I am in an espresso bar on Spadina, sitting at a large, square shaped wooden table, drinking an overpriced Americano (but it’s organic! Fair trade, man!). Across from me is a couple: Blue Jays (BJ) cap and Geeky Blonde (GB). GB has got her signature black rimmed glasses on, with frames large enough to not overtake her small, round, pink face. Her nose, mouse like with its upturned tip, points forward like a finger. Oddly enough, it matches BJ’s sharp nose (balanced by beautiful, drag queen lashes and light green eyes). Clad in a navy polo so deep it’s almost black, BJ sits on her right, his thick bushy eyebrows bouncing up and down while he tries to follow the nonstop chatter between GB and their future wedding planner (who I will name Jessica). Jessica looks to be in her late thirties; her long reddish blonde hair pulled back into a tight, straight, ponytail that reaches all the way down her back (type-A neurotic). Ironically, Jessica the wedding planner doesn’t have a wedding ring on. I think to myself: is this a personal choice? Is it PR thing? Is a wedding planner with a wedding ring bad luck? Or maybe she’s just never found the one. Maybe that J.Lo flick wasn’t so full of shit after all. Maybe her life is actually really funny. 

But I digress. 

I’m sitting in an espresso bar on a beautiful Saturday morning, and I don’t want to go in to work. I have four glorious hours left of my day and it kills me that at some point I will have to trek back underground, step into a long metal tube, propel myself uptown and eventually find my way out so that I can trade in the best parts of myself for something we call, the moneyz. 

It breaks my god damn heart, I tell you.

These past few weeks have been slow and methodical in its absolutely uselessness. A few bright spots here and there, but overall, my attempt at generating a career for myself is at an all time stand-still. I wrote a pilot, hated it, wrote it again, sort of liked it, and then watched a bunch of other pilots and came back around to hating it. 

(Jessica is leaving, but not before collecting her big, fat, paycheck.) 

I’ve been re-evaluating my work, trying to generate new ideas to inject into my pilot, give it greater cultural relevance, to make something with a sharper edge. Reading things that I think my characters would read, watching things I think my character would watch. I’ve been trying to live my life as the characters would (What would Roukh do? What would Sloane do? What would Bryan do?). This morning I read yesterdays Business section in The Globe because that’s something Roukh would do, he’s that kind of guy. I also discovered how much I miss reading words off of actual paper, cause you just can’t beat reading things off of actual paper. 

There are nights when I feel crazy, useless, lazy and productive all at once. I also think I might be a tad bit dyslexic. Mildly so, as I’ve noticed that I misread, mistype, and mis-do a whole lot of shit when it comes to letters and numbers… should I be worried?

One thing I’ve come to recognize as of late is my greatest weakness: self-doubt. It is paralyzing at times, and I work day in and day out to overcome it. I’ve noticed the ways it prevents me from doing what I want, when I want, and how I want. I’ve always managed to get by, just good enough to slip through the lines with out really putting myself out there. I like the safety of being a backstage. I think a lot about why this is, because I used to be incredibly motivated in the past; I loved to shine. At some point between high school and now, I lost the energy, the desire and the drive, and I don’t exactly know how to get it back.

But I have given myself five years to do this writer thing, to try and get a TV pilot into production. It’s a blue sky dream, and on some levels it’s incredibly unrealistic. But if we really do live once, if all we are are a series of cosmic, subatomic, chemical mistakes, than I owe it to my consciousness to give it all a shot. By thirty, if I don’t have a show on the air…who knows. Maybe I’ll be a retail queen for the rest of my life, but god damn, at least I tried.

I’m finally living downtown on my own.

The world is my cloister. 

It takes practice. 

You grow up. You try to define yourself and you try to find yourself. If you’re lucky, if you’re one of the ones who don’t fall through the cracks, you end up spending a large amount of your early years studying. You theorize, you get criticized and you build a thick skin. There are days you want to die and there are days you can’t stand life because it’s such a mind-fuck of beautiful things all around you. 

But then you get older. 

Some of your friends do die and some of them fall through the cracks, but there you are, still standing, a tiny fleck on this planet mourning another tiny fleck. You turn to a God. You wish you could have helped, you wish you could have done something different. But time moves forward and now, the most difficult task of your day is trying to drag your anchored-heart along the messy blue bottomed floor, hoping it doesn’t snag, praying that you can find the strength to heave it up and out, and into the daylight. 

