don’t ask) I AM GIVING UP on him. This weekend it hit me like a ton of bricks “this isn’t going anywhere, it just isn’t meant to be”. This was a hard one to take as I am an only child and I usually get whatever I want.
For weeks (months) my friends, being the great friends that they are, told me to wait it out, if it is meant to be it will happen, all things in due time blah, blah, blah. And for the first time I finally get it. I don’t think it is meant to be and the only thing that will happen with time is that I will get over him. What else am I going to do? I could wait for him to realize that I am amazing but he is a man so I doubt that will happen anytime soon.
I had a really enjoyable weekend with the exception of being rather bummed about the whole “man” thing. Saturday was spent partying with my comrades and I spent my Sunday in solitude, baking and liking my wounds. The alone time was nice to decompress and come to terms with the fact that I must move on. Men, relationships and love are a complete fucking mystery; I actually have no idea how to navigate the romantic world. Unless of course a successful love life consists on losers, cheaters and idiots; because if that’s the case I should be a role model to all twenty-some things on the prowl.
So for the time being I am giving up on love and relationships, they confuse me and life is confusing me enough already as it is. I barely know who or what the hell I am or doing and figuring that out should be number 1 on my list. And now it is. February is the month of me and I think it is going to be a great one! Madonna said it best, “if it’s bitter at the start, then it’s sweeter in the end”.
This isn’t really a confession, but I had to get it off my chest.
Showing posts with label Confession Monday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Confession Monday. Show all posts
Monday, February 1, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Confession Monday
I was extremely well behaved this weekend; the only alcohol to slip past these lips was 1 (yes just 1) glass of wine. So I had to rack my brain for todays confession; but being that I am no angel, it took all of 5 minutes to come up with something.
First let me start by saying that I do like kids, just not the snot nosed, dirty cheek variety; you know the ones I am referring to, the ones only a mother can love. I was one of those kids, so I feel like I earned the right to say that; and I figure that if your mother loves you, then it shouldn’t be a problem that I cannot stand you, but that’s an aside.
We have all been there, in a mall or somewhere mothers and gremlins convene and there is one little tyrant who needs to be put right in their place. Unfortunately for us, the mother or caregiver tends to be too light-handed (in my experience a heavy hand works well for asshole children). For instance, my young cousin had his 6th birthday at a McDonalds play place, also known as hell; and there was this one shithead who was being outrageous. He was spitting down on people eating, biting kids and swearing. His mother who was about 23 years old and hung over (I am sure) was doing nothing to stop her little bastard ( true story, the dad was long gone, which explains the behavior but that is beyond the point). I tried to stop him from outside the Jungle Jim but he told me to “fuck off” and in that moment I knew that I was going to be the person to teach this little asshole a lesson. I climbed into the play place, I squeezed my overgrown (and somewhat overweight) body through the tubes and found the little fuck and grabbed him by the arm to pull him out. And can you believe that he tried to bite me; so I pinched him, yes, I pinched him HARD (I would have punched him but he seemed like he might bruise easy) and then I told him that if he told anyone what I did, I would tell everyone he was lying and he would get in trouble from all the adults; and I proceeded to lead him out of the tubes; I think I threw in somewhere that he had better stop acting like an asshole or I was going to be meaner.
I confess it was not the nicest thing to do; but that little shithead was ruining my cousin’s party; besides he didn’t say a word for the rest of the event, so it worked.
Abuse? Maybe. Party control? Yes.
It feels good to get that off my chest...
First let me start by saying that I do like kids, just not the snot nosed, dirty cheek variety; you know the ones I am referring to, the ones only a mother can love. I was one of those kids, so I feel like I earned the right to say that; and I figure that if your mother loves you, then it shouldn’t be a problem that I cannot stand you, but that’s an aside.
