Yellow

I'm 17 and I like dogs. 

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Coming of Age

  I was 15 when I stumbled upon the film masterpiece “Diary of a Teenage Girl.” I know, I know—the title sounds incredibly lame and fluffy, but the movie is incredible. It follows a 15 year old girl named Minnie as she grows up from a child to adult in the 1970’s, so it’s a coming of age film. Minnie loses her virginity and has an affair to her mom’s 35 year old boyfriend and that’s pretty much the main conflict of the movie, but there’s so much more to it than that. It was an integral part of my own coming of age and a very important film to me. I’m sure I’ll watch it periodically as I grow up and learn something new every time. I just watched it again at 17 years old and had a whole different perspective on it than I did when I was 15.

  Me at 15… I was a lot like Minnie. I wanted to fuck school and do art, and fuck in general. I lead on a 37 year old man—a teacher of mine—and I’m still unsure of what his intentions were. Originally he wanted to help me, he was a kind teacher who saw me as just a student with anxiety that he could sooth. I think he did see me as the child I was (and still am but maybe less so) at first. Then things got muddy. I sat with him in his office wearing a top chosen to catch his eyes. I complimented the shirts of his that I liked. I told him of sexual endeavours. I drunk emailed him. Things got muddier.

  I still think about him a lot. I didn’t have a crush on him—I never get crushes. But I did want to have sex with him. I maintain that I never would have in actuality. But I’d be lying if I said I never thought about it; and though I can never be sure I believe he’d be lying too. I think I’ll visit him at his new school sometime in the future. I’ve changed so much that I think he’s disappoint me and make me feel silly. What a 15-year-old-me thing to do. Nevertheless he’ll always be special to me.

  I don’t think I could write about coming of age and sexuality without including Russel. Unlike my aforementioned teacher, Russel and I grew together and entwined around each other like two vines on a trellis. We met when we were both 12. Now we are going to be 18. Damn.

  Sometimes I regret not losing my virginity to him. Instead I lost it in a game of truth or dare when I was 13 to a boy I used to chase playing tag in elementary school. Russel lost his virginity to me. In fact Russel lost every type of virginity one can have to me. I’m the only person he’s ever done anything with—from first kisses to having sex. I’m not sure how to feel about that. Slightly selfish maybe. I’ve had sex with 3 people and crossed lines with many more. Not sure how I managed that, but I couldn’t have done it without the help of alcohol and peer pressure (but never the two combined). And Russel wants to marry me? He really only wants to experience one person for his entire life? I can’t imagine that he will maintain this outlook, but maybe he’s the wise one and I’m the one who’ll end up miserable.

  Anyway, thanks Minnie, for being there.

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Plan B

  I got absolutely wasted last night. It started innocently enough at Russel mom’s house. She made me breakfast for dinner because Russel had told her I like nothing but eggs (true). Russel, his mother, his little brother and I sat in slightly awkward silence while Santa Claus with Tim Allen played on the small TV. But Russel said his mom liked me, so I think I did alright. I feel quite smug about getting his little brother to like me, because I’m awful at talking to kids. But I managed to relate to this 12 year old boy by mutually making fun of Russel on the drive home. Russel was not impressed, but his brother gave me wide, gap-toothed smile and ecstatic wave when we dropped him off, and apparently told the whole household I was really cool. So that was nice.

  Then we picked up Olivia and her new(ish) boyfriend from his house and went back to her’s to hang out. Inevitably Olivia broke out the vodka and rum. I didn’t really want to get too drunk so I paced myself at first. Russel, on the other hand, had something to prove. He had claimed he was so good at handling his alcohol that he could drink half a large bottle of vodka and still be sober. I had bet him otherwise. So he drank a lot, and he did it fast. I won’t lie, he is certainly not a lightweight (like I am) and it takes a lot to get him tipsy. I’m not sure how much of the 40% vodka or other alcohol he ended up consuming, but I have never seen him so drunk in my life. He insisted that he was “mentally fine” which was a total lie. By 2am he could barely walk in a set direction. At that point Olivia was pretty drunk too and I said fuck it and downed more shots than I had initially planned on doing.

  At 3am, with all of us sufficiently teenage-wasted, Russel and I bid farewell to Olivia and her boyfriend. We stumbled down the street to Russel’s house and “snuck” into his bedroom. We were not sneaky at all, but his parents don’t care anymore and just pretend not to notice. You could probably take a guess at what happened there. We had really, really drunk sex. So drunk that we “forgot” to use any kind of contraception whatsoever. I write “forgot” in quotations because we didn’t really forget but we just decided not to care using some very bad judgement. Most of this was on me, because he did mention something about getting a condom (which were in my bag on the floor beside the bed—so no excuses) and I had said it was fine just “cum inside me please.” I’m not sure what the fuck I was thinking, but all I can say is don’t drink kids.

