Whatever it takes

#6: I’ve seen every episode of the Canadian teen soap opera, Degrassi.

That’s thirteen or fourteen seasons of teen pregnancy, cheating, child abuse, sex, sports, coming out stories, death, drugs, power squad tryouts, school shootings, “washroom” pow-wows, and most recently, its first suicide.

Label it accidental synergy, but I began watching the show during my freshman year of high school. Believe it or not, the program treats the premise of showcasing high school with gravitas. It prides itself for having a revolving door of teen actors (imagine that, Hollywood? Teens playing teens) whose fictional stories and portrayals speak to the most pressing and obviously ridiculous issues of the day. At the end of their four years as characters, the show chooses to be relentless. They never soft shoe on fan favorites no matter how perfectly coiffed their hair. Instead the characters graduate; they disappear into passing mentions until they fade into nothing, shifting focus from old to new.

God bless them, Degrassi gave us the moniker ‘Wheelchair Jimmy’. (These days, I hear His-Most-Sensitive, Aubrey Graham, prefers the moniker of Drake whenever he raps or pines after Rihanna. Whatever makes you fly, bro.)


Wheelchair Jimmy letting the good times roll.

I often ask myself why and how this particular show has sustained me for so long, as most shows in their genre get trite and a little sad after two or even three seasons. Ehem, Glee.

I’m beginning to think my devotion stems from casual pessimism rather than sentimentality or nostalgia. Maybe a part of me thinks high school never really escapes us. The power structure duplicates like a virus in college. It condenses and morphs to accommodate the workplace. The washrooms are still best place for dirty gossip.

Maybe we never stop coming of age.

Un peu grande vérité

#2: I miss you, too.

You close your eyes when you laugh. For brief moments, you lean and hunch your shoulders; your arms cross. Your body is so beautifully overwhelmed with life, that it becomes concave. As if its natural response is to contain the expulsion. But why?

A laugh from you is joyful disintegration.

“And now for something completely different.”

My year of radical (selective?) honesty.

365 days.

365 posts.

365 anythings.



Because I believe in my making myself uncomfortable for the greater good. I don’t stand for much, at least not in the traditional sense that always seems to taste like integrity or some kind of fuck. But I do think finding catharsis in withholding has left me with pieces instead of fortification. And I’d like to think of myself as whole. Or at least weightless.

And sometimes, you do shit… just to do shit. But wouldn’t it be great if you turned out to be all right in the end? Better, even? That the shit led to a sum of all your pieces?

(I think I’m funny.)

Maybe we should think in dreams instead of resolutions. They’re both constructs, but I like how the former has bit of panache. Empire waists and sequins. I close my eyes and they’re still dancing. It is how I know that they are important.

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Here’s the thing–

–I’m trying out this new concept based on what we talked about. It’s a little strange. Perhaps, it’s a little too radical for me and the good ole buckle. But today, as I drove from uptown to downtown and back again, I thought about the way honesty fits my skin now and how much I like it–as if my shallow layers have been sloughed off by the old Brillo pads my Mom keeps under the kitchen sink.

Tonight, babe: I’m shiny. I wrote this uninhibited and I’m unveiling all my parts. Tick, tick.

In my brain and at my lips, the mot du jour is revelation.

Or perhaps it’s timing, and in this case, the saltier end. It’s salty when the situation or circumstances aren’t quite right, but they should be. They could. If timing were in our favor, if distance, if parts of you weren’t still bruised, I’d take you out real nice. I would. Because you’re the type that deserves to be woo’d, too, once in a while. You’re worth the Stop-n-Shop flowers AND the pricey teacup dessert. (No, no, I’ll open the door for you.) And when we’re done, let me whisper them smooth jazz words like, “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours. I’m driving tonight. All night.”

And while I’m dreaming right now in my head, there’s the two of us and the moon–and we like the moon, don’t we? We admire the illumination when we can, but love feeling lost in the places where the beams don’t touch our feet. The moon could help us lose ourselves in an embrace, like that one night.

(You know the night. I do.)

Tonight, they’re strong again, if you’re curious. Diana, the Amazonian Princess, has got nothing on my shit.

Here’s another thing: my feelings oscillate between knowing too little about them and knowing enough to turn away. If you want a transparent answer, I just don’t have it for you right now. But I want to, babe. Honestly, I really do. I don’t know the spectrum of my colors quite yet. For you, my soft parts are less shades of gray and more purple. But tonight, those colors are getting close to what moves through our veins. You know, I think there’s a palette underneath my ribs. I think I’m trying spread out and reach something, reach you, but my hands aren’t deft enough to paint the scene quite yet. For now, that’s okay.

I realize that there’s no feasibility in the distance, or in the way your heart feels right now (how wrenching it open again ain’t worth the sweat and the mess. Them heart guts suck). And me, I can’t seem to massage mine open in a way that hurts the least.

I guess, what’s I’m really asking… what’s hanging on the precipice of this undefined situation, is for a chance to get to know you. For me to be able to show you my shiny parts because the alternative doesn’t suit either one of us.

And for tonight, and maybe the next night, and the night after that–

I want to have you.


When you realize that someone doesn’t love you, your first reaction should not be anger, although it often is. It’s an understandable and expected response. You’re suffering a loss that you never really gained—the absence of whispers, defining moments, and lifelines that could have been.

Recently, I’ve learned to buckle down what I refer to as The Upset; I strap it down until I’ve figured out its new shape and how heavy it might be during this go around. I envision The Upset as a sulky disheveled monster, born and amassed from the salt and iron in my veins. The Upset is the part of me that I can’t predict and frankly, shouldn’t have to. It is as exhausting as it is transformative. It is all encompassing. And I strap that unruly bitch down because I don’t want it tethered to any part of me. I don’t want hulking rocks in my shoes to make each step away from you harder than it should. And in spite of my resolve, the quickness in my stride, it’s still a struggle.


A pictorial of what I envision to be “The Upset.” The artist, my friend, calls the piece her emotional diarrhea. A beast by many names.

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