You meet other people and they’re wonderful. You shake a hand, smile at a friend of a friend of a friend and you wish you were them, dating them, talking to them and laughing with them. And then you snap out of it and you’re still standing there, staring at them from across the room, so you take your drink and walk away looking for someone real to laugh with. 

And then there is that period of your life where you wake up every afternoon and spend twenty minutes criticizing yourself in the mirror. You don’t meet your own expectations and no one can ever seem to meet yours. Even thought you ended it, you wish they’d call back, tell you that you were wrong, that you’re worth fighting for and that they’re going to do it. But they don’t, and every time you see their name your heart aches a little because a part of you knew that if everything worked out, you could have become such a better person. Worked harder, played harder, and loved yourself more. But there you are, standing in front of the mirror, staring at the body that’s had too much drinking, partying, smoking, drug use, sex, freedom and other things that eventually get a hold of you in your mid-twenties. And you realize it’s all getting a little too much.

But then it happens. 

Because all it takes is a walk to the convenience store to buy another pack of cigarettes, and because chain smoking on your balcony in the freezing cold is more romantic than sitting inside and doing what you love to do on your day off from pushing coffee, beer, technology, jeans and makeup. 

You bump into them. 

They’re in a fancy coat (of course they’re in a fancy coat) with a hat and leather gloves (those leather gloves you bought for them a little too early on), while you’re in your sweats, a ball cap and a mustard stain from two days ago when you ate a hotdog without the bun because you had no bread and were too lazy to go out and buy a real breakfast.

So they ask you how you are, and you struggle to cough up something interesting, something different from one year ago and they can see you choke. So they cut it short for your sake, half-heartedly hug you, tell you it’s great to see you, and as they walk away, you: you with that familiar shame you’ve tried to get rid of, you step above it and find the courage to thank them secretly because you’re just not ready for anyone to know. 

And it’s enough to turn you back around to your bedroom, and it’s enough to inspire you to quit your job, push you to take the risks you’ve avoided all your life and finally try to become the person you’ve always wanted to be instead of the person you currently are. 

Two years ago I got braces.

I started this blog to catalog the entire experience, because getting braces in my mid-twenties was pretty much the only interesting thing happening to me at the time. I was two months from graduating and I craved for my next adventure. I half jokingly labeled the next chapter of my life as “Social Suicide” (thank you, Tina Fey). I wanted to use comedy as a way to hide the fact that I was actually quite nervous about the entire situation. My smile had always held me back. I was shy because of my teeth, and I never liked being in photos, and whenever I did get photographed I always smiled with a closed mouth. It was a huge insecurity of mine and I wanted to get rid of it.

But the thing about changing yourself is that everyone will eventually find out that you’re trying to change yourself. People begin to look at you more closely, trying to figure out exactly what’s going on and what about you started it all. When I told my friends, some of them were pretty excited for me, and then there were those that never noticed my teeth at all. But I did. I noticed them, and other people noticed them, just like they noticed my skin and my eyes and my body shape. 

And when it comes to changing our bodies, in this world of “self-love” and acceptance, it almost feels like you’re betraying your kin by conforming to the corporate culture of a singular definition of “beauty.” Straight teeth, slim body, perfect hair… I found myself trapped in this pit of narcissism, and it sucked. I needed a way out, I need some sort of direction to calm the frustration that lived under my skin.  

So in hopes of finding a positive, metal-mouthed role model for my life, turned to the one and only, Ugly Betty. Every time Betty Suarez learned a lesson, I learned a lesson. I watched her life unfold before my eyes, hour after hour, and cringed at her optimism; the type that gets you into the most horrible positions, but when it pays off, it pays off. And I loved that about her! I loved how hard she worked and how challenged she was by the world around her! And most importantly I loved how she always failed before she could succeed. 

In one week I will be getting my braces off. 

Looking back to when I started this blog, I remember telling myself, “Kai, you better start doing interesting things.” I needed to find excuses to write because I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to live a life worthy of a blog. I also secretly wanted my biggest insecurity to churn out the best time of my life, to eventually be turned into a mini-series of maybe even a wonderful gay-cult-comedy for Gaysians. I wanted Betty Suarez hilarity with Buffy/Angel angst with a handful of Gossip Girl glam! 

And did that happen? Not so much. 