  So that’s exactly what Russel did. Three times. I woke up in the morning—still could feel what had happened—and very quickly kissed Russel goodbye and headed to shoppers for plan B. This was a first for me. I sat in my car feeling like utter shit and downed this tiny white pill that seemed too insignificant to do anything, but I was counting on it. Bad decisions were made. I went home, showered, sheepishly ate breakfast with my parents then took a long nap. Now it’s time to anxiously await my period, which unfortunately isn’t due for another 2 weeks so it’s going to be a treacherous wait. Russel texted me and asked if I thought I could be pregnant. I know he’s kinda wishing I am, but I’ve made it clear that’s not gonna happen. I really hope I’m not pregnant I don’t want to deal with that—that meaning an abortion. I have to say though, the sex was really fucking great.

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In the Mirror

  The twinkling lights on the tree are warm. One of my favourite ornaments, a small snow globe with a miniature Tim Hortons inside, was given to me by my friends two years ago. Back when our Timmie’s was open 24/7 and we used to loiter there as the hours climbed into the morning. Sometimes I slip into the cozy plastic walls of the snow globe and stand in front of the building’s glowing windows, peering inside upon my group as we were, red paper cups beneath our noses. Just like old times—which in actuality were not long ago at all. Those nights continue, trapped in that snow globe, wether it sits on the tree or hidden away in the cold basement. My friends and I sit and laugh in that miniature Tim Horton’s cafe indefinitely, with no sense of time at all. A piece of heaven kept preserved in a snow globe. My Christmas magic.

  I left the ornament. The house was silent, the winter wind against the walls was not. I found myself admiring the rest of the Christmas decorations, reminiscing. Finally I met my eyes in the mirror above the fireplace. My gaze was soft and vulnerable, my eyelids rose and fell and I became afraid of what my reflection might do when I blinked. My skin, pale and thin, rippled and twitched around the corners of my mouth. Autonomous movements that frightened me. Me—was that who was staring so intimately back? Or was there someone on the other side of the glass, making this no mirror at all? This girl—this woman—staring. Into what? What did she see? Was she who harboured my self? A frail frame with large eyes. The pretty painted face in the mirror was not something I felt on the inside. I was convinced she might break the gaze and walk away if I kept standing there for long enough. I became too scared that she may actually do so, and of the implications of such action, so I stepped away from the mirror quickly. The skin on the back of my neck was tingling.

  She left me wondering if she was truly me or if I was impersonating her. What is a face, or a body, to a mind? My decisions and experience are encapsulated in the thin, pale skin and the black holes of the pupils that mocked me in the mirror.

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The Dark

  The darkness in my room sits still and silent. Naked trees outside my window claw at the night sky, the single streetlamp glows dimly in the forefront. I used to see mangled faces in my closet when I was a kid. Now I lack the imagination and all I see is my laundry basket. I’m not afraid of the dark anymore, but I’d rather be. Now I am afraid of real things and that’s much less exciting.

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I Have a Boyfriend

  I caved and agreed to date Russel. We’ve been friends for 5 years and friends with benefits for almost 2, and now we are officially together. Why did I decide, after refusing for so long, to make it official?

  Maybe it was so he would stop calling me “titty girl” with the guys on his football team. But it wasn’t that, because if that bothered me that much I would have just asked him to stop.

  Maybe it was because I suddenly had feelings for him? No, I didn’t sprout feelings overnight. I still don’t think I feel romantic attraction at all.

  Maybe it was just to make him happy. This was a factor in my decision, but no, I am not as cold as that.

  I think it’s because high school, and the life I have attached to it, is coming to an end and I’ve just stopped caring about it. On top of which I go to a whole different school than Russel and all the people that know who I am. My school is my fortress where no person or rumour can touch me. Besides, all the people Russel is giddily informing of our relationship are people I will probably never talk to again. As for my two best friends, Olivia and Scarlet, I let go of the apprehension I had over them knowing that Russel’s dick lives in my mouth. They asked me why I did it and I said it was so I could be “Russel’s girlfriend” instead of “titty girl,” which, as you know, was a lie. I don’t care anymore.

  I’m still not sure if my chosen title of “Russel’s girlfriend” was a mistake. We are happy… for now. We go on dates (which, but for the title, haven’t changed a bit from what we would do before) and we have great sex (which also hasn’t changed from the sex we were having before). But what happens when I go to university? I’m planning on breaking up with him because I want to do a lot more fucking in post secondary, and I also don’t want to be with Russel in that way for the long run (I told him that, he still wanted to date). But have I condemned him to a devastating heartbreak? I hope not. I probably have made a mistake.

