Love in the time of...

      Regularly I would refuse to be another blogger to post on the more generic topic of love.  Be another person ranting about the overuse of the word, the hollowness and lack of meaning behind it. Everyone knows that. We all use the word when we don't mean it, anyway. Only no one in this generation uses an elastic band on our wrist, ready to snap against ourselves if we misspeak.  A sharp pain for the word love--punishment for something akin to swearing--maybe then we'd all get the idea.

      I am not going to tell you what love is. No one can tell you what love is. You have to feel it. I may not yet know what love is, but I sure as hell know what the lack of it feels like. The lack of love makes up the difference between want and need, only because love is simultaneously the most selfish and martyred aspect of the living condition. There is a myth that in the beginning of time, people had four legs, four arms, and two heads. Lightning struck and split us all in two, and for the rest of our lives now we go in search of our other half.

     Many, many people have chastised me for my loneliness. It seems counter-productive to me, but nonetheless it happens. I do not blame them. They tell me that I shouldn't feel so starved for love, shouldn't be desperate for a taste of it. After all, I am surrounded by friends and family. I should take comfort in them to appease my loneliness. In response, I usually say nothing. What I am thinking, though, is that yes, my friends and family have contributed to who I am, made me all that I can be... but that doesn't stop me pining for my other half. If all that I have now accounts for only half of what I am, then no amount of friends or family can fill the love-lack that I still feel so strongly. Selfish and needy? I hunger for something I would gladly go without if it meant my other half would be happy. Love: the contradiction.

     The word is lost in clichés. Contrary to popular belief, I do not crave only the sugar sweet aspects of love. I don't only want the reverent moonlit nights, the sweet kisses of summer rain on hot, dry skin. I don't only live for the spooning and cuddling, the late night chats that stretch into the early morning. The sex.

     I need Calypso and Davy Jones. A love so strong that for the absence of it to be possible, a heart needs to be ripped from the chest. A love as unpredictable as the sea itself; one minute calm and even, the next minute raging so viciously you can't hope for survivors. Love is the water that caresses you and drowns you, the fire that warms and burns you. Consumes you. I want an end to the neutrality, to the endless beach of nothingness, the clean white sand that everybody loves so much. All I see is desert ahead of me, with love, like a mirage in the distance.

      Which is so telling isn't it? You can't search for love. The minute you think you spot it it vanishes, like something in your periphery. It just has to appear before you, smack you in the face when you're not paying attention. Cruel we should have to wait so long, beautiful when it happens. No more than I can help how lonely I feel can I help how much I hope. I am optimistic. Always.

      I love my friends. I love my family. I don't need "more", I need this lack to disappear. Eventually, when I have (for lack of a better term) romantic love, I might feel differently. All I can do now is hope that when I do have it, whenever that might be, I cherish it.

Till next time (and hopefully on a less serious note),

Chloe.

Poetry... and Hipsters?

Hello All.

      I am going to break one of my own unofficial rules today. Generally, I write (as much as I can) like a neutral party. When I say neutral party, I mean that I try to make it so that the reader really doesn't have very many clues as to what my life is like, how old I am, or what I do. But today my post needs a bit of context, so I'm including the fact that I am a university student and not (gasp) either some high-school student or an aspiring author somewhere downtown in a gritty apartment who frequents coffee shops to use wi-fi and manic-depressively write out my life's story in an obvious place so that everyone can see how intellectual and deep I truly am. Ha! If this were true today, I'd probably be wearing those horribly obnoxious hipster glasses with the enormous black frames. And a beret. Because really, isn't that what everyone's picturing in their head right now? Though now I realize I'm doing a post on poetry--and bloody free verse at that--, so really, I'm sabotaging my own image, here.

       Just a side note--I've been writing so many formal academic essays for my classes that now it feels severely wrong to be writing "I" so many times. I'm very disheartened. I have also discovered that everything about university is meant to make you sound like a raging ponce. Every class has its own jargon, and every prof wants it enforced. By the end of my degree, I will have earned the right to make up words because hell, I have a degree! Who's going to question my whimsical syntax? Nobody questions the Professors out loud, even though we all know they make up new words about once every class. But we can't say shit because they have "Dr." in front of their names. I assure you, however, that I am with you when you call them out in your head.

      Anyway, I wanted to pause a moment to discuss the nature of taking several classes for the one subject. Eventually, some of your Professors are likely to discuss a common theorist, or subject. For example, as an English major, gender becomes a subject of analysis and debate in all of my classes. What the product of this becomes is that eventually, in one day you'll have this massive connection/epiphany, as all of lessons from class will combine and you'll view the world in a whole new way. At least, that much is true for me.

