tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34908363283213536192024-02-19T08:10:08.312-08:00Ancora ImparoKeegs*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-51628997672989862172010-10-01T04:34:00.000-07:002010-10-01T04:35:37.048-07:00Parents make me laughDad: What was that group that sang "I Swear"?<br />Me: Boys II Men<br />Dad: What were their names?<br />Me: I couldn't tell you their names<br />Mom: Wasn't that "Jay-Z" character in that group?<br />Me: No mom, Jay-Z was not in Boys II Men.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-38941557159423809372010-09-03T05:09:00.000-07:002010-09-03T05:24:22.407-07:00Jay and I get some work done<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dysbI4KbwHStzwYjr26oNvtEb_9SaEZcNVlmZ-J_0hskz3UfWtMsu9CkFKSZI7Kdiu0d_eE4otR1hF8yedBRw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-52700368978154877922010-09-03T04:56:00.000-07:002010-09-03T05:09:17.571-07:00Hugh = Best<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJ6sDo6ctGS16oIrczccPN9N1HEmb8CcOm0MS-h8AmR9LKGytNFSMmrLB5Uhc73Sq7AFkSW-rgzENqmO7coWOCQlEOHDZHgBOBLmrU8jOu3CZFYbs0Wn3WbkFp5gVzgwH4RbZgbzjAD38/s1600/untitled4.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512658083081034930" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 186px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJ6sDo6ctGS16oIrczccPN9N1HEmb8CcOm0MS-h8AmR9LKGytNFSMmrLB5Uhc73Sq7AFkSW-rgzENqmO7coWOCQlEOHDZHgBOBLmrU8jOu3CZFYbs0Wn3WbkFp5gVzgwH4RbZgbzjAD38/s320/untitled4.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhswEgkbQ1sx4YGNgecCn5QZ-ibQDLjjb4lyiBgGEoLXNEPq7MDKkWs-ppvZ81BxpP_siozzv_B0ltuqrZPu0sCiT40tiYt1eHqrIuSYsG8sM_8FFINsaqJfY26Fd0stASu0pqMG_icfE/s1600/untitled2.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512657971791887106" style="WIDTH: 139px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 188px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhswEgkbQ1sx4YGNgecCn5QZ-ibQDLjjb4lyiBgGEoLXNEPq7MDKkWs-ppvZ81BxpP_siozzv_B0ltuqrZPu0sCiT40tiYt1eHqrIuSYsG8sM_8FFINsaqJfY26Fd0stASu0pqMG_icfE/s320/untitled2.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzEAgxZKfF2VfZAzuksii30VTAyYC3ucooL8iGfJXe7c-svDWN0MotlEnKTbQ7DMdDSz7cr7E33MH6_ofPm7kJYKYadu1ctNQ470ZgQW9ZW1AoPZ6p2U64kjuId9raZY1JwXoAL0bNGyqw/s1600/untitled1.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512657865172050258" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 182px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzEAgxZKfF2VfZAzuksii30VTAyYC3ucooL8iGfJXe7c-svDWN0MotlEnKTbQ7DMdDSz7cr7E33MH6_ofPm7kJYKYadu1ctNQ470ZgQW9ZW1AoPZ6p2U64kjuId9raZY1JwXoAL0bNGyqw/s320/untitled1.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipyg7nQNDux9Tng_qxNdyZiUGMfLGEcQc6RtpxJNChH_NNIroN5nT2bdZbyf3P1I3i_uv1RXbfK0cqZQFKFp9yeNeHRU4cR_5zGVoMJl9qeXhx7WFxC3p84w2b3BC2j3L5VTTLTtydfcji/s1600/untitled.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512657675101701938" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 198px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipyg7nQNDux9Tng_qxNdyZiUGMfLGEcQc6RtpxJNChH_NNIroN5nT2bdZbyf3P1I3i_uv1RXbfK0cqZQFKFp9yeNeHRU4cR_5zGVoMJl9qeXhx7WFxC3p84w2b3BC2j3L5VTTLTtydfcji/s320/untitled.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Go to <a href="http://www.gapingvoid.com/">http://www.gapingvoid.com/</a> for more genius</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div>*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-46755781617208087742010-09-01T09:58:00.000-07:002010-09-01T10:06:51.749-07:00The best things in life are free. And by free I mean on the internet.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYcHKyJ6v3lIpi-KsHlupZ3YiAhCMY7LS0Cw6AilUw0Dy8aDlvevW5JI4a0sfiH6SauBtHCd5aCD_OZokEw3H_JtXtPeKaU6iIN48FNp6w2WaPKX3hBnbRgZM7FOGcOaRvMQOZ64P2NcgO/s1600/Happy+Place.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511992653688335826" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYcHKyJ6v3lIpi-KsHlupZ3YiAhCMY7LS0Cw6AilUw0Dy8aDlvevW5JI4a0sfiH6SauBtHCd5aCD_OZokEw3H_JtXtPeKaU6iIN48FNp6w2WaPKX3hBnbRgZM7FOGcOaRvMQOZ64P2NcgO/s320/Happy+Place.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KBCZrBD8F-WKiyV5Tdik18bexCpeLG8Fheg4qS2ExJ0-UycUZPTsShSQQoaZsj4KFcKiPmkFESPe3EYbOt04z9ZROOeYFtcXHaUt6Y-zwRao9ID0zS0002s0tlAg61aBDHeN-3xgtzwz/s1600/Happy+Place.JPG"></a></p><br /><p><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7YXn-lfHXc&feature=player_embedded">My future child</a> <a href="http://www.woosk.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/grandma-hats-us.jpg">Me in 50 years</a> <a href="http://extras.mnginteractive.com/live/media/site200/2010/0706/20100706_050624_do06-lindsay-lohan-court-horizontal.jpg">Best Moment of 2010 so far</a> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kr9_5uZn6ds">My future husband</a></p><br /><p></p>*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-38251512996739727092010-08-04T06:47:00.000-07:002010-08-04T06:57:39.027-07:00Please WatchPlease watch the documentary "8: The Mormon Proposition".<br /><br />I love my gays. Some of the greatest friends I've ever had, and an aunt I am very close to, are gay, and incredible human beings. My entire life I have believed in equal rights for all people. In addition, when it comes to religion I am a devote member to the church of nothing. I align my beliefs with Bill Maher, George Carlin and Charles Darwin.<br /><br />Regardless, even if you do have a religious affiliation, I feel like it is important for people to watch this documentary. Because despite our differences in opinions on which god is right and who gets to go to "heaven", all people should be standing up for human rights.<br /><br />That's what this issue is about, not who you sleep with, not who you want to marry, not who you fall in love with. It's about the right to live your life the way you want to, and to not have your life's story dictated by a lobbyist group. It's about fighting hatred, and small-mindedness, and being able to join your life with someone, legally, and enjoying the same freedoms as everyone else.<br /><br />Please go to the film's website: <a href="http://www.mormonproposition.com/">http://www.mormonproposition.com/</a><br />Or watch the trailer on youtube: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m76isUF49P8">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m76isUF49P8</a>*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-83938348519582119292010-07-26T11:39:00.000-07:002010-07-26T12:06:43.436-07:00I think maybe I'm kind of an asshole.I don't think I'm supposed to say this, but when something happens to someone I know, something great and wonderful and exciting, that it is something that I have been wishing for, or I have deluded myself into thinking I can achieve, normal, sane people are genuinely happy for them. I'm mostly jealous. And resentful. And in my head I think of every reason that I deserve to have or achieve what they have more than them. Just on the surface, I know deep, deep down I am truly happy for them. But it's like pretty deep. I'm doing some digging.<br /><br />The thing I think I realized while pondering this today, is that I don't think I am truly resentful about their success, I think what I am resentful about is that I haven't achieved it myself. I'm angry with myself that I didn't do it first, or better, or stronger, or at all. And then I silently take it out on them, cursing their name and deciding in my head that they have found some sort of secret loop hole I was not privy to, or that they have unprecidented luck. Once in a while the line "who did they blow to get that?" creeps into my mind. Obviously this is much easier than facing the fact that I have failed myself. It's pretty pathetic. The tried and tested "make someone else feel like shit to make yourself feel better" route. Though I'm not actually making them feel like shit to their faces, only in my head. Still, it's sad.<br /><br />I don't think I'm the only person that does this, I think it's pretty common. I hope it's common because I am going out on a limb here and exposing some truly terrible thoughts. But of course, no one is going to parade around the fact that they think someone's else's achievement is a sham and that they probably deserved it more. In fact, we probably didn't. Which is why they achieved it, and we didn't. We're not mad at the person for being successful, we're mad at ourselves because we know we're capable of that kind of success, but we haven't gotten there yet. Happens to me all the time. And then I end up feeling awful about myself.<br /><br />When did I start being so hard on myself? When did I become so focused on resenting other people's success that I forgot to work towards my own? Just when I think I have done something great, I see someone else do something ten times better. Why does that matter to me? Why do I peg myself against everyone else? I'm sure it doesn't matter to anyone else what kind of success I'm having, so it should only matter to me. So if it only matters to me, why am I so obssessed with "beating" everyone else?<br /><br />Life is not a contest. Life is not a contest. Life is not a contest. I need to keep telling myself this. Or buy a giant blackboard and chalk and do some Bart Simpson-ing. If anyone else told me what I just wrote myself I would tell them to shut up. Or that they are nuts and need to chill out and relax or get some xanax. Or a kitten. It's so easy to talk the talk about living one day at a time and not comparing yourself to other people and blah blah blah. When it comes time to walk the walk, I am crawling. Actually, I'm lying on the sidewalk begging passers-by to drag me by my heels behind them. This week I am going to reflect on this and find a brilliant way to stop this self destructive behavior.<br /><br />Don't beat me to the punch though, cause if you do I won't be happy for you.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-18758573461141012842010-07-24T18:29:00.000-07:002010-07-24T18:41:28.743-07:00Shitty PeopleSome would argue that there is a distinct line to be drawn between good and bad. Simply said, there are good people and bad people. Others might say that its not that straightforward: there is good and bad in everyone and it is impossible to categorize people as only one or the other. I am too lazy to make an argument for either side of that debate, so instead I will totally bypass it and move onto new categories that are loosely connected to the aforementioned distinctions: shitty people with money, and shitty people without money. For the purpose of this article, shitty will be considered a technical term.<br /><br />In August of 2009 I moved into an apartment building in the South End of Halifax, right at the end of Young Avenue, which occupies beautiful homes, several mansions and one giant fucking pink monstrosity that I am 94% sure belongs to Uncle Pennybags from Monopoly. The yards are all beautifully kept, the cars in the driveway all top end, the people all immaculately dressed. Jesus, the fucking dogs are groomed better than I am. It was a “good neighborhood”, so to speak. My top story apartment had an amazing view of the harbor, and you could spit on Point Pleasant Park from the front door. It was widely accepted as a nice place to live. I fucking hated it, but not because of the neighborhood, but for reasons I will not burden you with as they are melodramatic and quite frankly, stupid.<br /><br />Just this April, I moved to the North End of Dartmouth. It is not Real Estate heaven, like South End Halifax, but agents have predicted that market values will rise in the next five years, as most of the area will be gentrified, much like North End Halifax. I bought my first place for a very low price, knowing that the neighborhood was perhaps considered a little “rough”. Any given night there is a steady parade of cop cars down the block, and there is an ugly bingo hall across the street. Large women and shirtless men sit on their front steps. There are several corner stores with dilapidated store fronts; a few of the buildings surrounding mine give off that certain, “your drug dealer lives here” vibe, and it is socially acceptable to light up a joint on the street corner in the middle of the day. Still illegal, but generally accepted by the neighbors.<br /><br />At first glance, it is not the most glamorous place to live. It is clear that this is a mid to low income neighborhood, and people generally live here because they can afford it- not because there is a fantastic view of the power plant or because of the 24 hour quick-e-mart on the corner (which in reality is open about 12 hours a day, at best).