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We’ve lost

  This blog is dead.

I don’t like my friends anymore and I must face it. Olivia and Scarlet. When I am with them my head feels fuzzy and I am quick to become exhausted. I feel guilty for acknowledging—in my mind only—that this is because they are too immature. Also, we have nothing to talk about and when I do speak my mind it is almost insulting to them, I end up feeling rude and snobby. When they talk about their future they talk of 2 year college courses and dreams funded by 20k salaries, so if I chime in my own dreams of up to 10 years in university and medical school and salaries over 300k I end up sounding incredibly pretentious and full of myself. I can’t talk to them about anything without sounding (or feeling) this way. I feel like the problem. I feel their disdain when I open my mouth.

  I vented to them about losing my car when I move away to university because I won’t be able to afford it. Scarlet replied along the lines of:

  “Yellow just fucking buy a cheap-o $2,000 car like everyone else. I know you’re used to your luxury expensive cars but you’re gonna have to suck it up.”

  Thats what they think of me. They think that I think I’m too good for cheap cars.

Never mind that cheap $2,000 cars are all I have been browsing through for weeks.

Never mind that I would gladly and gratefully take any vehicle that moves.

Never mind that I still can’t afford insurance no matter if the car is $50,000 or $2,000, and that’s what I was referring to.

Never mind that I was actually talking about not being able to afford parking a car in university.

  They thought I was complaining because I wouldn’t take less than a brand new luxury vehicle my parents bought me. They thought I was saying I’m “too good” for a $2,000 car—meanwhile all their families can afford are $2,000 cars. 

That’s what my friends think me.

Our trio stuck like glue throughout childhood and adolescence but clearly won’t survive in adulthood. We don’t understand each other anymore.

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The Girl I Once Was at Starbucks

  It was 2012, I was 11 and sitting in my room which was painted an alarming shade of neon green. I was meticulously directing a Littlest Pet Shop music video using the VideoStar app. The song? Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites by Skrillex.

  I am listening to old Skrillex songs as I write this and they’re making me sick with nostalgia. This week I’ve done nothing but go to school and study, come home and study, then tour various Universities on the weekends. I’ll be applying to University this week. I wish I were back in middle school listening to Skrillex and making LPS YouTube videos, back when I dyed my hair all the colours of the rainbow and wore ripped Hot Topic jeans and tee shirts promoting bands I didn’t even listen to. Back when my room was that immature shade of green instead of stark white and my eyes lined with black eyeshadow instead of dark bags.

  I was at Starbucks tonight studying (for a change in scenery) and I always marvel at the tiny middle schoolers that congregate there. One girl, she must have been only 12 or 13, matched my tired gaze with her eyes bordered in thick mascara. She sipped on a frappaccino held in one hand, the other hand grasping an iPhone bigger than her tiny finger’s could wrap around. Her gaze was condescending, judging me like an arrogant tween in a comedy movie. Her eyelids flicked downwards towards her phone screen, then disinterestedly up at her friends. She thought she was all grown up—we all do, at that age. She was a 90lb twig. Was I ever that small? My skin ever so fresh? My face ever so childlike? I was, wasn’t I? Back in 2012, thinking I owned the world, gazing at weary 17 year olds at Starbucks, thinking they were “like, idk, 25 or something” and grasping an iPhone model that’s now obsolete.

  I look at myself in the mirror and I see an adult rather than a child. My nose juts out from my face, my jaw chiseled and my cheeks hollowed. My eyes set themselves deeper in my skull and shrunk, robbing me of my puppy-dog eyes. My hips grew wider my thighs ballooned, I remember my legs used to be spindly. My stomach is sculpted as if it were drawn by an artist practicing female anatomy. Even my hands have gone from stout and doll-like to gaunt and lanky, my nail beds dried up. I am more of a woman than a girl. All I have ever known how to be was a girl, I didn’t even realize I was becoming a woman. It doesn’t seem long ago I was akin to those middle school kids at Starbucks but it’s been almost 6 years. Where did those 6 years go? Time is cruel. Give me 6 more years and I’ll be 23, done with University and wondering where the time went since I was 17. Listening to Blackbear songs and feeling nostalgic. The cycle continues.