Because I am not a gritty/glam kindda guy. I do not wake up in random beds every Sunday morning, I do not find myself caught in out-of-context-drag, and I most certainly do not immolate myself with alcohol for shits and giggles and #nothingelsetodo. And so instead, I focused in on the sex and the drama that occurred in my life because I thought it would make me more interesting. I swept away the vulnerability and the vicious cycle of self-pity because I didn’t want to bother with them. I didn’t want to be sad anymore, so I continually sold myself short because I wanted to be sexy and wild. 

But what was most strange was the anxiety I carried around with me whenever I posted an entry. I was scared of having the people in my day-to-day life (the old friends, the new friends, the work friends, the forgotten friends) read about the stories I casually shared with the Interweb. I fretted over whether or not the Kai on paper properly reflect the Kai in real-life. I wondered if friendships changed when consumed through a different medium, and if so, was there a version of Kai that felt more real and honest than the other? At the end of the day, between Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr, it all just seems like one big experiment in narcissism.

Despite all this, I still want to find ways to stop hating myself for being all the things I am and I also want to finally  be able to smile with my teeth. I’m part-way there on the former and I’m almost there on the latter. I’ve learned to give myself some credit by walking away and letting go when I needed to, and I’ve recognized that the only way to be good is to do good, no matter how uncomfortable the choice, act, and fallout may be. Narcissism is a dangerous game. Too many photos of yourself and you begin to loose yourself. 

And now that I’m reflecting on these past two years, I realize now that my story really is changing. It hasn’t been dramatic or epic or climactic, but it has been quiet, thoughtful and full of surprises. Choosing what to let happen and what to force forward, learning when to step back and when to stand down, thinking critically about all the different lines to cross in face of greater and more challenging adversity, all of these tiny little stories make up the narrative of a life I am now beginning to really feel like I can call my own, and that’s a story worth holding onto. 

A few weeks ago I met a guy from a gay-phone-app (not Grindr).

He messaged me, I message him, we upgraded to texts, and then we were arranging  to meet for coffee. At the time, I was trying to come to terms with the whole single, gay, dating thing. I had just turned twenty-six and I was determined to not let being single keep me from having a good year. But of course, when you finally begin to believe that you’ve got all your ducks lined up in a row, Life will ultimately decide to throw you a curve ball just to shake things up. 

It was a cold-as-fuck Sunday night and I was sitting in a Starbucks three Starbucks away from home. I had seen a few photos of this guy and we had both given each other permission to creep our Facebooks. I was pretty floored at how cute he was, because cute is not something that usually comes my way, and deep down I was beginning to feel optimistic. I told myself that I was going to meet this guy, enjoy the night, and even if within the first three minutes I realize he’s not someone I want to date, I will still aim to have a great conversation with another human being. 

Cue the Boy walking in.

Cue the Americano, the 7 packets of sugar, and the excitable use of hand gestures. 

Cue the boyish charm that he knows nothing about. 

Suffice it to say, as far as first pre-dates go (coffee is not a date, it’s a pre-date, just fyi), it was pretty damn successful. We asked each other personal questions, talked about how people smuggle pot over airplanes, and at the end of the night he offered to drive me home. We ended it with a small kiss, a plan for another date, and a warm, happy feeling inside.

Two days later, I invited the boy over to hang out. We were going to go on a real legit date but I was exhausted from work and he had recently lost his job of ten years. And so, we decided to stay in and make out. 

The kissing began in the living room, which then migrated over into the bedroom, which resulted in the two of us entangled in each others limbs like teenagers. And you know what? It was hot, and despite a few awkward tongue fumbles as we tried to get into each other’s kissing groove, there was some solid make-out action happening! But then something happened: my face began to get really hot. I didn’t want to alarm myself at first because, well, kissing was happening. But the more we kissed, the worse it got, and so I got up, went to the washroom, turned on the lights and found the area around my mouth covered in hives. I was having an allergic reaction to our kissing. Anywhere his mouth had gone, there were hives. Totally sexy, right?

