Monday, December 17, 2012

Strangers on this road we are on...

If I could meet one person living or dead, I would meet Vincent Van Gogh and ask him to paint my portrait. It would be an incredible honour, that's for sure, but mostly I just want to see what he sees. Would he paint my sorrow? Would his heart see the heaviness of mine? Or maybe he would see my joy. The part of me that radiates. My light. Perhaps he would see something in me that is yet unknown to myself.

Or maybe he would tell me to go fuck myself and to pass him another shot of absinthe. Yes, probably that.

That would be an honour, too.

The Olive Trees Vincent Van Gogh, 1889

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

In want of a genetic abnormality.

I have dark blonde hair but I've always found myself in want of it being orange or red. I adore the fieriness of the colour, found it sexy and intriguing. I imagine my life with a crimson mop as more exciting and maybe dangerous (as if I could have been a spy were I born with one more "genetic flaw"). I've always had a secret red-headed desire, but after thoroughly considering the subject I suspect I wouldn't truly appreciate it were I to have it. Think of a red-head in your life. How many times have you heard them bemoan the redness their hair? Or maybe you yourself have thick curly hair and have always wished for it to be straight, but your friend with the seemingly perfect, thin hair (that appears to not deviate a single strand) just wishes hers would hold a curl even once. I, for instance, know a girl who has the most gorgeous and natural strawberry blonde locks but has spent every day of her adult life with it dyed almost every colour of the rainbow. I would murder puppies (sorry puppies) for hair her natural colour and yet here she's been wanting anything but since she was a child.

The long and the short of it is that we always want what we don't or can't have...it's a universal truth. So I say I want a head of violently ruby hair, but if I was magically granted it today I'd probably wish for a return to my dark blonde. Maybe we should just spend more time appreciating what we have and our lives the way they are instead of wishing for something else. We'd almost definitely be happier.

If only lust could be thwarted by common sense. Ah well.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Same old song and dance.

We're taught from childhood that being an adult means growing up, which in turn implies eventually being fully grown. I feel like that's a bit of a lie and it clashes with other things that we've been taught our entire lives. Things like the fact that we're never to old to learn something new, that learning itself means personal growth, and that something new can be gleaned from every single day. We're constantly in a state of growth in one way or another.

Being older has certainly made me wiser. Who would have thought that adults were right when we were children? There are some things you just can't fully understand until you're older. It makes me almost feel bad for hormonal youngsters (I say that as if I, at 27, am closer to 103) who think they know it all. However with knowledge comes responsibility and responsibility...well, it sucks (I could use a more "adult" word, but I feel this one does it the justice my inner child craves). Just because I'm wiser in the ways of the world doesn't mean I make better decisions or magically have solutions to all of life's problems...that's the real issue. It comes back around to the fact that we're always growing and while I'm wiser now than I was at 17, my future self possesses a wisdom that I am yet to know or comprehend, and so on until the day I die. By the time we know it all, it's too late to really use any of it.

We never really finish growing...so I guess when people say it seems like I'll never grow up, it's kinda true.

Friday, November 9, 2012

Tis the season...

Christmas is just around the corner, so I thought I'd collect my wishlists all in one place. If anyone ever reads this, feel free to share yours!

Amazon.ca
Pinterest
ThinkGeek

Thursday, November 1, 2012

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Free To Be You And Me.

Let's face it, I'm bad at being a girl most of the time. I'm not a fan of glitter or pink frilly things. I can't apply nail polish to save my life, and there's no bother trying with my fingernails because they are all bitten down. I'm bad at wearing make-up that isn't eyeliner...I don't moisturize. I have never a day in my life moisturized. I shave my legs with soap instead of shaving cream and my razors are usually disposable. I despise dieting and I'm sorry, but so many things actually do taste better than skinny feels. I occasionally use my shirt or dress as a napkin. I hate ensemble cast rom-coms that are named after random holidays. I can't walk properly in heels and when I dress up for a night on the town I feel like a fraud, praying that my Fairy Jean Mother has a pair of Levi's hiding in a near-by room where I can put my feet up and stop pretending I know how to flirt with men.

I know gay men who make better girls than me.

Don't get me wrong, I love girls who are good at being girls. They fascinate me. I admire and am mystified by them and their clear complexions. Their hair that must have taken hours to perfect and yet looks effortless. Their bright pink glitter nails. I love their ability to look good in anything and to make anything look good. Watching them, I feel like an early turn of the century explorer studying a foreign tribe. I can see these strange, beautiful creatures are so much like me and yet they are so vastly different. I don't quite understand them, but know that somehow we must be the same.

I know there is nothing wrong with being me. I know that my bed-head and bitten down nails make me no less of a woman than the next. I know this, but I don't always feel it.

So what is the point of this diatribe? As we all do, I sometimes have trouble remembering that it's okay to be me. I live in a state of permanent irritation at my own inability to be what my gender says on the tin. I can sit and shout proudly that I am who I am, but I don't always feel that way. I've written this because I think sometimes we all need memos in our own hand of our self worth, our own unique beauty. They say life would be boring if we were all the same, I guess this is just my reminder.

So for my own sake, here is what I am instead of what I am not: I'm kind, I'm of reasonable intelligence. I'm good with children and colours. I have an eccentric spirit and have several times drunken grown men under the table. I constantly say the silliest things and when I like something, I'm consumed by its splendour. I don't love lightly, I have a weird sense of humour, I find beauty in strange places. I find deep meaning in song lyrics, I laugh a lot, I'm friendly. I understand art.

I'm rubbish at being a girl, but I'm rather good at being Karla.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

My Question From Blogger: The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig?

In my profile page Blogger gave me a random question. The question itself is above, below is my answer.
In a land far, far away (much farther than you’ve ever dreamt) there was a pond. It wasn’t a large pond, in fact, it was rather ordinary. In this pond lived three little frogs. They were brothers. The oldest of the three little frogs, Stanwick, never felt like he quite fit in. Sure, he could swim fast and jump high, but he just felt very un-pretty and insignificant. One day he decided that to be pretty meant he needed gorgeous hair. After all, the cats who came daily to drink from the pond all had beautiful hair. Some seemed to have hair spun from pure gold, and others appeared to be covered in soft black silk. Stanwick resolved to get himself a wig. One day when one of the cats came for a drink, Stanwick asked him if it could procure him a wig as fine as the cat’s fur. The cat agreed, and the next day came back with the finest wig in all the land. It was far too big for Stanwick, but he felt beautiful nonetheless. When Stanwick asked the cat how he could repay him, the cat said he would like to eat him for supper.

And that’s how Stanwick died.

I cried at the end of My Dog Skip, too. Not big on dignity here...

What happens when one watches 'The Young Victoria' whilst on their Lady Times? Lots of loud, ugly crying and bays of "BUT THEY WERE JUST SO HAPPY!!!!" apparently.

And this is but a small snippet of my life.

You are all going to be so jealous. Welcome to my silly little blog.