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  I live very close to a dormitory for an international college. The students we normally see mulling about our neighbourhood are—in order from most common to least—Chinese/Japanese, African, Russian and a few from obscure European countries. The quiet, (predominantly white) retirement neighbourhood is a strange place to put an international college dormitory, especially since the actual college is a 45 minute bus ride to downtown, but it makes for some interesting people watching. It is compelling to observe how different the varying races live and act. The concept to me is similar to throwing herbivores of many different species and continents into one common habitat. We are influenced tremendously by the culture we are raised in.

  The Asian student population are by far the most eccentric. They seem to be enthralled by everything, from the simplest of trees to the drab downtown buildings. Wherever they are, whatever they are doing, they are always snapping photos. They take pictures of the road, they take pictures of signs, they take pictures of their dorms, they even take pictures of my dog. They dress very fashionably, like they are trying for New York fashion week but buying from H&M. They wear pastels and dad hats. Another difference I have noticed between the nationalities is the way they walk in groups. The Asian students walk briskly, talking to each other informatively. They usually speak at a common volume. They are often looking at their phones when they aren’t taking photos with them.

  On the other hand the Africans walk slowly, and speak very loudly. They often laugh and play music from their phones as they walk. They usually saunter down the street in larger groups, spilling out into road but not seeming to notice. You can usually hear their laughter and chatter from inside your house as they walk by. They have a lot of fun, often dancing or bouncing basketballs. They usually wear sportswear or more edgy fashion. Many will also wear brilliant traditional African clothes, with red, orange, green and yellow designs embroidered on back cloth. They don’t take nearly as many pictures as the Asians. In our lazy suburb inhabited mostly by old white people they tend to stand out the most.

  The Russians keep a lower profile than the Asians and Africans. They don’t tend to wander around in large groups, but they do play music from their phones as they walk. This is how you can tell that they are Russians, because it’s usually Russian rap. The males often wear dark hoodies and jeans, the females wear very plain feminine outfits, like the ones you see on the mannequins at Sears. They are not particularly curious but they do stand out to me as being especially rude. When they walk by you they will not make eye contact, they rarely smile and they very rarely acknowledge my dog, who the Asians and Africans are often enchanted by. When you do hear them speaking to each other they often sound hostile or bored. They’re body language constantly says “don’t approach me.”

  The Europeans are few and far between, but occasionally you do hear their languages being spoken on the street. They appear very happy and curious most of the time, like they are departing on a day full of exciting activities. Different to the Asians and Africans, they greet my dog like a pet instead of treat him like a tourist attraction. Their dress is not particularly universal, but many do have dreadlocks and wear skirts. That’s about all I have to say about them.

  It is amusing to see the different cultures right here on my own street. It puts my “normal” into perspective. I think the way I live and act is “normal,” but stick me in a dormitory in China and my normal would not be everyone else’s normal, which completely destroys the meaning of the word in this context. There is no normal in terms of human culture, just the version of it you were raised in. It is amazing how evolution has created this diverse map of human experiences, from the shiny dark skin of Africa to the pale white skin of Canada.

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Sneaking Around

  If you’ve been using snapchat for a awhile you might be familiar with the “flashbacks” it sends you every once in awhile. I just got one of them, a flashback from September 1st, 2016. All my friends were still friends with each other back then. We were all 15 years old.

  The flashback featured a day when Olivia, Russel and I all went to the mall together, and Olivia had brought along a guy named Gabe. It was her and Gabe’s first time meeting, now Gabe is someone she hooks up with often. What struck me about the footage was the delicacy of my relationship with Russel at the time. We had just started to become more than friends, we hadn’t had sex yet. We slept together just a week after the snapchat story was taken. In one of the videos I filmed him running his fingers up my leg—he did this discreetly and jokingly since Olivia and Gabe were sitting beside us—and I giggled “I’m filming you!” from behind the camera. He started laughing too. I remember that moment because he did that under the guise of a joke, but we both understood the sexual way he really meant it, oblivious to Olivia and her date. I could see the familiar gleam in his eyes as I watched that video. It warped me back to those days when our affairs were fresh and top secret. It was a different kind of exciting when all four of us were friends with each other because Olivia and Scarlet were often in close proximity. Once Olivia and Scarlet would turn their backs Russel and I might share a touch or even a kiss depending on how much time we had, only to snap back to “just being friends” once the girl’s returned.