<br /><br />I have been living here for almost 4 months and I think I have learned a few important things. Painter’s tape is the creation of Satan, buying a dog and then buying a leather couch was admittedly not my smartest move, having more closet space does not mean I will no longer maintain a floor-drobe, it is more upsetting to break a glass once you’ve bought the set yourself, and as I mentioned before, there are two kinds of shitty people: shitty people with money, and shitty people without money.<br /><br />Before I touch on that, I really do want to make it clear that I have met some wonderful people in my building and in the houses up the street. Off the main road there are rows of side streets with small houses painted odd colors, mostly with lovely yards and little fences, and generally occupied by families and elderly couples and nice ladies who I chat with at the dog park. I’ve met a handful of people in my building and have grown quite attached to my daily talks from balcony to balcony with the three year old girl who lives next door. I get most of my writing ideas from her as she is infinitely wise. Today I met a young couple expecting their first baby next month and we exchanged numbers and have plans to meet up.<br /><br />They are all decent, hardworking people who are just trying to live their lives comfortably. Our building is very quiet and generally when I do run into people they are polite and I’ve been fortunate enough to meet some very friendly people. That being said there are a couple shifty douchebags and if you look out the front of my building around midnight you can spot the hookers working the main drag. But who doesn’t like the odd hooker now and then?<br /><br />Yes, there are some questionable characters on my block. But I think there are questionable characters everywhere. When we first see someone, we make judgments. Don’t say that you don’t because you do. You take into account a person’s dress, their hygiene, their general appearance. You recognize the way they speak, their grammar, their tone and their body language. We immediately form an opinion of someone just from looking at them, from speaking to them, and from listening to them.<br /><br />How valid are our first impressions? How do I know that someone who speaks perfectly and is dressed perfectly and drives the right car and lives in the right house isn’t the notorious “South End Stalker”? Dude breaks into apartments in the South End of Halifax and stares at girls while they sleep. Creepy as fuck, right? My theory is that it is unlikely that one of my neighbors hauls ass from the North End of Dartmouth just to watch a bunch of university chicks sleep. It’s probably some button down, father of three in a Lexus SUV having a mid life crisis or some varsity football player who has tired of the bar stars and needs a new way to get some kicks.<br /><br />Just because someone has money doesn’t mean they’re not a shitty person. And I don’t mean like, shitty as in they yell at their kids and drive a Hummer. I mean shitty as in they’re stalkers or drug dealers or rapists or thieves or they watch Grey’s Anatomy. They do shitty things that hurt other people. Rich shitty people are probably the people that pick up the hookers on my block. So why does my neighborhood get the bad rap?<br /><br />Why just today some shirtless men on their front porch drinking beer complimented my dog and were very friendly. I don’t think that’s shitty at all. Maybe they smoke drugs. Maybe they are on social assistance. Maybe they are lazy bastards living off the system who have sex with hookers and steal stereos off the back of trucks. Or maybe, they’re just two dudes who were hot on a Saturday afternoon and wanted to have a beer and watch some people walk by in their neighborhood. I’ll probably never know, and neither will you.<br /><br />So yes, there may be shitty people in my neighborhood (those would be the shitty people with no money), but I’m betting there are also shitty people in my old neighborhood (shitty people with money). The point of all this, is that I am tired of defending my building and my neighborhood to every small-minded half wit who scrunches up their faces and says, “Oh, you moved to Dartmouth?” Shut up. There are nice people here, and there are shitty people here – just like your neighborhood. Just like every neighborhood on the planet. Go ahead and make your assumptions about people, but bear in mind that people are doing the same to you- good or bad, no matter where you live, no matter how much money you have.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-24862441219615797042010-07-22T14:50:00.001-07:002010-07-24T18:29:54.842-07:00The Joy of Pug<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq7IbyCuxjqA1v0dPoNFua2jpfWsBRas9fSxLurEbsxaoYf8CM227lF0rm9-1zueqGSPI59YBolREctk6TC0p8RcEgA0tI-8RoDtCHGdE_65o_rTJvbuiXSY7aFm4PAvqXpStiShBo2K5n/s1600/Jay+and+Megan.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 197px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497649889443692002" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq7IbyCuxjqA1v0dPoNFua2jpfWsBRas9fSxLurEbsxaoYf8CM227lF0rm9-1zueqGSPI59YBolREctk6TC0p8RcEgA0tI-8RoDtCHGdE_65o_rTJvbuiXSY7aFm4PAvqXpStiShBo2K5n/s200/Jay+and+Megan.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I adopted my pug Jay on September 28, 2009, and it was the best decision I ever made. I have always been a dog person, and I remember when I moved to the South End of Halifax just the month before, walking through Point Pleasant Park and being so jealous of all the dog owners exploring the park and playing with their dogs.<br /><br />The moment I saw him I knew he was going to be mine. He has the sweetest face and disposition, and despite an appetite that can never be satisfied, I dare say he is perfection. I love taking him all over the city, to different parks, to different walking trails. I love when he sits with me watching tv at night, I love how he takes over my bed and by morning this little animal is sprawled out in the middle of the bed and I am awkwardly scrunched into one corner.<br /><br />Once I came home from work and he had gotten into a garbage bag that had been left on the kitchen floor, and he had licked coffee grounds into the linolium. I don't live there anymore but I have it on good authority that you can still see little brown specs in that kitchen.<br /><br />For his 6th birthday I got him a cake from the Three Dog Bakery, and as he tore into it, he looked up at me intermittedly with gobs of brown icing all over his mouth, in his eyebrows, and on his ears. It was the only time I couldn't get him still enough to get a picture.<br /><br />For father's day I got my dad a "garden pug". My parents love Jay so much, and refer to him as the "grand-dog". They are the only two people on the planet who spoil him more than I do. I often find my dad napping on the couch in the sun room with Jay conveniently positioning himself on dad's stomach. One weekend dad and I were walking through the garden and Jay was sitting staring at the garden pug, sniffing him curiously, confused. He sat there for some time with garden pug. Luckily that day I did get a picture.<br /><br />Last weekend I went to a cottage in Pictou to look after my cousin's kids and a few of their friends. Jay came along and we all went to the beach. I don't think I have ever seen Jay so excited. He darted all over the beach from trail to shoreline and splashed in the small pond and river running into the ocean. He would paddle his little body for a few seconds then run into the sand and sneeze and roll and chase a helpless child. It was awesome.<br /><br />We came home that night and I thought I saw something in his poop. I tried to think of a nicer way to describe this scenario but I can't, so if poop offends you, stop reading now. It almost looked like a little white fleck, and I didn't think much of it until I saw another one the next morning again, so called the vet and made an appointment. I googled "poop worms" for several hours that night, and freaked myself out about what he could have eaten at the beach or something he picked up in the grass. We got to the vet and then ran some tests and charged me $170 to tell me it wasn't worms and he was fine.<br /><br />That night he pooped out a wrapper. It was white and had letters on it but I couldn't make out exactly what it was but I wasn't intrugued enough to research it any further. I just was thankful to know that my dog had eaten some sory of packaged food and not something with worms.<br /><br />It's funny the things you become thankful for when you acquire a mischevious food driven little dog. More than anything, I am just thankful for how much joy he has brought to my life, and how grateful I am that I get to love him so much. And to everyone who told me it was a terrible idea to get a dog- I like him more than you. And, I told you so.<br /><br />Love you Jay xo<br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><p align="left"></p></div>*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-52950635495369766162010-04-14T09:27:00.000-07:002010-04-14T09:43:50.415-07:00CalmIt isn't often that I feel like a grown up. Even in the recent things that I have done that traditionally are "adult" things to do, I never felt like an "adult". There was no switch that went off that said, "I bought a car" or "I bought a condo" therefore "I am an adult now". It didn't feel like that. I just felt like me, but doing these so called "grown up" things.<br /><br />But today I did something and all of a sudden I thought, I'm different now. I've changed now, and I feel like more of an adult because of it. I was sitting at my computer at work and decided, "I'm going to do this now, instead of this". And I did it. And it worked.<br /><br />I won't get into gory details out of respect for other parties involved, but I am in a situation with a person who I was previously a close friend of, and as a result of disagreements or misunderstandings or whatever you would like to call them, we are no longer friends, and probably will never be again, and are in an unfortunate situation which involved living arrangements, and me moving out.<br /><br />A lot of words have flown back and forth, and wherever I think I am in the right, she also thinks she is in the right. It is clear that there will be no peaceful resolve to this. In the past I would have dwelled on this, and slung petty comments, and basically told the entire world my side of the story desperate for people to take my side. It is was both parties have been doing for months. But this morning, I let it all go. It sounded like a woosh. I actually heard it. No need to get upset, no need for emotional conversations. No need to dwell on what was done and what was said.<br /><br />I almost feel like I am taking a step backwards writing about it, as if it negates the whole concept that I am not going to rest on the subject or let it affect me. But I think for my own affirmation and accountability for the future, and for the fact that I have contributed nothing to this blog for months, which is probably not of any consequence to anyone since no one reads this, but for myself, I need to write it.<br /><br />What is the point of me harbouring all of this hate and anger and resentment? It gets no one nowhere. She is obviously very angry with me, and my initial reaction is to be angry back. To list things she has done wrong and defend my every action. There's no need. I don't need to carry all of that inside me, I need to logically deal with what's in front of me, attelpt to mutually agree what the next steps will be, and take it day by day. Soon this will be all over, and an even bigger weight will be lifted off my shoulders. Why complicate it with hate and venom and drama? I refuse. It is what it is, I can't go back, and I have to remember all of the wonderful things happening in my life right now instead of letting this whole situation consume me. No excuses, no scenes, just calm.<br /><br />I have only ever had one other falling out with someone in my life. I regret to say that this is the second. But when I think about it, I'm not even sad to lose this person in my life. That doesn't boast much for what the friendship meant. In 6 months, a year, 5 years, 10 years, this won't even be a passing thought. This situation has no value, no meaning, no nothing. So why let it upset me? Why let other people control how I feel and how I react? They can't. Only I can control that, even if I'm not in control of the situation, I control myself.