      In between massive essays, I scribbled down a few lines. It didn't sound like a proper paragraph, so in a moment of laziness I hit enter at the end of every section of a thought, and voila. A poem. Now, I'm going to tell you now that normally I hate free verse. It bothers me that they usually doesn't rhyme. It's much easier to analyze meter and to me, it just plain sounds better. Don't get my wrong, I don't hate all free verse, but it needs to be really incredible for me to love it. Now I've discovered a reason for writing in free verse rather than prose narrative, or just a paragraph. Sometimes you can't express something in sentences, sometimes you need the line breaks, the white space to break up your thoughts. So that they can be read the way they're meant to be, and not just how standard writing dictates they should. This is what I ended up with.

 No One

I am proud to be a woman,

but if that means I am defined by the things

I can and cannot achieve, then I am not.

I am comfortable with my race,

but if that means I cannot love others

as much as I love myself, I am not.

I am secure in my sexuality,

but if that means who I can or cannot love

is restricted to one gender, the other, or both, I am not.

Why does the culmination of who I am

Depend on labels?

My love of pink? Girly.

My decision not to wear make-up? I’m frumpy.

If you don’t care whether I am straight or not,

Why is it you need to know?

I love words, but sometimes they fail me.

No sooner have we broken one layer of understanding,

Then we slap a strip of yellow caution tape on the next.

I dream of a world in which no gender

Decides how you interact with me.

Where no colour

Defines who I am.

Where no love

Is unjust or wrong.

I dream of a world in which life is a song

With no lyrics,

Because it has none of the things

That can halt a dream.

In this song, I am not.

We are.

      A masterpiece? Hardly. A piece of me? Definitely. Again, not really sure what motivated me to write it, it's just what happened. My next poem will rhyme. I'm sure of it. 

Till next time,

Chloe.

P.s: Yeah. I use sentence fragments a lot. I'm also en English major. Deal with the conundrum! Guess what? I also make comma splice errors frequently! And no, I wasn't even aware of what those are until this year. I admit it. I think we should all take this opportunity to admit that there are words we pretend that we understand because we feel like we should know what they are at this point in our lives. When people mention them we all just nod like we know what they're talking about, but really, we never end up looking it up later.

The Things I've (Grudgingly) Learned.

     No one likes to admit they've learned their lesson. The only reason they ever do is either because they're forced to, or to willingly appease others. But it's never for themselves. Lessons are hard to learn, and when we have, often times we don't even want to voice aloud that we have; mostly, I believe, do to the fact we are embarrassed that we even HAD to learn. Lord knows, humans are terribly proud creatures.

     And no, readers, this is not an arrogant rant about how I've "changed" all my friends with my righteousness and other assorted bullshit, this is a grudging acceptance of the lessons I have recently learned, or the value in those I was previously taught.

     Lesson One, that I would have NEVER thought would ever have any merit to it, was one I learned in High School. I actually learned it from Show Choir, in high school. A small side note--REAL show choir is not like glee, it is a hell of a lot harder. Don't knock it 'till you try it, yeah? But anyway, this lesson I learned, standing on stage--front and centre--during a six hour rehearsal, tears of sheer frustration, stress, and rage streaming down my face. Not one person said a Goddamn thing to me about it. No, allow me to correct myself. The choreographer at the time, while measuring our placements on stage, glanced at my face one time, and then snapped to the lot of us: "SMILE!"

     Is it selfish of me to believe it would have been kinder for her to have asked what was wrong? Perhaps. But it wasn't that moment I learned the full extent of the lesson. It was a few days later, when in the office of the choreographer and organiser, that I was given this advice: "If you smile, no matter how bad things can seem, they will feel and seem better, just because you are smiling." At the time, I was offended. I still am. Because of the stupid show choir competition, in which you are graded on your smiles, this is the advice they gave me for my life's problems. Oh yes, I'll keep this in mind if I get hit by a car. When the frenzied driver comes out to see if I am alright, in between coughing up my own blood and attempting to move my mangled legs, he will see me smile, because that will make the situation so much better.