  We sure had fun back then. There was a time when Russel brought me to climax underneath a blanket while Olivia slept across the room, then another time when I gave him a blowjob behind some shrubs as Olivia and Scarlet were retrieving something they forget in Scarlet’s house. Once we snuck out of Olivia’s house after she went to sleep to have sex at his house, then I had to sneak back in before she woke up and pretend I’d been there the whole time. There were times when we had to contain our sly laughter as Olivia or Scarlet would exclaim get a room! At one of the few parties all four of us attended together I was set up to kiss this random guy as a result of some drinking game, and I did it with passion as Russel watched helplessly from the crowd. I smirked at Russel once I was done, basking in his jealousy and poking fun at the fact he could say nothing about it at the time. Later we snuck away to an empty stairwell, both very drunk, and I asked him charmingly “did I make you jealous?” and he said “Yeah, you think I like to watch that? Don’t kiss other guys..” to which I replied “make me!” and you can probably guess the events that followed.

  That fiery sneaking around and toying with getting caught is over now. All we have to worry about these days is Olivia or Scarlet spotting my car parked at his house at some odd hour of the night. I am starting to feel that now is the right time to finally tell Olivia and Scarlet of my relationship with Russel. I will keep out details like the ones I’ve mentioned above, but I will tell them the truth about how often and when we started having sex, and that we continue to do so. After two years of sneaking it is time for them to know, especially since Russel and them don’t talk to each other anymore. It won’t be too awkward now because they won’t have to sit with us for an entire outing any time soon. I do wonder how they will react, I’ll certainly be writing about that once I spill the beans.

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Advice to my Freshman Self, from my Senior Self

  In three days I will be a senior in high school. It’s making me feel nostalgic about my freshman year, I remember at this time in 2015 I was frantically planning my emo outfit and watching every “how to prepare for freshman year” video on youtube. I was so nervous and optimistic about making new friends, not once did I think about what my courses were, what my transcript looked like or what I would do after high school, all my attention went to how I looked and which friends I wanted. The butterflies I had as my mom dropped me off, wandering around the hallway gripping my schedule for dear life, snapchatting my friends but hiding my phone because I didn’t want to get in trouble—it all makes me very nostalgic. Now, a well seasoned student, my only concern is getting as much work done in as little time as possible. I’ll show up driving my own car, looking exactly the way I did when I crawled out of bed that morning, then with a coffee in my hand I’ll march straight to my first class itching to the get the furthest possible seat from the front. By the second day it’ll feel as though summer never happened.

  I was thinking about what I would tell my ninth grade self if I could go back. I wouldn’t have a whole lot to say. Even though I look back at myself and cringe I wouldn’t want to change my freshman experience because it’s made me who I am today. But there are a few major pieces of advice I think I would mention, to avoid my biggest regrets. Here is my list of advice to my 14 year old self, from my 17 year old self:

Stop straightening your hair! It’s dead and it’s too damn thin to pull off the emo swoop. Start using curly hair cleanser and conditioner, you can still have a fringe and wear dark eyeliner. Be a curly-haired emo and it won’t be as difficult to look back on the yearbook photos.

Start thinking about what you want to do with high school now, and pick courses that leave your options open. Don’t take an art co-op, it’s useless. Take academic school courses instead like english, math or science.

Don’t lie about having lost your virginity to sound cooler. You will always regret it. Also, stop sharing so much personal information to everyone you meet, have some self respect and people will still think you’re interesting.

For the love of god enjoy the carefree, immature fun you have with your 3 closest friends! Once you guys start driving, drinking, doing drugs, having sex and partying it’ll never be the same. So hang out all the time, loiter at the mall, walk around the neighbourhood, climb trees and act like kids. Those will be some of the best memories.

Stop wearing the rock and metal band tees if you don’t actually listen to them. There’s nothing wrong with liking pop and rap music.

Care more about school, even though you get good grades anyway. Really pay attention to what you’re learning in math and science so you understand the concepts. Don’t just memorize the formulas and forget them after the test. It will help tremendously to understand the foundations really well before you build on them in later years, because it’s going to get a lot harder and you won’t have time to go back and relearn everything.

Skip school and sneak out at night more often. You can totally afford to do it now, later you won’t be able to because you’ll need the time for school and sleep. Make those memories while you still can.

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Curls

  I haven’t posted on this blog in over a week, but I’ve written almost everyday and never finished the entire thought. I went to Las Vegas and started writing about that experience but didn’t finish it in time and now the piece’s present tense isn’t relevant anymore. I’ve been uninspired. This is the last week before school starts and it feels strange. Vegas was the last hurrah of my summer vacation so this week feels like an afterthought. I have nothing to do for the moment, meanwhile loads of work loom just a few days away. It’s the calm before the storm.

