All posts filed under: Thoughts

Dan-ish

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I saw it in a second-hand book shop one summer. Its pretty cover caught my eye and I know what they say about books and covers, but this felt right. I paid twelve dollars and slipped my new hardcover into my yellow-shoulder bag. “Look what I just bought!” I squealed to my best friend, Natalie, when I met her for lunch. “The little book of Hig-ee, the Danish way to live well,” I recited the title, convinced I had the right pronunciation. “Hi-guh.” She corrected me. And so began our obsession with a word neither of us knew how to pronounce. A Danish word that is as strange as it is familiar – a feeling, rather, one that makes you feel safe and warm and cozy, like a blanket next to a fireplace or Jamie’s biceps on Outlander. Nat and I would tag each other in various Jamie and twinkley-light-Hygge-decor posts on Instagram, dream of travelling through Denmark together, and when my roommate, Sarah, and I hosted a Hygge-themed Christmas party, it was Natalie who …

Slanted

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When I moved to the city last year, I realized two very important things: people do cocaine, no one rollerblades. I am a member of the latter category. They call me Blade Girl – nobody calls me that.  On the first of April, my mom and I packed two cars full of giant Rubbermaid containers and made our way to my new home; although, it wasn’t entirely new. I had been devising a plan to get back to Toronto ever since my parents pried my tiny-baby hands from the front steps of 79 Farnham Avenue twenty years ago. I’m not bitter, I just never forgave them for taking me away from my first love to a semi-detached in suburbia. Okay, fine, the burbs were actually a great place to grow up. It’s where I met my best friends, sort of lost my virginity, and peed myself while crying on the stairs because I couldn’t find the bathroom in this strange new place where all the houses looked the same – I was five. My parents …

Moving On

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It’s two in the morning and my Dad and I are screaming at each other in the light of the bathroom. The other end of the hallway is dark and quiet, but on our side we declared war. My Mom, tired of listening to us, has gone to sleep in the basement – a house divided. We never fight, but judging by the way we are now, you would think we’re professionals. A flood of mascara dyed tears run down my face and sting my eyes. The tears make it hard to see him, but his words make it impossible. This isn’t him. This isn’t the man who ran behind my little two-wheel bike, the only one I trusted to pull out my loose teeth, the hero who caught my puke in his bare hands when I was sick in a fancy hotel room. Ahh, the joys of parenthood. Imagine loving someone so much you would catch their puke in your bare hands? “You would do the same for your kid,” they always tell me. I gag at the thought …

A (Very Short) Love Story

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My warm face pressed into the backseat window, it was the only thing that made my mind, spinning with thoughts and several Moscow Mules, go still. I looked at him sitting in the passenger seat where he scrolled through his phone to find my favourite country song. He turned around to look at me and smiled. I smiled back, then turned away, my breath fogging up the cold glass as I sang along. He asked me to be his girlfriend earlier that night and we lived happily ever after. Jks, we broke up six days later. “I don’t want you to hold me back,” I told him, after my friends left and the house was quiet. “I don’t want you to hold me back,” he replied, his blue eyes meeting mine. I didn’t turn away this time, I was getting better at the whole eye contact thing. He explained that relationships aren’t about holding each other back and, although my cognitive skills were impaired, I understood. “We have to tell each other everything and always be honest,” he insisted, …