     Alright, so I'm a tad bitter. And melodramatic. But you all knew that anyway. That lesson, better worded by Liza Minnelli, (Smile, though your heart is breaking) actually rings true. Just as at each show choir practice I would slather a grimace on my face, red with anger and exhaustion, each day I make the effort to smile. Not that I'm depressed, or even sad most of the time. But a smile does more for everyone else than it does for me. It can reassure a friend, or an old woman looking weary while passing you on the street. It can inspire or spread to others. Not going to lie, it can also confuse, embitter, and irritate people, but at least you are, in some small way, inspiring them to feel something.

     An added note, this is not a dig at show choir. I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, it is just VERY demanding to one's schedule and sanity. Join knowing this, and you will survive.

     As for the lesson I've been recently taught? Being open to the sexual orientation, ideas, opinions, and life decisions of others does not necessarily make you open-minded. Taking an open interest in trying things does. Both are a form of open-mindedness in some sense, but you need both to truly be so. Sometimes you may be surprised at yourself, and things you may actually like.

     Just one more added note. I have a lot of friends that I would call close. I love them all. I sometimes whine about the lengths I go to in order to be with them. I did myself a favor and listened to all the things they do to be around me. I was humbled beyond belief. My friends mean so much to me, and I can only hope they can stand me as long as I want to be their friends. I can't always understand their decisions or what they are going through, but I can always try to be there for them. All I can do is the best I can do. In this world, love may come and go (GASP! Chloe, you are a romantic and believe in true love, what are you saying?!), children, jobs, careers, passions, may be present or not, but if you don't have friends, you will never find nor make it through any of them. Make sure you are there for them so that they will be there for you (no matter how obnoxiously loud you try to learn a song on the piano in the room next door).

How I preach. Ugh. 

But I love you  guys. Shout out to mah Bruthahs.

Less than three (<3). 'Till next time.

Chloe.

The Non-Verbal Implosion.

     I am officially disgusted with the world. And more significantly than that, with my friends. I was never a very aggressive or assertive person. Come to think of it, I've almost always been the one to apologise. Very high self-confidence, very low self-worth, I'm afraid. I always feel as if I needed my friends far more than they ever needed me. Now I'm drowning in evidence of it.

     I am just so sick and fucking tired of bullshit excuses. I hate being late, I always have been. I'm a punctual person by nature, and, accompanied by my slightly impatient tendencies, my reactions to my friend's lateness become that much worse. I hate when they think they can pull that crap with me. If you think I'm exaggerating, I'll give you a few examples:

     1. Being made to wait an hour and forty-five minutes for someone in the Eaton's centre

     2. Routinely being forced to wait for my friends at meeting points to hop a bus together. Times ranging from ten minutes, to forty-fucking-five.

     3. Having a party time set for a certain hour, and then knowing none of your guests (despite the fact that they're your closest friends and have no where else to be) will be there for at least another two to four hours.

     4. No one having a clue what the fuck is going on when because either a) they don't answer their phones or call back after seeing that you've called or b) their stubborn refusal to check their goddamn email despite the fact you've told them to upwards of ten times verbally, and to their FACE.

     5. Having friends either be late to, or generally skip a presentation date at which--both of you being in the same group--they need to be. This of course either results in the losing of marks, or shortening of time in which you may present, causing further loss of marks because all of your information cannot be conveyed.

     6. Being regularly mocked to my face about my stern sense of punctuality and morality, while their excuses run somewhere along the lines of: "Oh, I run on African time!" this garners laughter from the other, much less pissed members of the group.

     Bottom line? I hate it. It makes me feel like shit. All that any of this says to me is: "Oh, I don't care about you enough, and don't even value you as a friend enough to have the courtesy not to waste your time. I don't take you seriously, and the world is obviously running on whatever fucking clock I want it to because I'm obviously more important. Plus, I just don't really want to see you all that badly. At all." Being late and apologising for it is one thing, especially if it only happens a couple of times. But when it is every single time, to the point where you just don't feel it necessary to apologise anymore, let me tell you something, you are damn lucky it's me you're doing this to, because I know not a lot of other people would take this crap.

     And I BEG you, do not blame your lateness on other people. If you're getting ready at someone's house, and they are notorious for being late, leave without them! Don't be a suck like me and waste your goddamn time. I would rather leave them behind even if they offered me a ride and took the goddamn bus if I knew they were going to make me late. Nothing is more disrespectful or outright insulting than being late. It really shows exactly how little you care.

     What's that? You're late because you don't know the bus route? FUCKING GOOGLE IT, BITCH! Nothing is stopping you from planning ahead--after realising you do not, in fact, know it--and searching it up so that you know. So that you don't get lost! Jesus Christ people, how hard is it to look up directions?