At this point, I had two choices: I could try and salvage the night, or I could end it right there and bask in the glow of humiliation and curse my sensitive skin. But if the cult of Rom-Com had taught me anything, it was that if you like a guy, you do whatever it takes, even if it means putting yourself through more humiliation like making him drive you to the nearest Pharmacy for some Benadryl. So with a knit scarf wrapped around my face, I walked up to the counter and mumbled my problem through the thick strands of yarn that covered my face. And God bless her soul, she was the most delightful and empathetic pharmacist ever. And even with what looked like a bad-case of face-Herpes, I was quite alright with the night so far. Back in the car and on the drive home, the two of tried to figure out the issue—was it his saliva? Face cream? His stubble? We had no idea. The only choice of action was process of elimination, which of course involved more kissing, and we were both okay with that.

As February passed, we had a few more hangouts. We narrowed down my allergy to his beard (he licked one arm and rubbed his beard on the other, and voila! Beard = hives = sad face). But despite this challenge, we continued to have a lot of fun…until of course, life decided to happen. 

The Boy was laid off the day after we met. It was a rough transition for him and he was feeling frustrated and lost. He realized that he would have to go back to school, go on E.I., and change his entire way of life. He held a lot of pride in what he did, and out of nowhere it was stripped away from him. And while I really wanted to be there for him, I was getting frustrated as well. I finally meet a great guy, and because of reasons out of my control, I’m not going to get a chance to see where it goes. Getting to know someone, especially on a romantic level, is an incredibly time consuming thing to do, and when going through a life change like that, it just seems impractical. And so I told him to take some time and to give me a call should he ever want to pick up where we left off. 

***

The funny thing is, on our first date, we talked a lot about the idea of multiple universes. He’s a huge Fringe fan, and he loves talking about wormholes and sci-fi and all that jazz. He believes that every possible outcome in your life is happening right now in an alternate parallel universe, which is a pretty nifty idea when you really think about it. I mean, Sliding Doors circa Gwyneth when she was tolerable, amiright? I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had gone to Western for Communications instead of York. Would I be happier? Maybe I am. I’d like to meet that version of Kai someday.

But back to Fringe. So on our second hang-out-slash-date, he showed me this little clip:

It’s a beautifully shot scene, executed with a whole lot of heart, and it really does capture the powerful beauty of hope. 

But what matters here is the song.

Yazoo’s “Only You” is one of my favourite songs of all time. I first heard it when I saw Can’t Hardly Wait some twelve odd years ago.It plays at the end of the film when the adorkable Ethan Embry finally kisses Jennifer Love Hewitt at the train station. Every time I watch it, I melt, because it’s about two people who take fate to the next level. The entire ethos of the film is best summed up with this line: “Fate! There is such a thing as fate, but it only takes you so far. Then it’s up to you to make it happen.” 

In no way am I suggesting that this guy is The One. I mean sure, it crossed my mind a few times, but let’s face it. The ball is in his court. He’s going through some serious life struggle, and if past experience has taught me anything, it’s that I may never see him again. Boys come and go, and most of the time it’s for the best. But in the universe where I believe in fate, and believe in an honest and realistic way, I can only hope that when fate comes my way, I will have the courage to make the rest happen. 

v) those first few days of wonder. the getting to know you’s, the hands that rested comfortable on the small of our backs, all those tiny touches, smiles and secrets we shared. 

vi) summer driving with the windows down. warm golden rays stretching across the city, through the cold glass buildings, directly into my tired eyes.

vii) remembering that it was once good. 

viii) waking up and looking into the mirror, only to find my naked torso covered in your tiny scratches from the night before. 

A few days ago, a friend of mine passed away in a car crash. 

Three years ago, one of my oldest friends, someone who I grew up with, spent summers at camp with, who would always come over while our parents had tea and hung out, passed away, alone in his dorm room. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about life (more than usual) and how truly spectacular an experience it is. I think about how it really needs to be cherished, and protected. It shouldn’t be shared with those who don’t appreciate yours as much as they do their own. So after all of this extremely deep reflection… this happens….

***

Last night, a new person in my life came to hang out with me. After chatting and getting to know each other, we eventually kissed. It was sweet.

And then I broke out into hives everywhere he kissed because it seems that I am allergic to his saliva. But could you imagine if I weren’t allergic? No, of course you couldn’t. 

So here’s what would have happened had I not been allergic to this guy: we would have fooled around or had full on sex, we would have cuddled, I would have freaked out but pretended everything was okay, then I would have said goodbye and ignored his texts and been on weird. 

But thankfully, I’m allergic to him. Which means, we get to take it slow.

Such is life.

Outside, it snows. 