  To inspire me I decided to straighten my hair. Doing so makes me look like an entirely different person, and sometimes act like one too. My hair is actually quite long, it reaches my lower back, but you can’t tell when it’s curly since curls tend to rest a few inches shorter. When my hair is in it’s natural wild state I feel like the first impression I give is either one of a bookworm or hiker. When it’s straight I think people see more of a teenager when they look at me, one who would wear fashionable sunglasses and have a Pomeranian. Feeling the dainty tendrils of hair falling around my shoulders instead of the itchy, uniformed mop of curls changes my body language. I find myself flipping it over my shoulder or running my hands through it. It boosts my confidence. I’ve always felt bad for preferring my hair singed straight with an hot iron rather than loving it the way it grows out of my head. That being said, if I were given the choice I would always choose to have my curly locks rather than straight. It’s a part of who I am. It’s just nice to straighten it every once and awhile, when I’m feeling uninspired.

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Is my Dog that Scary?

  Yesterday my dog Vince and I had the most eventful and perhaps one of the most hilarious walks we’ve ever taken. Every time he steps out of the house I never know what to expect, since he is an 125lb shiny black dog he draws lots of attention. Usually walks around our neighbourhood are relatively quiet but, as yesterday proved, you can’t take Vince anywhere unnoticed.

  We headed towards the college dormitories on our way home. The college is international, which means there are multitudes of students from Asia, Africa and Russia walking around our area all the time. This time we crossed paths with a group of 10-15 asian guys. I never know how the international students are going to react to Vince, there is definitely a cultural difference about dogs. Often they cross the street and look at him with fear or disgust, or both. Sometimes they are fascinated with him. I find that the Asians are usually fascinated, the Africans are usually disgusted and Russians can be anywhere in between. I’ve never had any of the students want to pet him though, unlike pretty much every local person we run into. This time the asian guys were very fascinated. We walked right through the group and I felt like I was walking a runway, they were all excitedly exclaiming things in their language (Chinese? Japanese? Korean? I couldn’t tell) and a few took their phones out and started filming. Definitely awkward and uncomfortable, but at the end of the day I know they don’t even notice me, all their eyes and cameras are on Vince. It’s very strange, they act like I’m not even there.

  Not even 30 seconds after that encounter we approached a group of 5 black girls walking towards us. I could tell they were students because I could hear their thick African accents and they wore very colourful yellow, green, orange and red clothes. I have a feeling they were new arrivals, just from the way they were acting.

  I noticed them noticing us. They saw us and stopped for a second, grouping together and squealing. I knew they were talking about us and were very nervous about passing us. As we neared closer they started walking in a single file line at the very edge of the sidewalk, as far away from us as they could get. I found this funny; as scary as Vince looks he wouldn’t hurt a fly. If they had been really afraid I would have walked far onto the grass and kept Vince on a tight leash, but I could tell that it was just the kind of fear that teenagers get watching a scary movie—nervous and fun fear. So I kept slack on the leash and kept walking on the sidewalk. As we met all their eyes were on Vince and I, opened wide and darting between him and me. The girl at the front of the line said in a shrill voice, “You have a very tall dog” and I smiled and replied “thanks!”

  When Vince hears people talk to us on a walk he assumes they want to meet him (because this is often the case), so he approaches them. When this girl remarked on his height he took a step in their direction, eager to greet them. I never expected them all to screech and run, which is exactly what they did. I kid you not, my dog took one lazy step towards them and they all disbanded, screamed like they were being chased by a bear, and bolted into the street. He couldn’t even get to them, there wasn’t enough leash room. I immediately blurted out “he’s friendly!” but they were beyond listening to me at that point. I couldn’t contain my laughter, it was all good fun, they were laughing too. I could hear their giggling and squealing fade away as we went our separate ways, I too was chuckling to myself.  

  That must take the cake for one of the funniest encounters I’ve ever had with Vince to date.

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“Do you think our kids would be cute?”

  It’s comical how poorly my father and I fare at surviving when my mother is away. Currently road tripping across Canada, my mom has left us for nine exciting days. Like lazy college students our diet has consisted of pizza, chicken wings, McDonald’s, Taco Bell and lots of junk snacks, and we are only three days in. My insides have been thoroughly soaked in grease and my tongue dried with salt. I ate a few snap peas today and could almost hear my body screaming it’s thanks.

  Don’t get me wrong, I do love it when my mom takes her regular trips away. The thing I love most is the alone time I get due to my dad’s long shifts. My mom works from home a lot of the time, so when she leaves I get a good ten hours a day with the house all to myself.

