In pursuit of happiness… & clarity.

Somewhere in my almost 2-year relationship with Mr.NB [Who knew I had it in me to withstand an almost 2-year relationship? Not me, that’s for damn sure], my life happened. Changed. I’m a big subscriber to the “don’t fix what isn’t broken” school of thought so by the time I woke up and realized that I wasn’t the overly skinny, little, attention-desperate blonde girl anymore, I didn’t really know how to feel.

Except, let’s face it, I’m always going to be a bit of little, attention-desperate blonde girl. It’s in my blood or something.

I hate change. I hate it more than I hate Future Shop. And we all know how much I hate Future Shop.

I didn’t like that I gained 20 pounds in the first semester of University and that the only pants I could do up were draw-string sweats.

The instant I gave my two weeks notice at my last job, I wanted to take it back. After I found my new apartment, I realized I didn’t really want to move anymore. And probably above all else, I really hate when people fall out of love with me; friends, boyfriends, parent [singular]. Even if I fell out of love with them first.

C’est la vie. 

But change is inevitable. Facebook changed, evolved. Twitter began to exist, and then evolved. Every day my streetcar driver changes, my mood changes and the time I get into work changes. On any given day, the length of my hair can change, and depending on how much I’ve been crying the night before, my eye colour can range from greenish-blueish-blah to bright, popping blue.

Every single day of life, something changes and by now, I should be used to it. Hell, I change my mind, feelings, and opinions on a daily basis and I’m still not used to it.

But as much as I don’t like real, significant, life-altering changes, I would also like to argue that the changes I’ve survived have irrevocably shaped my sparkly*, pink self.

For better, for worse, til death do me part; change has shaped me. ME! The change-hater. And even though some of them have been changes for the worse, I’m sooo over playing the damaged little girl who’s daddy doesn’t love her.

There comes a point (although not for everyone) when being ‘damaged’ becomes exhausting and when playing the victim gets really, really old. Eventually, it becomes no one’s responsibility but your own to learn, adapt, and grow the hell up. Because as boring and mundane as normalcy may seem, eventually no one’s going to come to the rescue of the girl who always cries wolf ‘broken’.

Unless of course, she’s naked and handing out $100 bills.

My point here is that in the last 2 years, so many things have changed that I barely recognize my life anymore. I’ve become a real-life, grown-up girlfriend and have given up my ways as a single girl who randomly stalked Starbucks employees and have been given the opportunity to go on dates with strange men who have chased me down the street to tell me they like my smile. I’ve [arguably] become trusting, patient and even understanding (to a degree, let’s not kid ourselves here) about the scheming and manipulating ways of ex-girlfriends, random whores, and people I at one time or another, considered to be my friend. I’ve let go of hate and bad first impressions, and have kept my mouth shut when all I wanted to do was tell everyone’s dirty little secrets. Including my own.

I’ve done my fair share of growing up in the past 2 years and in that process, I feel like I’ve had to let go of some of the things that truly make me ‘me’. You know, like being crazy and giving my honest opinion, regardless of whether or not it hurts people’s feelings.

It’s inevitable that things will change, regardless of how unsettling it still is for me.

The one thing that’s remained constant is my father’s lack of communication and effort. Funny that the one thing I can count on is not being able to count on the one person I should always be able to count on.

I don’t like them apples. I don’t like them apples one, little bit.
xxoo pinkcrush.