Small tiny flecks that float on down from the sky, gently tumbling through the air until they land quietly on the ground. It’s barely enough to constitute  an actual snowfall, but the crisp cold air and the smell of firewood says otherwise, because that old friend nostalgia has come home to roost and it’s almost beautiful out tonight. 

I’m standing in the middle of a high school parking lot, located somewhere south of where I used to live and a whole lot north of where I live now. Nothing about this place is familiar, but it feels like as if it should be because it all looks the same. For the two guys standing beside me though, this is their home, their old stomping grounds, and for a while, they make it feel like as if I spent my days here with them as well. 

The joint goes around, but it takes a while to circulate with the cold air continually putting out the tiny embers. Dylan holds it to my mouth while I curve my hands and give it a light. I inhale and let the smoke rush in, the orange glow pulsing with every puff like a heartbeat. I hold the air in my lungs as Dylan pulls it away towards his own mouth, inhaling the smoke and pulling the orange closer towards him. 

And then it begins: my mind races through a million thoughts per second  in complete awareness of every thought and sense receptor that passes through my body—the cold, the tingle, the heat, the sky, the lights, the colours, the smells and more, it rushes in on me like a wave and I struggle to fight the beautiful nausea that rides me like the tide. We begin talking about our lives, moving from our sordid sexual exploits to the futility of family, government and protest. But somewhere between multiple personalities and the cult of Facebook, I lose them and retreat into my own twisted spiral of darkness. 

The world grows silent. The two of my friends notice that I’ve checked out, and I can feel their eyes on me like a million tiny needles digging in at me through my skin. I close my own eyes, but I can still feel them prodding at me in an attempt to elicit any sign of life, something, anything to cure them of their paranoia.

And then it happens. 

Why this body? 

Why this earth? 

Why this race, this culture, this moment in time—was I nothing but a series of chemical processes—? A fluke, a mistake, a disposable outcome of this great beast called life—where was God, where was faith and hope and all these totems of human greatness that we’ve struggled for centuries to discover and conquer, all for what? Rivers of blood down city streets, shattered bones and mangled flesh; just look at what we’ve done to each other! How can you stand idly by and not say a word? Men and women combusting in self immolation—throw yourself upon your sword, death before dishonour, don’t let them see you die, but how can you not? Death is so beautiful, such a mangled twisted experience, what a show, what a show this all is… So bare your ugly soul for a measly photo. Capture yourself in this moment, because it will never happen again; you standing beside your mother, her arm around you, the long curls of her hair brushing along your face, the smell of her perfume and the taste of iced tea that hit your lips, when you rushed inside immediately after that photography was taken! You won’t ever be as happy as you are now, you won’t ever be as young, pretty, smart, intelligent or alive… Can you feel the Earth shifting? Can you feel yourself being pulled further and further out to sea? Can you feel yourself drowning and coming to peace with letting it all go?

Can you feel yourself giving up?

His hands, hot like embers, touch my cheek and I’m roused awake, pulled out by Dylan’s eyes. They look deep into me, searching for a trace of where I went, a postcard, anything to give an explanation, but instead I smile and let the paper burn out at the edge of my fingertips, the smoke vanishing, never to be seen again.

My birthday, like other major events such as grocery shopping alone, brushing my teeth alone and seeing theatre alone, reminds me of my status as the Single Best Friend. Yes, I just made that up, and yes, I do know that it’s not at all original. But self deprecation and my acute awareness of such self deprecation is what makes me so normal.

Just ask one of those 5 gays. Cause here’s the thing: single people are funny. Single people with friends who are all partnered up, are even funnier. That is why the majority of people on sitcoms and other comedies forever remain single. Domestic bliss is boring as fuck, and my Birthday is a great example of the maudlin antics that befit a guy like me.

Historically, my birthday usually unfolds like this:

1) Get ready alone in my bathroom.

2) Meet my couple friends that were all single when we first met, but have since become co-owners of condos and puppies.

3)

 

4) Arrive with the survivors of my birthday dinner at a club, ready to dance the night away.  As the couples drop like flies, ready to go home in time to fit in one episode of Gilmore Girls on DVD, I continue to dance like a fool. 

5) Continue dancing with various friends, drink the free drinks, and try not to feel old as the young bodies continually pass by in favour of other younger (whiter) bodies. 

6) Throw in the towel and get so fucked up that I don’t remember the night. 