<br /><br />It is my everest, and today I made it over the first plateau, and am ready to keep climbing.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-69212697741095009562009-03-08T19:44:00.000-07:002009-03-08T19:47:11.493-07:00Jelly & Keegs<p><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=172301676&ref=profile#/video/video.php?v=511317110974&subj=172301676">http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=172301676&ref=profile#/video/video.php?v=511317110974&subj=172301676</a></p><p>This is just video of Jess and I from a few summers ago... felt like throwing it up on the blog.</p><p>I don't know if anyone will be able to get to this without adding me to facebook, but it's one of my favourite things to watch. I hope everyone else has as much fun with their best friends...</p>*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-89515992352721360272009-01-19T11:09:00.000-08:002009-01-19T11:31:13.754-08:00Why me?My best friend and I play this game where we list off things that we're thankful for, that we normally wouldn't think about on a day to day basis. Like, "I'm thankful I didn't lose a leg in a boating accident", or "I'm thankful my sister wasn't born with a rare blood disease", or even simply, "I'm thankful for that ham sandwich yesterday". <br /><br />In the past it would never have occured to me that under different circumstances, yes I could have lost a leg or been born with a disease. Some people don't get to live in the conventional world of having 4 limbs and healthy babies. Some people don't even get ham sandwiches. The game started out as a way to try and one up each other, who could think of the most outrageous, unconventional thing to be thankful for. Now though, when we hang up the phone or click the little red "x" box and end our game, I am left thinking about how damn lucky I am. My problems seem small and petty. So when I ask, "why me?" it's not in the context of "why are these terrible things happening to me?", it's, "why was I chosen to have all these wonderful things in my life?". <br /><br />Why do I get to know who both of my parents are and have them live together in a warm, safe house? Why do I get to go to school and have opportunities to work and play and say whatever I want to say? Why do I get to have friends who love me for who I am? Why do I get to walk to the fridge and have what I want, when I want? Such simple things that are overlooked. Why me? Why do people all over the planet have to live in a world of poverty and hunger and disease and oppression, and I get everything they don't? Why me? <br /><br />So next time something in your life goes wrong, and you start to think, "why me?", do a 180, and really think... "why me?"<br /><br />I am thankful I can read and write.<br />I am thankful I can walk down my street at night and feel safe.<br />I am thankful I can tell my mom and dad when I need their help and I know they will be there for me.<br />I am thankful I don't spend hours of my life in hospitals.<br />I am thankful I can breathe easy.<br />I am thankful I got to take 2 stained glass art classes.<br />I am thankful I can express what I'm feeling in my own way.<br />I am thankful someone might read this.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-5827808945128483092008-10-20T17:00:00.000-07:002008-10-20T17:03:00.706-07:00Further Proof of my Genius<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5yZeFo9Umm8JS3XYtwVQMfqGd75mRyRHZayAWLki5sltzYRF3T895lEuz7EfuDEBbWjJcewZDjcCF4JIqPemXR21u-AU0Y7QJMt0mAZS6yxOcV4ro8yh8OyQtvL_fyhyK6QocVAQcFhw8/s1600-h/got+candy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5yZeFo9Umm8JS3XYtwVQMfqGd75mRyRHZayAWLki5sltzYRF3T895lEuz7EfuDEBbWjJcewZDjcCF4JIqPemXR21u-AU0Y7QJMt0mAZS6yxOcV4ro8yh8OyQtvL_fyhyK6QocVAQcFhw8/s320/got+candy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259390726772393970" /></a><br />Oh yeah, it's the 'got candy?' jack-o-lantern alongside the 'puking up candy' jack-o-latern... admit it, you wish you'd done it first.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-4524804147762670622008-10-19T12:20:00.000-07:002008-10-19T19:07:11.597-07:00Cynical, Judgemental, Single and Barren at twenty-twoLast night I had a nightmare that I got engaged. Not a dream, a nightmare. I walked into a room filled with family members and I was wearing my grandmother's ring on my left hand. I knew it meant I was engaged, that ring has been intended for me for years. I knew my family thought it was a terrible idea from their expressions. I knew I felt sick to my stomach. I felt embarassed to be engaged at only 22, and I just kept trying to explain to my cousins and aunts and uncles that he proposed in public and I felt like I couldn't say no. I don't know who my fiance was, I don't know the circumstances of the relationship, but I do know, the last thing in the world I wanted, was to be engaged- and I was. <br /><br />This threw me a litte.<br /><br />I have always known what I want in my life. Very clearly. I know that I have a detailed 5 year career plan very plainly laid out and I am already working very hard to make it a reality. My priority has always been my career and where I want to put myself in life as an independent and successful woman.<br /><br />I know that I will always put a relationship second until I have accomplished those goals. I am not one of those girls who cries wishing they had a boyfriend, longing for the fairytale of a handsome man to rescue me. I don't need to be rescued from anything, and even if I did I wouldn't need a man to help me do it. If I eventually find someone who loves me enough to put up with my bullshit for the rest of their life than that's just fine by me.<br /><br />If people want to get married when they're young, they have that right. Personally, I think I would be devestated. My twenties are for me and I will take every opportunity to experience new things and achieve my goals and no relationship is going to hinder that. No apologies, that is just how I feel. Maybe some girls can have it all- the career, the relationship, the drive, but I can't. I know myself and I know I can only focus on one thing right now, and I'm okay with that. This is not to say that if someone came along who I felt I had a connection with I would avoid a relationship. I'm just saying that they would have to understand that I have a very clear plan for myself and they may not fit into it the way they want to.<br /><br />Though I can't help but have some troubling thoughts lingering at the back of my mind... have I gotten myself so into the mindset of career-first, relationship-later that I am blinding myself to opportunities in my personal life? I woke up in cold sweats after an imaginary engagement... what if I never pull myself out of my career-first, relationship-later way of living I have decided to have in my twenties? Lately I feel as though I have been thrust back into the fifties. I keep hearing about girls I know who are my age getting married, having babies and playing house. I'm sorry if this is socially unacceptable to say but if I were married with kids right now I would wake up and vomit every morning. <br /><br />Not to say that eventually I would not love to have all those things, a domestic life so to speak, but I feel like in this day and age we as females are given opportunities we should be taking advantage of to move ourselves ahead even more into equality. But where do I stop living for myself and living for someone else? For someone who thinks she doesn't want a relationship I spend an awful lot of time thinking about them- about how I don't need one- but thinking about them nonetheless.<br /><br />What I don't understand is what would possess a woman to give up her twenties, a time of freedom and expression and independence, to be tied down to somebody? To give so much of herself to a relationship when she could be seeing so many amazing things? Maybe there is more of a balance than I think. Maybe I am cynical. Maybe, just maybe, I have become so focused on driving my goals that I have forgotten what it is I thought I wanted when I was five: to get married and have babies. <br /><br />But I'm not five anymore, and I have seen too much to forget my place in this world. I am privledged, and I'm going to take advantage of the rights I have to work and be educated and independent that I know so many women in this world still don't have. I think what is really bothering me, what is really pissing me off, is that I'm twenty-two, I'm motherfucking twenty-two, and I am forced to worried about this bullshit. If I don't want to get married and have kids until I'm thirty than that is completely my perogitive. So why do I find myself judging people for choosing the lifestyle so different from mine, which is completely their perogitive? Now I am cynical, judgemental, single and barren. At twenty-two. <br /><br />So as I sit in my heated home with running water and food in the cupboards, knowing I have health coverage and the right to vote, the right to speak my mind, the right to an education, the right to choose what I want for myself, I can't help but cast a judgemental eye on the same women who have all this but merely get married and have babies. Am I a bad person? Am I an enlightened person? Am I simply shortsighted? For someone who has declared with authority her place in this world, I am suddenly feeling very lost.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-66135213077516971522008-10-16T15:06:00.001-07:002008-10-16T15:18:11.759-07:00Any takers?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3kcGv31iuqipz4zfDnjwM6jPZo2HkXljupu2QXDUkFq41Af6MRozY8py4YsiWH24xa4_MtOKWvsaFlunVdB_jfTcxs3jpfHqk86O3OXnzCBcl3yU_MYixR-O2xzG0x5k73FWbDk90V5Z/s1600-h/Bottega+Veneta+Lizard+Clutch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3kcGv31iuqipz4zfDnjwM6jPZo2HkXljupu2QXDUkFq41Af6MRozY8py4YsiWH24xa4_MtOKWvsaFlunVdB_jfTcxs3jpfHqk86O3OXnzCBcl3yU_MYixR-O2xzG0x5k73FWbDk90V5Z/s320/Bottega+Veneta+Lizard+Clutch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257876784414054786" /></a><br />Since no one offered to buy me that last purse, I'm very kindly offering to let someone buy me this one. I know, I'm that nice.<br /><br />by the way my mailing address is<br />68 Stayner Dr<br />Waverley NS<br />B2R 1C2<br /><br />just in case.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-59264446763241029242008-10-06T13:15:00.000-07:002008-10-06T13:17:03.874-07:00Perfection<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidNAUjm1PrWJRUx-1EUcDOjniaGpmxgyLDKX2EnK4rMUGYLQWpdMrcoLvmAlaL1Phqs9pDVEsED0EEfZQanIYnhBLMbtYxOP4o-dJGrlFD1DJLMI3iFIWb1J9j8WvJBCp1MQ7z5i1cDSIU/s1600-h/White+Python+Clutch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidNAUjm1PrWJRUx-1EUcDOjniaGpmxgyLDKX2EnK4rMUGYLQWpdMrcoLvmAlaL1Phqs9pDVEsED0EEfZQanIYnhBLMbtYxOP4o-dJGrlFD1DJLMI3iFIWb1J9j8WvJBCp1MQ7z5i1cDSIU/s400/White+Python+Clutch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254137506745170354" /></a><br />If anyone would like to buy me this, I would be perfectly fine with it.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-33112454399057957072008-09-15T16:11:00.000-07:002008-09-22T16:56:18.978-07:00Terrible TwentiesIt's time that new parents stop complaining about their toddlers in their "terrible twos". Yes, it's an awkward transition... you're coming into your own. You're beginning to understand that you have choices; all of a sudden learning so much so fast. It is a phase of continual questioning and discovery. Yes the "terrible twos" are a stressful time in ones life, but they've got nothing on the strange and violent behaviours of those pesky, newly independent twenty-somethings. It is the same transition period we all went through twenty years ago... a new independence, so many choices all at once, constant discovery... constant misdirection and mistakes along the way... and a few temper tantrums every once in a while. While most children have their sweet sides, they of course have that "terrible" phase, myself being no exception, but through careful examination and study, I am trying my hardest not to let myself fall into the melodrama and misunderstood anxiousness of the "Terrible Twenties".