     Furthermore, if there's even an INKLING of a possibility that you can't make it, cancel one day in advance, at least. Don't call, no, scratch that, text the person an hour before you're supposed to be there that you cannot come. And if you're going to do that, at least have the fucking courtesy to call them and say it to them in your own words, why all their plans have gone to shit. You can't tell them just then? Fine. Email them or call them the next fucking day.

     Readers might think, in their minds at least (no comments, so I assume), "Wow. This girl really needs to talk to these people."

     Well, guess fucking what, This Girl is so annoyingly and completely afraid of confrontation she can't even say it to their faces. In fact, This Girl won't even dare bring it up for fear of losing the friends that obviously don't give two shits about her. Fancy that. Instead she has to vent and suffer silently on an online blog that no one reads anyway. Alone. Seeing red she's so blindly pissed.

     What's wrong with her? Oh yes, that's right. Nothing. She'd going to continue on with her perfect life, sitting up on her "high horse".

It sure is cold, and sure is fucking lonely.

Till Next time, when I'm not quite as blindly pissed, and after I've regretted posting this.

Chloe.

Bringing in the New Crap.

Ugh. Yes. I have decided, (most likely due to the giant nothing else to do) to be the stereotypical blogger and talk about New Years Eve. It`s so depressing. Don`t agree? What is the main mode of celebration on this wondrous occasion? Drinking yourself into a fucking abyss, pardon the french. Why, on such a "joyous" holiday, would everyone drink themselves into such a deep oblivion they forget all of the year BEFORE, list all of the things they hate about themselves, and then pledge to change everything about themselves to be "better off"? Fuck. That. Shit.

 I want you to stay snarky/bitchy. I want you to be chubby. I want the only thing YOU change for the new year to be your happiness. I have a lot of friends, who, at this moment, are going through a lot of shit. They are either falling into depression, already there, or just having an awful time. I don't want them to wake up and be different people this year. I just want, out of all the things one can wish for on New Years, my friends to be happy. Sure procrastination is awful, and you should probably do less of it, but hey, maybe doing it (even just a little) keeps you sane. I don't want you to be late to everything (ahem, Jade), but hey, I'd rather you be late but still THERE. Why do I wait upwards of two hours for my friends sometimes? It's not because I'm patient. It's not because I like to be "holier than thou" when I'm on time. I'm there when I'm supposed to be because I LOVE MY FRIENDS. I'm there because I want to see you guys as soon as possible. Never doubt that.

Tonight is the annual NYE (thanks for the acronym, J.) party. There may be alcohol there, which, on any other occasion might have made me wary. This year I am not. Why, you might ask? Because I am sick and tired of swearing off things before I know what they're like (except drugs, man. NEVER). While I don't judge my friends for doing these things, I'd be lying if I said their inebriated state didn't scare me. Well, afterwards they never seem to care or be in any sort of trauma. Maybe I'm judging it a little too harshly. I'm not saying I'm going to get royally smashed, just saying that having a glass of wine with friends won't kill me.

Oh! Speaking of drinking, my cousin, let's call her Arf (no, she's not a bitch, she's lovely. "Arf" is an inside joke) who is now presently in university, told me of a drinking game they play there. I was originally excited over the name of it, because I am a loser.

It's called Wizard Sticks. :D

What you do is get copious amounts of alcohol (mostly in either cans of beer or wine coolers) and sit down with a couple of your shithead friends. Once you finish one can, you tape a new one to the top of it, and drink that. Once your wizard stick is four cans long, you and the aforementioned shitheads "fight a boss" aka, take a shot of a much stronger alcohol (i.e., vodka). This happens every time ANYONE's stick either reaches four cans, or has four more cans on it. When your wizard stick reaches your height, everyone does a shot. And because everyone is most likely different heights, every time their cans reach THEIR height, everyone else has to do another shot.

Ugh, I' doing an awful job of explaining it, but that's the gist. It sounds completely disgusting. It's excess, if you ask me. But hey, if you can handle it, why not be a wizard? 

Kidding! Do not over drink!!! Be safe, have fun.

And Happy New Year's, my people. Till next time.

Chloe.

Irrationally Smart.