FIN. 

But honestly, this is getting a little too self-deprecating, even for me. Because as shitty as being the Single Best Friend is, there are some highlights to my unique life situation. I get to focus on the relationships that I do have. Often times, friendships and familial relations are overlooked in favour of romantic ones. This is because we have a sick fascination with coupling up. No one wants to be alone, because being alone is the greatest failure of life (at any age, apparently). 

When my sister got married, the strained relationship between the two of us began to find its footing. I was able to reconnect with her while at the same time get to know the stranger who was soon to become my brother-in-law. By being her brother and letting go of all the petty grievances I had bottled up over the years, I was able to set myself free. I took part in her wedding, I spent a lot of time with her and we began to forge a new relationship that was free of all the bullshit that had accumulated throughout our childhood. 

And as for my best friend Mark.

It was always a challenge growing up with him while he lived in Toronto. When we went out together, he got a lot of attention. He’s a very attractive, blonde-haired-blue-eyed PYT, and there’s only so much “who’s your cute friend?” a guy can take. I was (and still am) dealing with my own fucked up race issues, and going out dancing with him never helped, because it made me feel ugly and unwanted. I feel like I should have told him then, but I just didn’t know how to explain something like that. I didn’t have the words or the concepts to even begin discussing that with myself. 

These days, it still happens when I go out with certain friends. In this attention-crazy world, how can you not feel like shit when you barely get a bump’n’grind at the club? But being the SBF, it is almost like a self-prophesizing right of passage to find the time to really work on yourself. You come to certain conclusions about your own experiences, and soon enough, things don’t seem as dark and depressing as they used to be. Because once you stop looking for the guys who aren’t looking at you, you just might be able to catch the guys who are looking at you.

But back to Mark. Watching him interact with his boyfriend, the guy who recently moved in with him and bought him a brand new desk (equipped with some much needed book shelf space) as a surprise, is fucking heartwarming. Their affections drive me insane when their in front of me, but when I take a step back and watch what’s actually unfolding before my eyes, I feel nothing but happiness for them. 

***

I’ve arrived at the understanding that happiness and love come in many different shapes. I’ve always thought this, but actually trying to integrate this idea into my daily life is really fucking hard, and expensive, mostly due to wine. And as of late, I’ve come to recognize how good I actually have it. I’ve got the unique privilege of choosing how I accept the love around me now, so that I can better give it to a future loved one later on (hopefully before I die). Love can be a splendid thing, but it can also be destructive (closeted married men). People love in different ways, and because of this, it’s not always necessarily good (even if the sex is). 

The job of the SBF is not easy. It’s oftentimes lonely and difficult, but once in a while you just have to take a step back and tell yourself: Right now, I have the rare opportunity to witness some really amazing things happen to my friends and family. I get to focus on things that I’m going to wish I had time for later on in the future. Why waste this freedom now, pining for something that isn’t ready for me yet? 

I spend a large amount of my time thinking about things. 

I like to analyze, deconstruct, and imagine things constantly. I like to analyze all the relationships that I have, weighing out the effort and the love, the honesty and the weight, just to feel secure in my own abilities to be a good person. I spend hours beneath the spray of my shower, tearing apart the pesky insecurities that get in the way of everything involved with love and life.

And then, I dream. I imagine great things for my sister, my friends, and sometimes myself. I imagine the worst that could become of me. I imagine future potential failures, because I secretly like to scare myself into getting shit done. I dream up fantasies of a life at forty and what that might look like. I even try to rewrite the past, falling into the that dreaded sea of impossibility, only to slowly drown in that familiarity of regret and nostalgia.

But today? Today I dreamed about a guy I’ve had a crush on for a long while now. He is a guy who has come in and out of my life over the past few years, who I saw earlier today when he came to the city before leaving to catch a flight out west. 

I listened to him tell me stories about his new life as I watched myself grow smaller and smaller in the background. I wondered, “What would it take to make me a part of your life?” 

What would it take for you to see me as more than just a friend? Did we pass that moment, already? Did we pass it the last time I saw you? Or am I just imagining things?

And now, sitting here in my apartment, I ask myself: Why is my story always the same? Why am I always the one who asks, “Why not me?” 