<br /><br />In conversations with other early twenty-somethings the toddler whine appears and we are reduced to nothing but crying babies... "I don't know what I'm doing with my life now...", "I wish I was back in school, it was so much easier then trying to figure out where to go from here...", "Why did I spend so much on an education? No one will hire me!...", "He said he would call and he didn't!", "She seemed to really like me but I haven't heard from her... what did I do?". It is exhausting. Many of us twenty-somethings are floating through society without a clear path or anyone to comfort us along the journey. Oh, and those twenty-somethings who came right out of university with a career (accountanting majors...) or significant others (undeserving bastards...), we either glare at with contempt or prod for information about how to achieve what they have.<br /><br />My theory, all along has been: Who the fuck cares what they have? Who cares that we're floating aimlessly, career-less and relationship-less. I think this is exactly what your twenties are for and anyone who isn't completely depressed about their life is missing out on an experience that builds character and makes for halarious facebook albums along the way. In order to keep this fresh outlook on the time of your life when you will be making the least amount of money you ever will, it is important to remember that things are going to get better, should you choose to tough it out through these early to mid twenties. In order to that, you must have goals. Today, I wrote down my goals in all areas of my life that I think are deserving.<br /><br />1. Social (Of course it's first.)<br />My goal here is clear... I've moved back in with my parents after four years of being away at University. Other then just plain staying sane, my goal is to keep in touch with my University friends. It sounds simple, but I have a feeling it will be difficult. People's lives get busy. People drift apart. I don't want that to happen with the people who were with me on my journey to becoming who I really am. So I have listed all the people I care enough about to keep in touch with and I will contact them on a regular basis. And yes, I cut people who I have recently realized weren't all that great. Mostly because I never saw them sober. So maybe they were, but I'll never know.<br /><br />2. Physical<br />I got a trainer in June. I am going to keep working with her twice a week and keep going to the gym three times a week solo. I actually enjoy it, so I'm thinking I can keep up with it. It's not the excersize part that's hard for me, it's the not eating crap food after the bar part I suck at. But I'm drinking less, so I do less drunk eating. Cutting back on drinking is the only way I can afford my trainer anyway.<br /><br />3. Spiritual<br />I don't know how spiritual this is, but I'm going to give myself more time to read Christopher Moore books. Even if it's just a chapter a night before I go to sleep. It's me time, and that suits my spirit just fine. And I'll be nicer to people. Maybe work on my road rage. I'll drive spiritually.<br /><br />4. Financial<br />This one sucks, because anyone who knows me, knows this is my biggest hurdle in life. But here's the plan: Pay off my credit card, and keep it down. Which means putting 40% of my paycheck on it until it's significantly low and then not letting it get maxed out anymore. We'll see how that goes, because honestly, I have shopping issues. Clothes call to me. As do shoes. And purses.<br /><br />5. Education<br />My dad is always buying me business books and bugging me to read them. So I'm going to. I'm going to spend my lunch hour at work reading at least 25 pages of whatever he decides to throw at me. Accomplishes many things: enlightenment, building self-confidence in business abilities, shutting up Father.<br /><br />6. Work<br />Right now I am only kind of, half in a position I would like to be in. I work for an Indie Newspaper (a very well respected one, mind you), but I am the manager of Distribution and Events. I would like to be full time events, and at a large events company. I would like to stick it out at the paper for 6 months to a year and then try to move on to a full time events position. After my best friend Jess is done her Masters in Montreal we plan to start our own company. We've already started planning, I am hoping we can get it going in 2010 or 2011. Waiting until then, which is a time we will be mentally and financially prepared to start our own company, is a pretty big challenge for me because honestly, I was never one for patience... and patience this will take.<br /><br />7. Family<br />I need to spend more time with my cousins. I love them and I don't see them enough. My cousins on my Dad's side are having "Cousin New Year's 2008 Slumber Party". I'm going to organize it. I suggested matching pajamas for all of us. The cousins in their thirties didn't really go for it. Nor did the ones in junior high. None of them did actually.<br /><br />8. Personal<br />Since this is pretty open and I have no relationships, ever... I decided to extend financial. I'm going to set aside 10% of every paycheck as a "Move the fuck out of my parent't house already" fund, and put aside 30% for my trip in Novemeber to visit Jess in Montreal. That leaves me 20% (after 40% goes to my credit card) for my "personal" life. Which includes brunches with my gay friends and drinking beer and watching football with guy friends who are undatable. Just reading this makes me feel better about my life already.<br /><br />So there are my goals. Specific, measurable, attainable, realistic... I think. I will pat myself on the back. And now that they are out there for, I would say my readers but I know generally no one sees this except for me and people who browse through pages and briefly stop and look at pictures of my attractive best friend, but nonetheless, now that my goals are out in the world I feel a sense of responsibility to achieve them. I am now being held accountable by... cyber space, I guess? How about I will just hold myself accountable. I am after all, the only one in control of my terrible twenties, and the path I have laid for myself to escape them in one piece. I hope I read this in eight years and laugh...*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-46584015967070269202008-07-29T18:24:00.000-07:002008-08-06T06:04:04.162-07:00ChangeI am terribly out of writing shape these days. With the last semester of University and graduation flying by I haven't had time to think let alone put fingers to keyboard and yet here I am. Twenty-two, back living at home, essentially without job, a moderate amount of prospects, changing my mind multiple times daily about what I want to do with the rest of my life. The rest of my life? Lord. It seems unfair to ask a twenty-two year old to make such a decision, it takes me ten minutes in the morning to pick out shoes.<br /><br />What is it about our society that makes everything into such a big rush? It's such a big production these days. To get what you want you must be the best. Have the best degree, with the best transcript, the best list of extracurriculars, the best attitude, the best plan. I don't have any of those by the way. I have sort of, run-of-the-mill degree, marks, lists, attitude, plans. Maybe slightly better than that, I guess I have to give myself a little more credit. The point is, I thought it would be much easier to just start living my life after graduating. It isn't. It is competative, and it is draining. I am constantly feeling like I need to 'be' something, though I'm not sure what that is really. Better, I am expected to be better.<br /><br />I guess I could look at this two ways. Pushing myself to be better, that's very positive. Includes aspects of constant growth and self-evaluation leading to a self-appreciation. Or, I could do what comes naturally, and live in disgust with the fact that being asked to be better than everyone else is a cruel joke played on me by humanity, which has bestowed upon me a flawed character that supplies me with enough head trash to keep me constantly struggling to catch up to everyone else. Yes, decisions will be made on this subject of being better, and I am inclined to think that choosing the former would be in everyone's best interest, not just my own. Cause honestly, I'm moody.<br /><br />I've not been particularily proud of myself lately. Usually in school I could finish an assignment (then talk my way out of a late penalty), or accomplish something in a society I was a part of, and feel like I had done something constructive and worth my time. In the past months, I have become mentally exhausted: trying to sell myself to so many companies, formally begging for the opportunity to be added to payroll, explaining why I should be hired over someone who honestly, has the same level of education and training as I do. There are no victories, and the more frustrated I get, the more I begin to lack the motivation to keep on follow-ups and networking. I know that the only slight edge I will have over competition is a positive attitude, but sometimes, I would rather just tell them to piss off and then find Jess and go get some beer and quesidillas.<br /><br />I find myself wondering what kind illusions I was under in University. I felt like a grown up, I did grown up things and had grown up conversations with my friends... I think. Now, I think, I really am I grown up. I have a credit card bill with no option of calling my parents and asking for money. I have to get up in the mornings because although my classes started at noon, apparently the working world starts being productive before that. I have to talk to people in my big girl voice with my big girl vocabulary and trade in my tapered sweats for tailered trousers. Life is no longer a party. I don't live two hours from my parents, I live across the hall. I can't hang up when they're asking annoying questions, cause they are two feet from me. They talk. A lot. I don't live with seven girls anymore. I live 20 minutes driving from anyone my age. Just writing this, my ass is beginning to twitch.<br /><br />I can't feel too sorry for myself, I know how lucky I am to have an education and a place to live and the means to maintain the sort of lifestyle I am accustomed to. I am just trying to say, in a rather whiny manner, because that is how I sound these days, that I am not adapting well to change. I miss my school. I miss my friends. I miss keg parties. I miss laughing all the time. I miss the safety of being in university and knowing what was expected of me and what was coming next. And now I am just floating. Alone.<br /><br />I want to go to the SPCA and get a reject dog to be my friend. It's forbidden though, cause I live with my parents. I would have named him Remington Steele.<br /><br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BqYruggWui4*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-10411118186336216912008-07-28T15:06:00.002-07:002008-07-28T15:07:00.316-07:00Significant ObjectsI came home one night to an empty desk and my heart sank. Only now do I realize that ‘significant objects’ seems like an odd pairing, almost and oxymoron. Sometimes you might think an object is significant until all of a sudden it’s gone and you’re left with only the memory of it. The memory of the computer taken from your room two weeks ago by someone you’ve never met. Someone with no concern for the fact that the item they stole held many of these supposed ‘significant objects’. Someone who will never know that their selfish and juvenile act may in fact turn out to be a gift to their victim, whose eyes were opened to the world upon discovering her possession was missing.<br /><br />Two weeks ago I would have addressed this question with an irritating confidence and declared that a museum holding my most significant objects would contain my photographs. I get so easily attached to people, places and times that I know will eventually slip through my hands that I inherently bring my camera everywhere, imprisoning every expression and scene in the small, silver holding cell. After obsessively organizing my memories onto my laptop I spend hours deciding which ones to frame and which ones to safely store in my computer for future nostalgic reminiscing.<br /><br />Then one night, four years of people, places and times were stolen. Four thousand expressions and scenes were whisked away from my dark, empty house. My personal museum taken right out from underneath me. The computer, replaceable… its contents of significant objects- lost forever.