University, or more accurately, the planning for it, will be the death of me. For institutions supposedly for higher education, their websites sure are fucking stupid (pardon my french). I swear to god, a trained monkey could make a website easier to navigate. Props to the techno-geeks throwing these things together, trying to put all this information into one place, but from where I sit (in front of my computer, staring blanking at the glowing screen before me), really, what the hell do you think you're doing? I believe, and I may be wrong here, that these sites are solely for the entertainment of those who created them; so they can sit back and laugh while everyone else gets redirected in the largest, most complicated circles you've ever seen in your short life.
I've been on this computer for around six hours now, tearing out my hair and tearing at the eyes in utter frustration and sheer, impotent rage.

I want to slap someone.

Repeatedly.

And beyond the obvious problems with paying for such education, residence, textbooks, and meal plan, there is social aspect to things. Wow, there's really no way of saying that without sounding like a complete hermit (hermit, writer, the words are practically synonymous, heh?). I am, as most would suspect by this point (you know, being a blogger and all), I am not a very social person. Not what you'd call a party animal either. Hell, I don't even drink. I don't want some sorry ass drunk roommate swinging into our shared room at three in the morning dragging in some "bad boy" (and I don't mean Bad Guy, TOTALLY different ballgame there, no argument) and falling all over each other not four feet away from where my unfortunate ears are sitting, me, of course trying in vain to sleep. What if I had an exam the next day, hmm? Not that my roommate would care, I gather.

Can't you just hear my teeth grinding? I can. And it sounds like the gates of hell screeching open, rust flaking to pieces, falling like demented snowflakes to the hot, molten floor.

I dislike researching for University. I dislike applying for programs. I think, though, perhaps the Independence it offers could be good for me. Don't get me wrong, I don't think I'll ever be that aforementioned party animal, nor the sorry ass drunk. Maybe, just maybe, I'll be me, and a little bit better.

Yeah, and maybe the juggling, flying ass-clowns from my last post (or was it the one before that?) will come out my butt. I hope it's all its cracked up to be. I want to go where I can learn things I'm interested in. Where I can finally be with other hermits--I mean writers, like myself.

Yup, blog still not revamped. Hope you liked what happened to show up here anyways.

Chloe.

For Lack of Anyhting More Interesting to Say.

The most random shit ever. The other night, after having a very fruitful conversation about blogs with my friend, Jade, I realised that I really don't care what ends up on here, or even if they read it, just that I continue to have things to SAY. Things I feel like saying. Things I feel like I need to say. After this aforementioned conversation, I then proceeded to write my own little 'journal' entries that I realised could be turned into future blog posts. I will be updating more frequently, I believe (don't hold me to that), and even more than that, Jade agreed to help me amp it up, to look better in general. Now you actually have something to look forward to, should you come back.

FYI: Pictures are IMPOSSIBLE to place!!! I tried, and maybe it was just my netbook (*ahem*, FAILBOOK) but nothing really moved, it all just appeared at the top and sat there looking all sardonic and mocking my technological illiteracy. Yeah, I can hear the techno-geniuses cracking up like hard-boiled eggs (oh yeah, world-class simile, baby).

On to the initial point of my new post, I scribbled a little something down the other day, and for a lack of anything better to do with it, I've chosen to share it with you. It's not really well edited, it's not literary gold. It's just something I wrote.

Oh yeah, and it's about a whale.

Possibly more than that, but I'll leave it up to you to decide.

On a sandy beach amidst a sea of dancing glass, lies a whale, its body snugly fitted into the recesses of the damp earth. In the distance, the sun glimpses off the peak of each wave; every tiny reflected fragment shining in the yet-living, beached whale's eyes. Teasing it, one could say, with the final glimpses of it's home and where it should be, safe, and free. The whale's fins flap uselessly at the sand, and the broken bottle beneath it prick and cut it's tough skin; it hurts, but not as much as the last rays of the setting sun highlighting a home it will never be able to return to. The pinks, oranges, and yellows reflected there a water colourist's palate, dashed across a wash of the purest blue, fading ever darker into the deep indigo of the night time sky. A breeze rustles the leaves on the nearby trees. The whale only just notices the wind.

As the night presses on, the less it moves. The whale's fins finally stop, and it relaxes, letting it's eyelids drop to a heavy half-mast. The whale has given up. The moon, a pale disk floating in a ballet of bright, silver stars, draws higher in the sky, painting it's glowing hue even farther across the rippling ocean waves. Even in it's darkest hours, the whale can always see hope. It can always see the way home.

This has nothing to do with religion, nothing to do with depression. I'm not really sure what it is, it's just something I wrote. I hope you enjoyed it. I think I'll name the whale... Norton.

Norton the whale. How poetic. :)

Till the next (and hopefully fully upgraded) post.

Chloe.