Ten years from now, if this guy is nothing but a faded, distant memory, I’ll still wonder about him. I’ll wonder how he is, if he’s found someone, and if he is happy. I’ll want to reach out and catch up, but at the same time be afraid to intrude, force myself into a world that’s already gone. 

I know I should get up. I know I should close the browser window, brush my teeth and head on out. 

I need to respond to those work e-mails I’ve left piling up in my inbox. I need to get groceries, and submit that application before the deadline, but I always work better under pressure. So maybe I’ll leave it till tomorrow.

I really want to get an early start today. I should make myself breakfast and brew some coffee, because I need to save money. I should get up out of bed, right now. Do it, just throw back the covers and get up, because as soon as I am on my two feet, the rest just becomes so much easier. 

 Power through it. Don’t think, just do. Be that person you say you are. Don’t let your generation get the best of you. You always say to your friends, “you only live once.” So live what you say. Do everything you need to do, and don’t stop doing it until you’ve reached your goal. And then move onto the next one.

The hardest part is getting up.

So get up.

Get up.

Get the fuck up. 

I have a tendency to waste the hours away. Everyday that I set aside to write or be productive, I instead spend it lying around, listening to an acoustically driven playlist of melancholy fit for the most self-pitying of all self-pittiers, ever. It brings me back to all of my past almost-maybe-could’ve beens that never were, because holding on to those distant memories is all I can seem to do right. I’ve spun a story that won’t quit.

What makes it all more pathetic is that I always feel like as if I’m on the verge of breaking out of it. For the past two, four, six years of my life, I have drifted between breaking free and standing still. I know where I am and I know that the current level of challenges are manageable. But if I take that step, if I give myself that push and take charge, the biggest thing holding me back is my fear of failing. I read those stupid quotes about failure and I hate them all because they remind me of me. The thought of me as that person sickens me to my core, and yet I still can’t seem to escape it. I’m stuck in a cycle, a vicious one that laughs at me in my sleep. By now, I’ve probably rewritten this post fifteen times, but with different words and different metaphors. 

Here’s the kicker: I’ve internalized this notion that unless I’m in a relationship, my life hasn’t really started yet. It’s absolutely ridiculous and if my friends ever said this to me, I’d probably roll my eyes and tell them to get over it. The trouble is, I’m not sure how. That sense of failure for not being attractive enough, smart enough, cool enough to nab a boy eats me up inside. That then snowballs into my insecurities about being Chinese, because even when guys write on their profiles, “Into South Asians”, I can’t even compete because I’m from the wrong part of Asia (cue, violin). The feeling that I can’t ever win is unbelievably overwhelming at times.

I want to find my happiness in me. I want to find it by looking in the mirror. I want to achieve the end goal of this blog, the very reason why I started. I want to embrace myself fully and love myself for who I am. I want to fix my smile so that I can smile more. I want the frown lines that have etched themselves into my face to change, to curve, to bend, to defy gravity. 

I want to end this stupid vicious cycle. 

for the first time in my life, i don’t want you. i want so much more than you. instead, i want to give the world to myself. i want the sun and the trees and the air and the sky to breathe for me. i want to treat me like i’ve always wanted to treat you; a shapeless figure of my own demented imagination, a fantasy born our of a romantic topography; a hopelessly devoted dream. 

What’s up, fellow lovers?

- It’s happened. Kai has finally moved out of Richmond Hill, and is now an official resident of the City of Toronto. I’ve got a fantastic roommate named Jeff, a fridge full of beer, and more white wall space than an American Apparel ad. I’ve got no money to spend on furniture, a credit card full of debt, and a yearning for a brand new start. If I were a TV show, this entire part would have been seen through a fun, snappy montage.

- Still working for Apple. Still trying to figure it out. Still trying to make a living.

- My sister is just a few blocks east, which is awesome. This means that I get unlimited access to Applesauce, the most adorable doggy in the world, as well as some quality brother-sister time. I went to visit her today and we actually had a really great conversation about our work-life balance and the complex nature of the work we do. So we pretty much had a full on conversation about business, which was totally new to me because I don’t usually do the business-chatter well. But surprisingly enough, I held my own and I ended up learning a lot from her. 

- I miss my grams.

- There’s an emerging writers conservatory program that I’m applying to. If I get in, and chances are slim to none, this could change my life. More on that, later. 

- I’m sort of lonely. 

And now, a picture of a brand new pair of American Eagle undies. They’re actually quite awesome…