<br /><br />Between trips to the police station and trying to forge through my fourth year of University lacking the papers and assignments also lost, there have been times when I found myself in a daze, sitting on my bed staring at walls covered with those images printed before the robbery. A sunny day, sitting on hay bales with my sister in the field by our cottage. Laughing, icing-covered faces of my childhood friends after a spontaneous cake fight. Classmates graduated and moved on, suddenly older and wiser than in the images before me. Roommates who I can hear stirring through the thin walls of our nineteenth century house.<br /><br />Then it finally dawns on me. Objects aren’t significant. The images of friends and family on my computer and my walls aren’t significant. These people are significant. The times I spent with these people are significant. The relationships I have with these people are significant. A picture on my computer doesn’t hug back and I can’t confide in a matte or glossy print. I didn’t lose any of these people when I lost the pictures of them.<br /><br />So I present to you my museum, an empty room. Filled with nothing, because no object I own is significant enough to put on display. No material thing in my possession is significant enough to show what really matters: the people I love, and the memories of them, safely stored in my head.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-69821904431045655812008-07-28T15:06:00.001-07:002008-07-28T15:06:36.051-07:00SeptemberEvery September, the wind that left with the arrival of the muggy summer comes back with a vengeance as the students return. The dead air of the summer is hot and humid, and the quiet melting streets of August become chaotic and cool with the heavy steps of the returning undergrads. September creeps up with angry gusts blowing so hard that our summer clothes are covered with sweaters and coats, as if this small town knows that for the next eight months it will have no peace. It doesn’t matter how strong the winds are, or how difficult a time it makes for the students to walk to class comfortably… they will not leave. They will stay as they do every year, and despite their complaints of the same bars and the same mall, the same small town gossip and the same rules to break, they cannot abandon it here.<br /><br />After busy months of papers and finals, the summer arrives and they happily escape for four months. Taking their belongings but leaving pieces of themselves here. They leave them here because it is safe. Not safe from caddy girls or deceitful boys or unreasonable professors. Not safe from the pressures of classes and grades, not safe from the stress of tuition and loans. Not even safe from the pressure to conform, to judge, to pry. But safe from the real world.<br /><br />Safe from true independence and from the inevitability of what our lives will be. Safe in the sense that it is all familiar, whether we like it or not. Whether we like the people we see on campus or the places we must pass everyday, there is safety, and maybe even comfort, in this familiarity. Safety in the predictability of it all. Safe because we know it here so well, because this is the first place our lives became really ours. Our decision to go to class. Our decision to sleep through the alarm. Our decision to drag ourselves to the pub. Our decision to make friends or enemies, our mistakes. Our triumphs and victories, our tragedies and failures. Our darkest nights and our happiest days were all here. So it is our town. It holds our memories and keeps them for us until we return.<br /><br />The wind will blow for months. Eagerly blustering in hopes that it will slow us down. It will squall until the spring comes and it realizes that we aren’t capable of being calmed. The winds will eventually become still with the new season, as if all along, deep down, this town of ours knew how we really felt about it. Beneath the hurtful words of the students about the banality of this place, our complaints and dramatized speeches of its ordinariness, our town knows how we hold it in great esteem. After the broken bottles on its grounds and our drunken footprints on its grasses, it knows the simplicity of our love for it.<br /><br />It is as if this town knows that it holds our dearest friends and the admired establishment where our knowledge blossomed. It knows when our time has passed we will look back fondly and smile, knowing that it was our time. Before we hand this place over to a new crop of naïve freshmen who will make it their own, it is our time. It is when we are truly entitled to call it ours, so we must make the most of it. This is where we become who we are, where we learn how to leap out of the safety of its quaintness, and into the reality of the world. Out of the bubble of Antigonish and into the unknown. We have leaned on this school for years, all the while without us knowing, it has taught us to stand upright on our own.<br /><br />So every summer when the students leave the wind in the town ceases, its Jekyll-like serenity reappearing. It grasps tightly onto the lingering memories of the students who love this place so much, despite their grumblings. Until the Autumn season approaches, and our beloved town becomes enraged once more with the thought of the mayhem that comes with September, and the winds of Hyde blow strong through the streets, lasting until it can forget the disorder we have caused.<br /><br />It is a cyclical ritual, only truly known by those who are fortunate enough to nomadically live here. A gift given to us by this town that is hard to explain and not easily shared with outsiders, as they can never understand the beauty and intricacies of this small town and its quirks. It is a gift that will be carried within every student for the rest of our lives, that will put a sly smile on our face, because we know something that everyone else doesn’t. This gift will be not only the X’s on our fingers, but the warmth in our hearts that can only come from this place, knowing that even when it is no longer our time, it will still be home.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-14877976111519827672008-07-28T15:05:00.004-07:002008-07-28T15:06:07.711-07:00Twenty-OneThere is a sort of calmness that arrived with my 21st birthday that I did not expect. It is a milestone that for many young adults brings erratic excitement. Along with the responsibility of moving further into your twenties, the birthday brings also opportunity, privilege and freedom. I kind of thought I would be freaking out… feeling as if I was getting old and wishing I could stop time right where it is and be twenty and care free forever. I didn’t though. I was totally calm all day, despite recent events that previously would have caused me to react otherwise. It’s funny because a few weeks ago I had a conversation with someone about how I wished I could stay this age forever. It would be so easy, to be in school where it is safe and predictable… to not have to worry about where I’ll be in ten years.<br /><br />It makes me think of where I was a year ago. I know exactly where I was. I was having brunch with my parents and my sister, on the verge of tears, because I felt lost and misunderstood and as if I failed at everything. I hated my birthday and I hated where I was in my life. It is amazing to me to think that in only a year I have come so far. So far that now someone I love is feeling this way, and the old me would have broken down with them. The old me would have lost composure, would have needed to be consoled and comforted. The old me would have been a victim, someone who was pitied.<br /><br />That was the old me though. Now I am just me. Not the new me, there is no “new me”. Now I’m just the me that was always inside, who couldn’t step up and face reality, who never had the courage to shine through. I no longer have to be the one who depends on everyone else to get through. I can be the rock. I can be the consistency. I can be the strength for the people I love who have been there for me so many times. This person that I love has hit their rock bottom, just as I did. I will be all of those things for them until they can go through what I went through… the lows, the sleepless nights, the tears and frustration, the constant feeling of hopelessness, the complete and utter desperation. They will go through every rotten feeling before they realize that they have a choice.<br /><br />They can choose to feel like shit. They can choose to feel sorry for themselves, to waste days and time wishing that things were different. They can choose to do those things, or they can actually do something constructive. They can choose optimism. They can choose independence. They can choose happiness. They can wake up and see the light. I felt like I was in darkness for so long… and every corner I turned I made a discovery or a friend or a mistake that made my path a little brighter, until finally one day I woke up and saw everything so clearly. A light turned on, and I realized that everything is not about me. Once I learned that, I could finally be me… really be me. A happy me. A happy me that made other people happy, because that’s what life is really about, bringing happiness to the people you love the most. When those people are happy, so am I.<br /><br />I feel like today was my day. They day everything finally made sense. The day I finally made sense to myself. And that’s really all that matters… that you understand what you want and who you are and where you’re going. Nobody else has to know because nobody else can make your choices for you. Nobody can tell you to be happy; it has to come from the desire within yourself. To do that, you have to learn to love yourself. Good and bad, all or nothing… every habitual downfall and imperfection. Love yourself, and other people will have a much easier time loving you. Trust me, I have much experience with it.<br /><br />There is somebody who means the entire world to me right now who is in the position I was in a year ago. When I think about how I got to where I am, I have to give myself credit, because it was a journey I carried myself through, and now I am so much stronger for it. It was also the people along my journey though, who stood by my side, who encouraged me to take one more step, who lightened my load, who never left my side. Those are the people I cherish the most. They made me strong, and now I can be strong for them, and that is the best feeling in the world.<br /><br />Us ‘Rock-Bottomers’ are a special breed. We must try the most. We must push the hardest. We must yell the loudest. We must fall so hard that we feel like we could never pick ourselves up again. We must hurt the people we care about the most. We must break our own hearts until we feel so undeserving of love that we push everyone away. We must be so confused that we don’t know which way is up. We must deny until we cannot deny it anymore. We hit our rock bottom, and everybody sees.<br /><br />But we Rock-Bottomers are the lucky ones. We are lucky because just as everybody sees us hit that bottom, everybody sees us get up again. Everybody sees that we overdid, and pushed, and yelled and fell. We denied, and were broken and were lost… and then we found the courage. The courage to own up to everything, and to come through it. We looked around and found our way up. We didn’t stay at the bottom, despite our doubts and fears and embarrassment. We are lucky because everybody sees that in the end, the bottom made us stronger, because our journey back up to the top was so much longer. We are lucky because on our long journey, we learn what truly matters.<br /><br />Hitting my rock bottom was the best thing that ever happened to me, because it made me who I am today. And now I know that no matter where you are on your journey, in the pitch black or in a fog… there is light. There is a way up from the bottom, a way to escape from what you thought you never could. There is hope, even when you feel like there isn’t any. There is a light at the end of your journey if you choose to believe you will find one, and you will, because it comes from inside of yourself. And you cannot escape from yourself, you can only accept yourself. I did, and even on today, my 21st birthday, with the clouds in the sky and the raindrops falling; it was the sunniest day of my whole life.