I hate to break it to you babe, but I’m not drowning.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m never not going to be the girl that people come to for reassurance. Need to feel that you’re pretty, skinny, worth-while, better than someone, or that being a whore is totally acceptable for the following reasons? Yep, I’m your girl. And if that’s not good enough, I’m also the girl that will apologize to you for your misunderstandings and defend you, even if you couldn’t deserve it less.

Look, I apologize [see!!!!!] for being blunt but let’s face it; the truth doesn’t always make you feel good. And unfortunately, neither do I.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m great at telling people they’re all the things they want to hear about themselves without having to ask, and truthfully, a lot of times I actually mean what I say, but I’d rather not play the “you’re too pretty and too awesome” card when I’m not entirely sure I can feign conviction. As bad as I may feel about being the person that says the unfortunately shitty-but-true thing that everyone’s thinking but would never dare say out loud, sometimes I have to say exactly what I feel to remind myself that I’m actually entitled to my own feelings too.

My dad used to call me a CandyAss [which never seemed sexual and gross when I was 11] when he was pissed off at me so I learned at a young age that empathy doesn’t grow on trees. And I’ve been burned one too many times being too sweet to too many people who end up making me regret every nice conversation we ever had and every genuinely decent thing I ever did for them. 

Last weekend I met up with one of my roommates from university whom I hadn’t seen in close to a year. She is and has always been one of those girls people envy [for extremely obvious reasons] and she’s always been incredibly modest about it. We grabbed a drink at Starbucks and discussed our jobs, the idiot boys we dated in university because we didn’t know any better, and how incredibly happy we were to be in real relationships with people we liked more than we liked McDonald’s breakfast after a night of binge drinking.

After last weekend - filled to the brim with birthday parties, Palm Bays, and the obvious friend-drama that I can’t ever seem to escape - it was nice to spend [even a short amount of] time with someone who doesn’t make me want to jam things in my eye sockets. She said she missed me and I said I missed being able to tell her to “lay off” without wondering if she was going to make a Facebook Group about how awful/ugly/fat [can’t remember which one exactly] I am, behind my back.

Think that’s never happened? Haha think again.

How I maintain and/or rekindle friends with people that do ridiculous things like that is totally beyond even my comprehension. I must be a masochist or something… Or the world’s biggest idiot. 

But then again, I don’t understand how Justin Bieber can forgive his douche bag of a father for being absent during the first 16 years of his life either. So maybe I’m not the most naive person in the world after all.

And speaking of Justin Bieber’s father, I just happened to run into him in Stratford on the weekend at a recently re-opened and no-longer-serving-alcohol-to-under-agers *wink wink* bar. Looking very Kevin Federline-esque and wearing white and incredibly douchey suspenders, we chatted briefly about his recent acquisition of a clothing label and offered me a left-handed hand shake, as only douche bags would think to do. 

Maybe that’s what happens when you get to trade your mundane life for one that makes you think installing a beach volleyball court on your front lawn makes you look cool. Or maybe it means that I could stand to be a bit more forgiving.

Although, when it comes down to it, I think I am a pretty forgiving girl. Just sometimes enough is enough.