Monthly Archives: February 2005

Question #1: If your exboyfriend’s next girlfriend after you is a dog, is that a good or bad thing?

On the one hand, it’s a good thing because you told him he couldn’t do
better than you and he’s proven that. You’re the still best (looking)
thing to come along so far.

On the other hand, you start to wonder if you’re at the same level
(looks wise) with her. I mean, he’s gone after both of you. Are you
both in the same league?

Of course, I realize that it’s supposed to have no bearing. You’re not
with him anymore. And every subsequent girlfriend, every subsequent relationship doesn’t
necessarily reflect anything about you and your relationship with that boyfriend.

Question #2: If a guy who say he’s gay hits on you, does that mean you’re way too drunk or does that mean he’s not gay?

Let’s just say, it was an interesting Friday night. Can you be a closet hetero?


My boyfriend tells me that he’d never use the line “It’s not you. It’s
” Why? He tells me he’d prefer “It’s not me. It’s you.” While I
smacked him upside the head for such a cheesy joke, I started to think.
There’s a painful truth in his words.

No one believes they are wrong or at fault. It’s really is the other
person who is wrong or at fault. Human beings are innately selfish and
egotistical creatures. We don’t like to think we’re wrong. But we like
to think of ourselves as altruistic creatures so we let the other
person down easy by saying “It’s not you. It’s me.” It’s bull.

If it was me, I’d sure as hell stay in a relationship if it was me. For
instance, if I believed I wasn’t ready for a relationship I’d stay with
my SO. Because I would believe I could make it work out. Because if I
truly wanted to be with my SO, I’d do everything in my power to be with

If, on the other hand, I believed he was getting boring or annoying,
I’d let him go. In no way would I think “maybe I’m just really
irritable and I should learn to get over that. It’s really my fault
that my SO is annoying the living daylights outta me.” I’d dump that
sucker’s ass before his stupid idiosyncrasies make me want to rip my
hair out.

Don’t fool yourself into believing the “It’s not you. It’s me” line
when it’s given to you. It’s really you. But y’know what? Who needs a
coward like that who’s too afraid to tell you the real reason why he
doesn’t want to be with you?

***Warning: Too much information up ahead***

I woke up this morning with a blinding, crippling pain in my tummy. So I
decided to make my toilet my best friend. Damn lactose in milk, cheese
and cream. I wish I had a constantly steam of lactaid running through
my body.

Someone, Sometimes

Sometimes, “for the better” is the most painful thing you have to do. But in the end,
you can’t live in your insanity, in your confusion and your past
forever. You need to leave to let go.

So sometimes you need to push someone away, someone you don’t want to
go away. But you need to do it in order to find your sanity and
yourself again. Sometimes you do things you’re not proud of. You stop
returning phonecalls. You never answer emails. You say hurtful things
you know aren’t true. But you say them anyways. You ignore, hoping that
person will get the message. To just go away and leave you alone.

And when you find out it worked, at once you feel relieved and
saddened. Because you didn’t want that person to go away. You just knew
they had to.

To Someone,

I know you’ll probably never end up reading this, because by now I’m sure you’ve
long forgotten about me and moved on. I’m sorry for how cold I seemed.
It was mean. I was mean. I still think about you. I wonder how you are.
Sometimes, I’m tempted to write you an email and say something. Just something
friendly, a simple: “Hello! How are you?” But I know better. I know
you’re no good for me. I know that by opening up those communication
lines, I’m setting myself up for hurt. I’m making myself vulnerable to
your kind of poison.

To Someone,

It hurt a lot at the time. The memory of it still stings like a
fresh open wound. At the time, it felt like you were being so cold, not
the man I thought you were. Now, with the hindsight of a while, I see
that maybe you were trying to live up to the man you wanted to
be. The man you couldn’t be that day quite yet. I don’t forgive you
quite yet. But I will soon.