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-79779164395302108942008-07-28T15:05:00.003-07:002008-08-06T06:13:33.182-07:00SpeechlessSo my sister is mad at me right now because I don't say enough, and my best friend is mad at me because I say too much. So whether I'm not calling enough or talking about things when I shouldn't, it's my mouth that has been getting me in trouble lately, and of course by lately, I mean my entire life. I think pissing people off is just an art form for some people... like, how many ways are there to disappoint the people you care about the most in one lifetime? And that's always it; it's always the people you care about the most that you hurt the most, for me anyways. God forbid you should be insensitive to the pizza delivery guy or fuck up your plumber's life, no. You hurt the people you love the most. The people you confide in, the people you would do anything for. Yet somehow, for many like me, when the time comes to pick up the phone or just plain shut the hole in your face there's that missing connection in your brain that says, "Call your sister" or "inappropriate... shut the fuck up." For all the talking I do, I sure don't do a whole lot of thinking.<br /><br />Why is it that when you're in a fight with someone they are the exact person who you want to call to ask what to do? You go to pick up the phone or type a message and realize that they're the ones you need to talk about? They're the ones you need help with to figure out how to make it right? It's fucking depressing. When they're mad at you there's this constant knot in your stomach and you know there is nothing you can do about it except try to go to sleep and pray that tomorrow they've cooled off. You lie in bed terrified of the next time you talk to them... or terrified that they're mad enough to not talk to you for God knows how long. Terrified of the consequences of your carelessness. And you don't know how to act, and you don't know what to say. After all the talking that got you in trouble, you're speechless.<br /><br />It's funny what we become afraid of as we get older. My biggest fears are not heights or needles or performing in front of crowds. I eagerly jumped out of a plane last summer without hesitation. Last week I let someone shoot a metal pin through my nose without flinching and I have been in my prime as the centre of attention since I was 3 years old. What I’m actually most afraid of losing people. More than gravy. Even more so now that I've experienced it as an adult. I'm not talking about death, though that is a fear; I'm talking about losing friends. Something about death just seems more natural, like it is something that is intended for all of us... no matter how sad or unexpected, it is an actuality that no one escapes.<br /><br />To me losing friends seems unnatural. Like there shouldn't be anything so great that it means you stop being close with someone, that you just give up on someone, or let someone go. But there is... there are things that happen that mean that we lose people forever. Those are the things that scare me. The uncertainty scares me. Where are the lines drawn that say what constitutes the loss of a friendship? How much do you have to hurt someone for them to lose their trust and confidence in you? Why do some of us seem to cross those lines more than others? What is it about us select few, that we cannot make the connection between right and wrong? Where is that little voice in our heads that whispers, “Danger… not good… hurting people in progress…”? I have no such voice. At the time it is always unintentional... but nothing you can do makes up for lost intentions. Nothing you can say can make up for having said too much, or too little, or for doing something hurtful, or for letting someone down.<br /><br />The worst part isn't even how awful I feel right now. It's knowing that they feel awful, and it's my fault. It's knowing that the people I hate to see sad, or angry, or disappointed, are sitting at home feeling that way because of me. Whether it is hours later, or days later, or months later. And there you have it. Nothing left to say. All of a sudden everything on my mind is out. Another public confessional… bordering pathetic, crossing into pitiable territory, though I don’t deserve it. Yet again, feeling no better, and feeling every inch of justified guilt. The motor mouth, the tactless, the queen of foot-in-mouth, the girl who’s every report card politely asked her to shut up, the unimaginably verbose- speechless. How she should have been all along. The saddest part is that it no longer shocks people; I actually don’t think it ever did.<br /><br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oV-vA50oJSM*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-21227319398905510972008-07-28T15:05:00.001-07:002008-07-28T15:05:16.843-07:00CryingSo it’s midnight and I’m crying. I don’t know if it’s a girl thing or a period thing, or the fact that I just caught the last few minutes of Forrest Gump but there they are, the tears. It’s not uncommon for this to happen, especially when I know that I have to be up early in the morning. The lights go out and the TV goes off, and there I am alone in the dark with nothing to do but think about everything that currently sucks. Last year was a big year for crying, but it also was the year I marked as when I really found myself, so there must be some relation there. I lost a lot of people… and a beloved dog, who I still find myself crying over frequently. I lost my grandmother, who I see more and more of in myself everyday, which scares me sometimes because she was basically senile. I lost a few friends, which ended up being the worst loss of all I think. I take responsibility for this, but that was never the hard part. I never had trouble owning up to the mess I made, but I still have trouble dealing with the consequences. I have trouble knowing that I let someone down and there’s nothing I can do about it. I have trouble trying to get myself to stop thinking about it all the time, and with how much my heart hurts, because I still love them.<br /><br />I once wrote a piece about my dad, about how different we are, about how differently we react when it comes to people and relationships. It didn’t quite get the response from him I would have hoped; he was angry and defensive. Actually I think he was hurt by it, which is something that still bothers me everyday. His reaction hurt me. I told him my truth, and how I felt about our relationship. Heart on a platter, honesty never before seen… backfire. It wasn’t supposed to be about what I observed or what I assumed or portrayed him as because in the end I could be wrong about all that. What I wanted him to see was how I felt. How much I wished we had an understanding about us, between us. I wanted him to see how I had seen him my whole life, and I wanted him to prove me wrong. I wanted him to say that despite appearances, he really did understand me, or that he wanted to try to understand me.<br /><br />He didn’t say those things though, and I spent months thinking that that wasn’t good enough. I spent nights like this, crying, and wishing that by some miracle someday I would hear what I wanted to hear. Lately though, I can feel him changing his mannerisms around me. Not all the time, mostly things are the same as they have always been. Sometimes I think though, maybe he’s silently making an effort to do what I wanted him to say. I’ll never really know, but if he is, that’s beyond good enough for me, it’s my miracle. I'm still waiting for my other miracles to come. I don’t know if I deserve them, but I can only hope that I can see them if they do.<br /><br />On nights like this I’m afraid my roommates will hear my sobs and nose-blowing through the thin walls of our nineteenth century farm house. My worst fear is for one of them to knock on the door and say something supportive and ask if I’m ok. I’m like a dog that crawls into the woods to die alone. I must write alone, and right now I must cry alone. I don’t want to be pitied; I just want to be in control. I want to be left with some dignity in my state of vulnerability.<br /><br />As I read over what I just wrote a light goes off in my head about what to continue on with, and the crying stops. I immediately go from helpless to fearless in two minutes time.<br /><br />There is one thing I refuse to cry over tonight, perhaps because I am too pissed off to cry. Tonight, this entire column will be dedicated to an unnamed English professor whom three days ago pissed me off in a way no human being has ever done before. Without ever reading anything I have ever written, without ever observing me in a class, without so much as holding a substantial five minute conversation with me, this professor has insulted my intelligence by sending the following email, in response to a request to switch into one of their English classes for the semester:<br /><br />“Megan,<br />The course is full and has been for some time. Besides I am not sure that you would enjoy the course or find it tolerable, given that it is entirely about theory; it is more about the philosophy of literature and not literature itself. Not easy to read. Sorry I could not be of more help."<br /><br />No doubt he looked at my less that impressive transcript from my first two years here at X which might as well just have “Reformed irresponsible drunk" stamped across the fucking thing, but you can take what you like from that email. If somebody reads it and finds an innocent denial of admission to a class with no hint of insult or injury, please correct my initial reactions. I however read this rejection as the following:<br /><br />‘Megan,<br />Even though I have only a vague recollection of who you are and am unaware of any of your intentions for your path in life, you are far too stupid to be in this class. A third year English major such as yourself could not possibly handle the philosophy behind literature, considering that’s what you’ve been learning and searching for in almost every other English class of your university career. Having never taught you before, I feel as though I am well qualified to assess your capabilities of handling a challenging class in addition to your will and desire to do so. My apologies for be arrogant, haughty, and assuming."<br /><br />It’s like when people say something awful or inappropriate to you but their delivery is so nice that you can’t say anything about it. They say it so kindly that their ridiculous request or preposterous comment leaves you with nothing to say but, “Yeah sure, sounds good." But after the initial shock and outrage of receiving such a message where a simple, ‘sorry the class is full’, would have been sufficient, there was no way anyone was getting a “Yeah sure, sounds good" out of me. I responded accordingly and sent the following email:<br /><br />“Professor",<br />While I appreciate your concern for my scholastic abilities, perhaps you should not assume to know what I would or would not enjoy. I look forward to entering the class next year before it is full.<br />Thank you for your consideration,<br />Megan MacKeigan<br /><br />If that professor thinks for one second that I won’t get into that class next year purely to spite them, then they really don’t know me. The upside I suppose is that I will be so motivated to do well in that class and make them eat their words I may very well produce some of my finest work. Perhaps this is a new angle professors can follow: insult students to increase productivity. The point is though; I wanted to be in that class because I was interested in learning what it had to offer. I wanted to be in that class because I have become a student who cares about what they’re learning about, and that has been a major step for me. I wanted to be in that class because I thought it would help contribute to what I am producing and accomplishing as a writer (which by the way is more than these angst ridden diatribes about life and society).<br /><br />I worked harder last semester than any other semester I have been here. I am by no means a model student, and I have a long way to go to catch up to the numbers that my colleagues have previously produced. But for the first time in my life I have found something that I’m passionate about. I’ve found something that I truly grasp and embrace and love. I’m sorry, and I mean no disrespect, but I have never been so unimpressed and disgusted at the words of a person who is supposed to be guiding me in the subject I have chosen to be my life’s work. This is a person who is supposed to inspire me to set goals and reach achievements and challenge myself in a field that I find interesting and meaningful. This is a person, whose salary is paid by my tuition, and I’m sorry but I don’t pay ridiculous amounts of money to be told that I’m not capable of learning what this professor has to teach.