  This was how me and Russel started having sex, and this is when our friends with benefits relationship flourishes. It is rare that we get a warm bed and a empty house, our usual hook up spots are in my car or at his house when his family is sleeping, since he lives in his basement. Those spots feel very teeaager-esque, as we are either elbowing each other to move or trying our best not to wake his family up. But when we get my house to ourselves it feels very mature. Sometimes, when he comes over at 6 in the morning we’ll pick up coffee and listen to Norah Jones’ Come Away with Me at a high volume and it feels like we’re living a different life. The sun decorates the floor in yellow specks that dance to the music, like we are an aesthetic movie. It sounds silly, but we’ll jokingly pretend that we’ve bought the house together and that we are married thirty-somethings. I usually feel guilty afterwards though, because that will never be the case. Russel wants a soulmate to buy a house with and have kids, and I am clearly not that person. I feel like I am keeping him from meeting someone who might offer more than just friendship and sex. After all, how long can our relationship last? We are not oblivious to our conflicting values. There is no where for this relationship to go, it was destined to end from the start. He asked me the other day if I thought our kids would be cute and I almost spit out my drink. It was another reminder of how differently we think about sex and love. I feel ashamed about how much he loves me because I don’t love him back. I feel guilty when he looks at me with such warm admiration in his eyes, especially when he thinks I can’t see his gaze. One time, when he thought I was sleeping, he took my hand and kissed it, then rested it on his chest and whispered “I love you.”

  I never told him that I heard him say that. My heart broke.

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Seeing Red

  I used to slice my skin open with razor blades when I was thirteen. I still have the pictures on my phone to prove it, and very faint pink lines on my arms and thighs. I did it for attention, I wanted to be edgy and fit into a certain stereotype. I was never depressed or suicidal. I look back on it now and realize it was incredibly stupid, I think I knew it was pretty stupid back then as well. Still sometimes I look at my porcelain skin, as thin and smooth as silk it seems, and I have this urge to see what’s under the surface. I want to see my blood in open air.

  I would never intentionally cut myself again, but I am always subconsciously hoping that I will sustain a minor bloody injury by accident. One that does not threaten my life but is severe enough to receive stitches. When I do cut myself by accident, usually while shaving, I let the blood spill as much as it can to see how gory I can make it look. Last week I was picking a broken nail when the piece became wedged under another nail. It bled a little (and stung a lot) and I had to pull it out. I kept picking at the stab wound for the next couple days so that it wouldn’t heal as fast, I liked the look of the blood caked under my nail. Last year I got a paper cut on my finger at school and it bled much more than expected, it dripped as I walked down the hallway and I managed to cover an entire piece of lined paper with smears of blood. I kept the paper for three days until turned a burnt orange, an act I am ashamed to admit doing.

  I’m not sure why I love seeing my blood pool and drip so much. I don’t enjoy the pain of injury and I certainly don’t wish to die, and I don’t want to harm others either. It is a mystery to me.

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How to be a good kid?

  If it weren’t for my resemblance to my father I would be terribly suspicious that I was switched at birth or something. My mother and I have a purely situational relationship, like co workers forced to exist in the same cubicle. We don’t hate each other or fight, but our opinions clash against one another on a daily basis.

  I am aware that my relationship with my parents is a strange one. Don’t most families utter I love you’s autonomously? I don’t believe I have told my parents so since I was 5 or 6. The thought of expressing family affections makes me shudder. So much about my family works as though it is a business deal.

  I think my mother would have been happier with a different child. One that was sensitive and affectionate. One that wanted to be a dentist, buy a two story house, marry and have lots of children. One with faith in some sort of God. But she gave birth to me, this person that she doesn’t understand. On top of which there isn’t any resemblance between her and I. Not one hair bears any kind of likeness in our DNA. Where she is short and stubby I am long and spindly, where she is tan and am pale and so on. Two totally different people but somehow we share the same blood, and consequently the same house and the same air.

  I feel like such a teenager when I say this, but I think my mother is a pathetic person. I respect her and how she lives her life, but I can’t help seeing a sad existence when I look at her. She grew up in the house behind ours, she’s worked in the same office for 30 years (a job which she hates with a fiery passion) and despite having driven for 40 years she can’t park a car to save her life. She has an inability to ever be fashionable, and the inability to find pants that don’t slide off her butt in public. Everything about my mother makes me feel bad for her. I know her like the back of my hand, but I wouldn’t say she knows me half as well. She knows the version of me I present to her.