We have all been there, in a mall or somewhere mothers and gremlins convene and there is one little tyrant who needs to be put right in their place. Unfortunately for us, the mother or caregiver tends to be too light-handed (in my experience a heavy hand works well for asshole children). For instance, my young cousin had his 6th birthday at a McDonalds play place, also known as hell; and there was this one shithead who was being outrageous. He was spitting down on people eating, biting kids and swearing. His mother who was about 23 years old and hung over (I am sure) was doing nothing to stop her little bastard ( true story, the dad was long gone, which explains the behavior but that is beyond the point). I tried to stop him from outside the Jungle Jim but he told me to “fuck off” and in that moment I knew that I was going to be the person to teach this little asshole a lesson. I climbed into the play place, I squeezed my overgrown (and somewhat overweight) body through the tubes and found the little fuck and grabbed him by the arm to pull him out. And can you believe that he tried to bite me; so I pinched him, yes, I pinched him HARD (I would have punched him but he seemed like he might bruise easy) and then I told him that if he told anyone what I did, I would tell everyone he was lying and he would get in trouble from all the adults; and I proceeded to lead him out of the tubes; I think I threw in somewhere that he had better stop acting like an asshole or I was going to be meaner.
I confess it was not the nicest thing to do; but that little shithead was ruining my cousin’s party; besides he didn’t say a word for the rest of the event, so it worked.
Abuse? Maybe. Party control? Yes.
It feels good to get that off my chest...
Monday, January 18, 2010
Confession Monday
I don’t go to church. I used to go to church almost 4 days a week; my grandfather was a minister and my grandmother was the dutiful minister’s wife, and I was the cute, if not rambunctious, minister’s granddaughter. Every weekend my young mother would drop me off to their home on Saturday afternoon and proceed to go out with her friends on Saturday night. I wouldn’t see her until dinner time on Sunday. I am happy she did that, now; but, when I was younger I hated it.
Every Sunday, my grandmother would wake me at an ungodly hour, braid my hair, feed me breakfast and then we would proceed to drive all over Edmonton to pick up the less fortunate members of the congregation, in my grandfathers station wagon, before the service at 9 am; and, this was just Sunday. I digress, I used to be a terror all week, talking back, biting other kids; and, then I would repent on Sunday, as I sat through hours of church. Make no mistake, I was also trouble at church, I once in the middle of a sermon got a smack from my grandmother, in front of everyone, and then I was expected to go back to listening, ah the glory of church. I felt that sitting there for hours on a Sunday morning was repentance enough; although I am sure I had no idea what "repent" actually stood for. I did, however, know that it meant I could be bad and then it would all just go away in the eyes of god.
Now I NEVER go to church, organized religion isn’t my thing. For various reasons, which are too many to list. However, I love the idea of getting a week of bad things off my chest. That isn’t to say that all last week I was bad, but you know I wasn’t that good. So I bring you Confession Mondays. I invite you to comment and leave a confession of your own. No one will know it is you, they will only know that mine is coming from me. I promise it will feel good.
Without further ado…my confession
On Friday night, I promised myself that I was going to take it easy on the party and work out this weekend. I didn’t. I got home at 8:30 am on Saturday morning, drunk as a fucking skunk (thank the lord my mother wasn’t home). I didn’t shower or leave the house until, well, until I leave the house today. Do I feel bad, kind of; but, now I feel better. Confessions are good.
That wasn’t so bad…now it’s your turn.
Every Sunday, my grandmother would wake me at an ungodly hour, braid my hair, feed me breakfast and then we would proceed to drive all over Edmonton to pick up the less fortunate members of the congregation, in my grandfathers station wagon, before the service at 9 am; and, this was just Sunday. I digress, I used to be a terror all week, talking back, biting other kids; and, then I would repent on Sunday, as I sat through hours of church. Make no mistake, I was also trouble at church, I once in the middle of a sermon got a smack from my grandmother, in front of everyone, and then I was expected to go back to listening, ah the glory of church. I felt that sitting there for hours on a Sunday morning was repentance enough; although I am sure I had no idea what "repent" actually stood for. I did, however, know that it meant I could be bad and then it would all just go away in the eyes of god.
Now I NEVER go to church, organized religion isn’t my thing. For various reasons, which are too many to list. However, I love the idea of getting a week of bad things off my chest. That isn’t to say that all last week I was bad, but you know I wasn’t that good. So I bring you Confession Mondays. I invite you to comment and leave a confession of your own. No one will know it is you, they will only know that mine is coming from me. I promise it will feel good.
Without further ado…my confession
On Friday night, I promised myself that I was going to take it easy on the party and work out this weekend. I didn’t. I got home at 8:30 am on Saturday morning, drunk as a fucking skunk (thank the lord my mother wasn’t home). I didn’t shower or leave the house until, well, until I leave the house today. Do I feel bad, kind of; but, now I feel better. Confessions are good.
That wasn’t so bad…now it’s your turn.
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