<br /><br />The conclusion I have come to tonight, is that whether I’m disappointing those close to me or disappointing someone who hasn’t even given me a chance to disappoint them, I must never be disappointed with myself. Anger, regret, heartache, and sheer stupidity… those things I can handle living inside me and about me. But the minute I allow feelings of disappointment myself, that’s when I lose my belief in myself. When nobody else believes in you, you can always believe in yourself. Believe that you can get past being angry with what you’ve done, believe that you can go on living with regret, believe that eventually your heart will stop hurting, and believe that no matter how much you screw up, you’re not what everyone says you are. I can’t be disappointed with myself when I know, that when the tears stop, I will pick myself up, and keep on going. It’s what we all do everyday.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-38985244498261200632008-07-28T15:04:00.003-07:002008-07-28T15:04:54.595-07:00JourneysI really should be sleeping. After seven hours sitting uncomfortably on a bus with a severe case of nausea and an aching tailbone, nothing seems more sensible than to lie down and revel in a state of blissful unconsciousness. Have you ever been so physically uncomfortable in a situation that you can’t imagine your body ever feeling pleasant again? Then when you finally reach a state of comfort, it seems surreal that you were ever uncomfortable? Like it was all an out of body experience, and that maybe you were just watching yourself from outside of your body from the extremely satisfying and contented location that you currently hold? That’s how I feel right now- like the seven hours of hell was all just a bad dream. I also feel that I could float off to dreamland at any moment, but of course, after seven hours with nothing to do but sit and think I could not possibly go to sleep without properly documenting every thought and experience I’ve had during the last three days. It is against all my better judgment as a writer to do what seems logical rather than to write. So I write.<br /><br />Now that I’m safe and warm in my bed, listening to my parents laugh at Jay Leno and flip through every commercial with the exception of the Canadian heritage commercials, I am thankful for the chance to finally be able to quietly reflect on the events that have taken place over the last 72 hours of my life- the first of 2007. It started when I decided to make the trek to Cape Breton to spend New Year’s with Shauna. I think I ruined my whole weekend before I even arrived, having such high expectations for the New Years celebrations we had planned. On the bus ride up, I squirmed in my seat trying to reach some level of ease though failing miserably. My fall down a flight of stairs three weeks earlier now meant that sitting for more than an hour made my tailbone feel as though it were going to violently shoot out my ass and then eat my body. It’s not a pleasant feeling. I started to question my decision to travel by bus almost immediately.<br /><br />We put ourselves in awkward positions and situations with the expectation or hope that our destination will be worth the troubles and sacrifice along the way. It is all part of the human condition. To have faith, to believe, that by enduring tough times and rough patches, we will be rewarded in the future. That by taking a shitty bus ride to Cape Breton, the parties and celebrations will outweigh the crappiness that was the voyage to get there. But what if you get to the end of the rainbow, and instead of a pot of gold, there’s only Sydney?<br /><br />I arrived at dinnertime and after trudging off the bus with my oversized purse in tow I waited in the endless lineup for my over-packed duffle bag clearly indicating my affection for Molson Canadian. I felt the embrace of a little gremlin from behind and knew immediately it was the Caper roommate I had traveled to meet. There’s something about the accent of a Caper that automatically makes me smile, especially Shauna’s. It doesn’t matter what she says, it just makes me laugh. We got into her friend’s cousin’s car and I got my first look at what Shauna likes to call the Cape Breton ghetto. The thing I love the most about the Cape Breton folk, is that when they talk about people it’s always somebody’s aunt, or somebody’s cousin, or somebody’s neighbor… or somebody’s dealer. Anytime they see someone skinny they tell me they’re on the Cape Breton diet, which consists of booze and cocaine… charming. But nonetheless, Cape Breton seemed to have a small town appeal about it that made the sharp cold and dreary weather that much more pleasant.<br /><br />After a few stops to cousin’s and friend’s houses, we arrived at Shauna’s and immediately started to prepare for the evening ahead. Even after I messed with my over processed curls and plastered on an obscene amount of makeup, I still did not feel like I was ready to go out. I hated how I looked, I hated what I had on, and I hated that I felt like a needed to get drunk in order to have fun and to forget that I hated those things. It is amazing to me how an entire night can be ruined by ones own lack of confidence and extreme self consciousness. On a much larger scale, it was an indication to myself that my journey to really being comfortable with who I am was not yet finished, no matter how far I feel like I’ve come in the last years of my life.<br /><br />But back to the story at hand, after stops at friend’s houses, we reached our pre-drinking destination. Immediately there was a tension in the room, another contribution to my disastrous night of epic proportions. Through no fault of her own, someone’s presence made me feel incredibly awkward. Through random connections I found myself in a room with the roommate of someone who clearly despises me, thanks to that past of mine that always seems to find me in one way or another. Luckily, she was seriously friendly, and I over compensated my awkwardness by being loud and obnoxious and laughing at everything everyone said or did. I hate being that person who makes others uncomfortable; as I’m sure it was awkward for her too. She had always seemed very nice to me though and not surprisingly she made it very easy for us to be in each other’s presence. I think that a demeanor such as that says a lot about a person and the journey that they are on in life; when they make a conscience effort to be pleasant and make the best of a situation when they really don’t have to.<br /><br />No matter how pleasant she was, I still felt like I was the elephant in the room, in more ways than one, and for some reason my alcohol choice of beer, coolers and tequila was not making me feel any better about the situation. Nonetheless, I tried to have as much fun as I could and by the time we left for the Curling Club I was in a moderately good mood. When we arrived I couldn’t help but smile at the how stereotypical this party was. A hall with some tables and a dance floor, some finger food and a few streamers. Just what I would have imagined a Cape Breton party to look like: two hundred Cape Breton twenty- something’s who cared about nothing except the fact that there was a DJ and a bar, which we headed straight for. Only moments earlier I had put mine and Shauna’s coat in the coat room, and I still have the image of the last place I saw my coat burned into my memory.<br /><br />After the countdown and a few drinks, we decided to head out to the bar that everyone was going to for the rest of the night. We walked to the coat room to find only mayhem, and no coat. I immediately had a sinking feeling, and despite Shauna’s encouraging words that “it must be in here somewhere?, I knew that it was gone forever. After flinging through people’s coats and muttering every curse word I could think of, Shauna and I finally decided to give up and leave. More than I was pissed off that I had to walk to the bar and spend the rest of the weekend with no coat, I was livid at the fact that somebody was stupid or ignorant enough to take someone else’s coat. While standing in the middle of the coat room, displeased and on the verge of tears, the always helpful and resourceful Shauna drunkenly managed to slur out the suggestion of taking someone else’s coat. I’m not going to lie, I considered it. In the end though, I would just be making someone else feel as horrible as I did at the time. Making someone else unhappy wouldn’t bring my coat back, and perhaps somewhere along my journey, karma or God or whatever anyone believes in will repay me for walking two blocks in the freezing cold with no coat yielding questions from drunken people as to why I wasn’t wearing one.<br /><br />We arrived at the bar and Shauna and I went again, straight for drinks. It didn’t matter though, by this time, I was in no mood to drink. Shauna got herself her usual and I decided to save my money and sulk instead. I was trying my best to stick it out for the night, but in all honestly all I wanted to do was go home and go to bed. I followed Shauna around for about a half an hour pouting and trying to convince myself that I was going to have fun soon. I left her for a moment and ventured to the bathroom, holding back the tears I knew I couldn’t cry in the middle of the bar on New Years. When leaving another bump in to someone who seriously dislikes me pretty much pushed me over the edge. I couldn’t handle it anymore. Between the loss of my coat and the constant reminder that I was a terrible person I made up my mind that it was time to go. Shauna walked me to the door after an argument about her coming with me, which I won. I would have just felt guilty if she had left her friends to take me home. I was perfectly capable of going alone and truthfully I preferred it. I needed to go to bed and decompress.<br /><br />I walked outside in the cold and called every cab company the operator could give me, and got only busy signals. After thirty minutes with no progress, I was freezing and desperate. I walked up to a car and knocked on the driver’s window. She and her passenger side friend looked confused but nevertheless she rolled her window down to hear what I had to say.<br />“I will pay you twenty dollars to drive me home,? I begged.<br />“Get in.?<br />I will admit this may have not been the safest move on my part but I didn’t care. It was 3 am and I was going to bed at any cost. That night we were supposed to stay at Tasha’s, but my makeshift cab driver had no idea where her street was, so I resolved to just go to Shauna’s alone for the night. We drove around looking for my destination for quite some time until I recognized Shauna’s neighbor’s Christmas lights and sobbed quietly with joy. The couple, who turned out to be very nice and talked me through my drunken breakdown, refused my money and waited until I got to the door and made sure I was in alright. I did have to ring the doorbell and wake Shauna’s mom up, but she didn’t mind and the evening was over and that’s all that mattered.<br /><br />I stayed for another two days, wearing Shauna’s mother’s coat and being overfed by everyone’s aunt and mother and friend’s friend. Hearing the Cape Breton gossip about who it was that got shot down the street and sitting in the back seat of Tasha’s car fearing for my life, as she is the only driver I know who is worse than me. Shauna and I watched a six episode Flavor of Love Marathon, and Jackass 2, which may have killed brain cells I couldn’t afford to lose. What’s done is done though, and I will always look back on my Cape Breton New Years as a tragic evening, but something I learned from.<br /><br />Maybe when it comes to journeys, the bus ride wasn’t the important one at all. Perhaps the real journey began when I arrived. It was a journey of having to learn that not everything is going to turn out the way you expected, and that loss is a part of life- whether it is only a coat or something much larger, like pride. It was about learning that if you’re going to have a shitty time; it is best had by the side of your true friends, and being thankful for them even when you’re not thankful for your night. It was about learning that you cannot run from your past, because sure enough no matter where you go you will always be reminded of it. More importantly though, it was about learning that getting to where you’re going isn’t half as important as what you do when you get there.