  She isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, either. I learned how to manipulate her from early age, yet still make her think she’s the parent making the decisions. It’s a long and steady process of obeying just enough and respecting all too much. I know when to listen so as to maintain my mother’s trust, which is always of utmost importance to me. My trustworthiness in her eyes is so strong that at this point that I can pretty much do anything under granted permission. I have the freedom of a bird. Respect is another key component of my envied freedom, I do not treat my mother like a lesser person and she does not treat me like a child. I am responsible and I make sure she knows this, therefore she knows she can trust me to be safe when she lets me out with my car at midnight. My friends are often annoyed with me for my careful maintenance of my relationship with my mother. Their way of getting freedom from their parents involves yelling, fighting and rebelling—not to mention shit-talking the parents behind their backs. It’s a cycle of being grounded, getting let out, disobeying then being grounded again. It’s an ego problem they have, in my opinion. They think they are too hot to put their heads down and understand the other side. In the bigger picture their parents are just worried about them, and rightfully so. We have to understand this and have some empathy, but my friends refuse to put themselves in their shoes and instead slam the door in their mother and father’s faces. That is the typical way with teenagers, I suppose. But I still think my friends are better than that and they’re just choosing not to be.

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My sense of smell (or lack there of)

  I have hyposmia, the decreased ability to smell. From a distance I can only smell really strong odours, like overdone perfume or a dumpster. Some strong odours I can’t smell at all for some reason, it just depends on the thing. For example, I can’t smell human urine, though I can smell dog urine. I’m not really sure if I’ve always had it or if I’ve just noticed it in the past few years, but my nose definitely doesn’t work as well as most. Seeing as my diet is in shambles my condition can probably be attributed to malnutrition.

  I don’t really mind, though. I have a very large dog and my parents are always yapping about the stench of him. My mother washes his bed every two weeks because she can’t bear to sit near it. But I can’t smell a thing. I’ve even put my nose to the fabric and inhaled, I still can’t smell it. I’ve put my nose to my dog’s fur and I get nothing. I can’t really smell his faeces either, and all that’s fine with me!

  But it is rare that I can’t smell something completely like that. I can smell most things, just at varying levels. A lot of the time I actually have to come within inches of a thing to be able to smell it. This is most apparent when everyone in the same room as me starts complaining or marvelling at some sort of smell and I realize that I smell absolutely nothing. Or when a group of friends gets in my car and they all scrunch up their noses at the stench of dog, but to me I only smell leather. If you ask me “do you smell that?” ninety percent of the time the answer will be no.

  My sketchy sense of smell has it’s advantages and disadvantages. I’m glad I can’t smell certain things like dogs or body odour, but I’d like to be able to smell things like coffee a bit better. Or candles, I am rarely able to smell candles.

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Drugs + Cars

  I was rummaging through my little worn-down plaid backpack for my keys when I glanced into the back seat out of habit. On the seat, right in the middle as if it were begging to be noticed, laid a cloudy little ziplock bag. I snatched it off my immaculate leather backseat as if I was snatching up a puppy peeing on the floor.

  Marijuana. Left by my ever-so-concerned friends the night before. I glared at the pathetic little bag. I turned back towards the crime scene and inhaled through my nose, the stench of weed assaulted my senses. Frustrated and incredibly annoyed, I stuffed the bag into my backpack and tossed my hair over my shoulder as I shut the car door and headed inside my house.

Let’s see, what have I found left carelessly in my car?

a vape pen

weed

underwear and shorts that were clearly not mine

fast food garbage stuffed into the door handles

french fries and timbits smushed into the seat

a backpack containing empty bottles of alcohol

copious amounts of receipts tossed on the floor from places we did not have permission to go to, stamped with the times we are not supposed to be out driving around

greasy footprints on the windows and dash

How dare they? The minor offences are the fast food garbage, the food and footprints. They know I like to keep my car spotless. I tell them over and over do not leave garbage in my car, but I find some kind of trash leftover every time we eat anywhere. The second thing that irritates me is the receipts and the clothing. If my parents found those I would lose all trust with the car, yet they still litter them throughout the vehicle. Same with the vape. But the worst thing is when they leave illegal substances like weed and alcohol. This makes me incredibly angry. Not only would I lose my trust and perhaps even my car with my parents, but if I was caught by authorities I would most definitely lose my license as well.

  My license is perhaps my most prized possession, I have worked diligently to get it so fast. I love my car and I absolutely love the freedom of driving. They jeopardize all this because they are so careless. Leaving their weed in my car! My head pounds with anger. I’d like to leave this bag of weed in their living rooms and see how they like it. I want to walk into their houses and start throwing garbage everywhere and talking about all the crazy parties we’ve had while their parents are in the room. How am I supposed to discipline this? How am I supposed to get it through to them that my car is not a means of public transportation where they can litter wherever they want and carry their illicit substances at their own risk? Anything they bring into my vehicle is my responsibility, and anything found in it will have the most affect on me, the insured driver. This bag of weed stinking up my backseat is unacceptable.