The other day, I was walking by my ex-boyfriend’s workplace when I
pointed him out to Vitamin_D who exclaimed: Wow, he’s hairy. I burst out
laughing because it was so true. Maybe the effect was heightened
because he was standing next to a bald man, but there was no denying it.
He was hairy. Very hairy. A veritable walking furcoat.

I date hairy men. Three out of my five ex-boyfriends have been
hair-gifted. (Thus far, we can surmise that I go for hairy, tall,
skinny, geeky, Asian men.)

Hairy face.
Hairy legs.
Hairy backs.
Hairy bellies
Hairy toes.
Hairy asses.
Hairy .

Here a hair. There a hair. Everywhere a hair. It’s crazy where hair
sprouts on some men’s bodies. (Nipples…ew…ears…shudder…nose…no!!) And the
amount! Oh, the amount! It ain’t pretty. Sometimes it’s so much, you
can’t even classify it as hairy anymore. It has meandered into the
realm of furry.

It’s not that I purposely go out looking for hairy men. They look
normal when you see them from the neck up. It comes as a surprise to
find out their hair quotient (A horrible, horrible surprise). I’ve
always pushed my boyfriends to do something about their hair. I’ve
convinced many a men to pluck their brows. I’ve always been adamant
about shaving off facial hair. I’ve even convinced one man to nair off
his pube hairs. Hairy is not sexy.*

So men, I’d like to put out this request: Don’t be afraid of hair
removal! It’s not girly. Especially don’t be afraid of waxing (in
particular if you are part of the Hairy Ass Club). The pain is quick
and fleeting. And if you’re that afraid, down a few shots before you go
get waxed. There’s nothing sexier than baby smooth skin on a men.

*This does not apply to me however. I’ve been known to go months at a
time without letting a razor come near my legs. Let’s not even go into
my other body parts.


On a less superficial note:

Y noted the other day to me that my family doesn’t eat together. I
scoffed at the idea at first. Of course we ate together,….didn’t we?
I could recall numerous lunches and dinners we’ve had together, sitting
around the table talking about our day. But those dinners were years
ago. I can barely recall the last time my family and I ate together.
It’s been so long. They usually eate dinner without bothering to call
me to eat. I usually prepare my own stuff to eat, or I’m eating out
somewhere with someone, or I skip it altogether. It’s sad that this little common ritual we used to share together is lost.

My family and I have not been close in the past year. The distance
between us is huge. It hasn’t been this expansive since I was a
rebellious 16 year old. It’s different this time around too because
it’s not a gap I’ve purposely created in a silly attempt to have
independence. It’s been incidental. They’ve been busy trying to get the
new business started. I’ve been busying working and hanging out with my
new boyfriend (On a different tangent, can I still call him new if it’s
been six months? It still feels new…). My room in our new house is
huge, with its own tv, computer and ensuite (Is that what we call the
little bathroom in attached to a bedroom?). Except for the occassional
snack or glass of water, there’s no reason for me to leave. I have a
new car so I’m mobile, out at work, with the boyfriend or somewhere
else in Vancouver.

We don’t talk much anymore, except for the occassional bits and pieces
of information about work or my boyfriend. They don’t ask much and I
don’t offer much. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid of how incapable we are
of deep and lengthy conversation. Maybe they don’t want to ask more
questions for fear that I’ll interpret it as prying and push them
further away.

So now, they know almost nothing about my life. I know so little about
theirs. It’s sad. I want a closer relationship with my family. I’ve
seen some of my friends who have such horrible relationships with their
parents. They call their mother “nag” and “bitch”. They don’t talk to
their father. They say they hate their parents. I don’t want my
relationship with my parents to turn into that. I don’t hate them. I
love them. And I miss them.


The Mistress of Porn strikes again. Click here for Paris Hilton’s cellphone pics and phonebook. Hehehehe. Thanks gloomybb!

Valentine’s Day

I hope everyone had a nice Valentine’s Day. If you’re reading this,
I’ll assume you survived the onslaught of Hallmark cards, chocolates,
flowers and other assorted lovey dovey paraphernalia. It’s not really
so bad, is it? Or maybe I only say this because I’m with someone, and
he actually celebrated it with me.