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-29413516663242457172008-07-28T15:04:00.001-07:002008-07-28T15:04:29.279-07:00Looking BackWhen my dog Jake died in September I thought that I would never love again- a pet that is. Jake was one of those rare loves in my life who can never be replaced. He left me four months ago, and I still cry myself to sleep sometimes. When nothing was going right in my life and when I felt like I had the whole world against me, Jake had an unconditional love for me that made everything alright again. I miss him everyday. Sometimes when I have Justin’s dog Hailey for a few days I feel guilty for loving her, but I know that Jake wouldn’t mind. I don’t know if he would have liked Hailey all that much, since Jake was a pretty chill dog and Hailey is, well, completely psychotic. She has more energy than any other living thing on the planet. I don’t take her for walks, it’s more like she takes me- but we seem to manage just fine. The point is, Jake would have wanted me to be happy, and Hailey makes me happy.<br /><br />I don’t think I’m ready to leave Jake in my past yet. I’m still grieving, and that’s ok. I’m going to take my time with him, and let myself really miss him for a while longer. That’s what it’s going to take for me to accept that he’s really gone, though I’ll never stop missing him. The whole idea about grieving and moving on became very clear to me when I went downtown last night to see Gloryhound and the Seahawks play. It was a crazy night. So many people from my high school were there, some people I hadn’t seen in almost three years. Some people had not changed at all, neither in their looks nor in their demeanor. For some people that was a good thing. There are some people from high school I haven’t really kept in touch with, but that I think about sometimes. Sometimes I just take a moment to remember how funny or kind they always were. Not just to me, but to everybody. I was glad to see last night that they retained their exceptional attributes.<br /><br />I can’t speak so highly for everybody. I’m sure that not everyone was real impressed with me either, but it seemed like some people were still stuck in high school. Walking around like they knew better, like they were better. I actually felt belittled at one point. I am now a twenty year old adult, and I let the petty people from high school make me feel like I was sixteen again. I snapped out of that quick. Why do I even care what these people think? I sure as hell didn’t care about what they thought of me in high school and I am certain that I don’t care now. They don’t know me, at all. Three years is a long time to find yourself and by God, I did it. I most defiantly have gone through some major changes; I am no longer the girl that they once knew. People see what they want to see though, and some people saw me exactly as they wanted.<br /><br />What I sometimes think is paranoia, the staring and the talking, was nothing but reality last night. I’m sure word from Bedford and Antigonish travels fast to Halifax, no doubt from some class act mouth that I can’t point any finger at, being no class act myself. It most defiantly happened last night though, and it makes me laugh this morning. From the dance floor I could see the male and female in question make me their topic of conversation, not discreetly by the way. You would think after three years if they’re still going to talk about people they would have learned to be a bit more tactful. How funny it is that these people still have nothing better to do than give dirty looks and to gossip about people they don’t even really know. It was probably something really good too. Maybe I’ve gotten into bestiality or funneled a Texas Mickey or something. I wouldn’t even care about the latter. That’s impressive, go ahead and start that rumor I’d go along with it- the former, not so much. I left the bar alone, missing my friends from X, but glad to get out of there. The people I wanted to see I saw, and the rest- I don’t ever have to see them again if I don’t want to. Even if I do, I am completely unaffected by them. I sincerely hope they are happy with the lives that they have chosen and I wish them the best.<br /><br />Driving home from Halifax the next morning along the Waverley road, I caught myself looking back at Flat Rock. Our group’s little camping site, hidden away by the lake and the woods, where we spent so many of our high school nights drinking and swimming and making mistakes. Coming from that direction, you can only see it by turning your head behind you. I could only look back for a moment, before I had to bring my eyes back to the curves of the road home. Then I realized, I couldn’t spend my life looking over my shoulder to the past without losing sight of what’s in front of me, my future. I mourned for high school when I graduated, and last night made me see that I’m done. I am in such a better place right now, and even though I will keep my high school memories close to my heart, I don’t need to hold onto it anymore. I don’t think I have had a hold on it for quite some time, but just like that, it was completely gone. In it’s place was the confirmation that I am my own person, undefined by who I know or what people say about me. I don’t care about what those people think, because they don’t know me. The people who do are ahead of me, and they keep my eyes on the road.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490836328321353619.post-40087734464419970452008-07-28T15:03:00.000-07:002008-07-28T15:04:04.094-07:00Accepted AdviceWhile scrolling down my MSN list the other day reading all the away messages: the lyrics, the drunken ramblings, the inside jokes… one in particular caught my eye. It simply said, “Accepted advice?. I took a week or two and really thought about this, because I think that they’re two words that are worth thinking about, especially together. When you really break it down, advice is not so much about the actual advice people are giving to you; it is about the person who is giving you that advice. What makes us follow advice from one person and not from another? Is your choice to follow advice largely based on who is giving it to you rather than the advice itself? What does it say about you and your advice-giver about whether or not you choose to accept it?<br /><br />When I think about all the advice I’ve received over the years I really try and think about the type of people I ended up listening to. Looking back, I think everyone’s first thought would be their parents. My parents always were and remain my biggest influences; whether I took their advice or not is questionable. I think what happened is this: my adolescent mind turned their good, sound advice into the barking command of a generation too old to understand what my life was like, allowing the advice to go right in one ear and out the other. Now that I am older, and dare I say more mature, I realize that my adolescent mind neglected to toy with the thought that they had already gone through what I was experiencing, and were actually trying to make life easier for me. Each day I silently apologize to them in my mind. I’ll say it out loud someday, but not while I’m in school. I can’t let them know they were right while I’m still financially dependent on them- it’s too much information to hold over my head.<br /><br />Now when my parents give me advice, I really listen to it. As hard as it is for me to admit, they’re generally right. I give my parents a lot more credit nowadays, because I feel like they give me a lot more credit. We’re almost to that level playing field where we’re all adults; the conversations get more serious and they start asking all the hard questions. I like this time though, because now I’m ready to answer them. For the first time this year, I saw my parents as their own individual people, and not just “mom and dad?. I feel like now is a late time to realize that and it makes me feel sheltered, but better late than never. Their advice is no longer being thrown down upon me; it is now an exchange between adults who see eye to eye. Now that they consider me an adult and I find myself giving them advice, I find their suggestions have become easier to accept.<br /><br />With my friends, it was always that level playing field, which was always a major contributor to the “blatantly ignore my parents? days. I always find that the advice I take without hesitation comes from my two best friends, Derek and Jessica. Even as a 20 year old, I find it difficult to pick out a shirt without the ok from Jess. It’s not because she is so fashionable herself, which she totally is, but she could be a terrible dresser and her opinion would still matter more then whoever was working at the store. Her advice matters because she is so sincere with me. It is because she knows me so well. She knows that as soon as I get it home I’m going to start loving it even though I hate it in the store. It is because she knows the first time I wear it out I’m going to spill something on it, or that no matter how much I tug at it I’m never going to be comfortable in it. I know that if I go shopping with her, I’m going to end up with something that I love… then I will drive her crazy by wearing it right away and then throwing it on my floor.<br />This summer was a constant battle with my parents, and from day one Derek was always there to put things into perspective for me. Even when he wasn’t intentionally giving me advice, just hearing what he had to say helped me come to rational conclusions about the decisions I was being pressured to make. Even if it wasn’t what I wanted to hear, it was the truth. It was never demeaning, it was always honest. Sometimes rather than just some good old fashioned advice, we need a good swift kick in the ass to get ourselves going. By no means have I known Derek as long as most of my other close friends, but in spending so much time with him, he has learned everything about me: what a like and dislike, what sets me off and what makes me crazy. The best part is he doesn’t care about that crap. He’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being ridiculous or over reacting, and it’s so much better that way. I always take his advice because I know that by not caring about the stupid stuff, he cares about the big stuff. He doesn’t let me get away with being melodramatic, and the best advice always comes from the people who keep you grounded, and that’s exactly what he has always done for me.<br /><br />Advice from Jess and Derek is always best because they just know. Not just about the little things, but about the big things. They have seen me through my worst times, and when I think back now the advice that they gave me was always the right thing. I took it because I trusted them, and I knew that they always had my best interest at heart. They always have that same unconditional love that my family has. Sometimes I wonder what I could have possibly done to deserve them, or how I ever lived without them.<br /><br />When it comes to giving advice, my first thought is my sister. She is of course always there for me, but I find there is an odd role reversal between us as I am the younger sister, constantly stepping into the older sister position to offer advice to her on everything imaginable. Kate’s a funny one, because when we were younger she mostly did listen to our parents more than her friends, and I fear it socially retarded her a year or two. When she calls to ask about stuff, I always wonder if I’ve said the right thing. Offering your opinion to someone you care about is scary because you don’t want to screw them up, and more often than not, it’s the people you care about the most who want your advice. I don’t know how much of my advice she actually takes, but I think the point is that she knows I cared enough about her to really think about what she was telling me to form an opinion of my own. She calls me because she knows how much I love her.<br /><br />Advice is a funny thing, considering how much you can learn from giving it or receiving it, or the choice you have to make about accepting it. I can’t come to any definite conclusions, but I think what I’m getting at here is that before I really thought about it, advice was fragile thing. It was always something that was sketchy, because I thought it was about an internal struggle between what you thought and what someone else was telling you to think. Now after some careful consideration, advice is what clearly defines all the important relationships in my life. When I sat down to think about advice, all the most important people in my life came to mind, all the people I trusted the most. Advice is about trust, and about how it is always best to accept it from the people who accept you, just as you are.*Keegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744728978247151403noreply@blogger.com0