The Ghosts of Girlfriends Past

I watched “Little Black Book” last night with Y. For those of you who
don’t know, it’s about this girl who goes through her boyfriend’s palm
pilot and scopes out his ex-girlfriends. Of course, she regrets doing
this as she digs herself into a deeper and deeper hole, until
eventually (and inevitably) it all blows up in her face.

I can understand the temptation of it all – the curiosity about the
ghost of girlfriends past. I’ll admit that I’m curious about Y’s
ex-girlfriends. I’ve heard bits of stories here and there. I actually
have met one of them. I chatted with her a few items when she and Y
were still together and long before Y and I were going out. But that’s
all I know: bits and pieces. I don’t know what the exes were like,
their personalities, their looks, their anything. I only have small
glimpses and insights as to why they’re not together anymore.

It’s not because I don’t want to know. I do. I’m very curious. But over
the years, I’ve learned that it’s better to be ignorant about some of
these things. And in the end, it really is better that I don’t know.

In my own past relationships, I’ve asked question after question after
question about the exes, in particular about THE EX. Y’know which one
I’m talking about: the first love. Or the one who took his virginity
away. Or the one who truly broke his heart. (She didn’t just break his
heart. She chewed it up, spit it out, shot it a few times and then
stepped on it with her pointy stilettoes just to make sure it was
dead.) I’d be curious about her looks: Was she prettier than me? Did
she have bigger boobs? I’d be curious about her personality: Was she
smarter than me? Is she really the crazy pyro alcoholic that your best
friend refers to her as? And the absolute worst: I’d be curious about
the sex: Was she better than me? Of course, he’d give me the standard
answers: No. No.  No. Yes. No.

Although maybe he was being truthful, telling me she doesn’t compare to
the greatness of ME, I never fully believed it was the truth. I always
compared myself to her and always believe that I came up short. I’d
always wonder why he loved her and why he loves me? I mean, what did we
have in common? How were we different? I suppose that somewhere in the
back of my mind, I believed that he was still in love with her. Even if
it ended two years ago before we had ever gotten together. Even if she
was long gone and he was long over her.

The doubts and insecurities I had. I mean, if she was his first great
love, then why wouldn’t he still be in love with her? Still carry a
torch for her? And if she made this much of an impact on him, then what
am I to him? Chopped liver? (sidenote: Has anyone ever tried chopped
liver? Is it so bad that we always use it as an analogy for boring and
worthless and gross and disgusting? Anyway…) Does he still think
about her a lot? If given the chance, would he rather be with her than
me? Is he settling for me because I’m the best thing to come along so

Because that’s what it’s really all about: me and my own insecurity, me
looking for assurance: not so much her and their relationship. The
answers to the questions about the girlfriends of yesteryear lead only
to more questions and more insecurity. Nothing is really resolved by
knowing the details. At least, not for me.

These days, I’m content with letting the past stay in the past. Y is
with me because he wants to be with me. It’s pretty insulting for both
me and Y to think he’s just settling for me, because I’m not pathetic
and Y’s not desperate. We’re with each other because we want to be.

So while my general belief about life is that knowledge is power, this is one exception where ignorance truly is bliss.

Stupid Moment of the Day:

I was halfway done shaving my legs when I realized I still had the
cover on my razor. Maybe that was why the razor just glided so easily.


I was talking on MSN to this guy who I met a few times at parties over
the years. We had an interesting conversation about the “types” of
people we’re attracted to. He told me he likes girls who are nice,
smart and have a nice pair of legs. (Yes, who does?) Then the
conversation turned to me. He’s met about two or three of my
boyfriends, so he had a few opinions. The conversation went something
like this:

Friend: Yeah I noticed that you like guys that are kinda…
Me: …geeky? nerdy? LOL
Friend: You said it, Not me. But yeah, why do you go for those kinda guys? I mean, I’d think you could get any guy you wanted.
Me: I dunno, I always went for the geeks.
Friend; Why?
Me: I guess it’s because I’m really a geek too. I just hid it better. Heeheehee, closet geek.

Mmmm,… something about those geeky guys. I guess it’s because they’ve
got a lot more interesting things to say. And their sense of humour is
a lot wittier and warped. Conventionally cute/hot guys have never done
it for me. They’re one in a million.

Since I could remember, I’ve always gone after the geeks. Like jesslaw,
I’ve always rooted for the underdog. Of course, being a geek, myself,
they (ironically?) never gave me a second look and were always mooning
after the popular girl in class. Ah well, missed chances and

Quotation I Like:

“But consider the moment after we are released from extreme pain. What
happens next? No one ever told me that in order to feel ecstasy I would
have to experience its opposite.”
-Martha Brooks, “One Woman’s Experience with the Ecstatic” in Dropped Threads (2001).

Ruminations and Partially-Formed Ideas About Bad Girls and Good Girls

DISCLAIMER: The following does not apply to all men. These are just
observations based on my own and my friends’ personal experiences.

On Boxing Day, I took my cousin G out shopping. We found these Betty
and Veronica t-shirts at Off The Wall. She told me she always wanted to
be Veronica, which surprised me because she’s such a good girl. I
always wanted to be Betty. The smart, studious, sweet, goodie two shoes
rather than the bitchy spoiled self centred attention whore. (On a side
note: Hmmm,… maybe what I never liked in Veronica is what I didn’t
like in myself? Interesting thought.) And I thought everyone else felt
this way, but it turns out that a lot of my friends also wanted to be
Veronica as well. But Betty was the one who I loved and always
rooted for. But inevitably, Archie chose Veronica 90% of the time which
irked me so much that I actually boycotted the Veronica themed issues.

Something else that irks me is that men constantly complain about how girls like to go for the bad boys,
how nice guys always finish last. (And I’ll admit, there is some truth to that.) But
what a lot of guys refuse to acknowledge with that argument is that
they too go for the bad girls! Men want hot girls. What’s that saying?
Men want to go to bed with a
whore and wake up with an angel? Or date the bad girl but marry the
good girl? It’s true! It’s true, it’s true, it’s true. There’s a reason why Veronica always got Archie.

For instance, one of my friends is what you could call a “bad girl” and in comparison, I am the good girl. For example:
-I am cute whereas she is HOT.
-She’s bitchy and outspoken. I am nice with an occassional bit of bitchiness.
-She moved out at 18 while I still live with my parents.
-I’ve got the book smarts and she’s got the street smarts.
-She’s been clubbing since she was 15. I never stepped into a club until four months after I turned 19.
-She’s experimented with,…er… stuff. I’ve never experimented with,…er… stuff.
And everytime we go out, time after time, guys constantly drool over
her. They ask her for her number. Instead of being the “hot” one, I’m
always the dreaded “girl with the hot best friend”. I am the girl that
people have to get to know to like.

Which isn’t a bad thing. I mean, yay for having a good personality! But
it would be nice to be thought of as hot. It would be nice for a guy I
think is hot to think I’m hot too.

Then again, with a few of my friends, I’m the “bad girl.” I am the wild
one who actually goes clubbing and gets drunk once in a while. I am the
one who dares to wear the boobie tops, the low waist jeans and the
short skirts. I am the outspoken one with all the witty sarcastic
remarks. I am the one with most experience with boys and dating. I find
around those girl friends, I am the one who gets the attention.

But it’s funny. I didn’t plan to be the bad girl with these friends,
just as I didn’t plan to take on the good girl persona with my other
friend. It just happened. But I gotta admit, I’m more comfortable with
the “good girl” label than I am about the “bad girl” label which is
fairly new to me.

So all of this makes me wonder, what’s the allure of the bad girls? Is
it because she’s sexy and secure and doesn’t take crap from anyone?