A formal retraction of the previous post

I would like to retract everything I wrote in the previous entry.

I am not glad I met him.

Send me vodka and peaches please.

M xxx


I don’t care how we met, I’m just glad we did (but I’m also glad it’s a cute story)

Up until this afternoon, I thought a “meet cute” was the name of the sandwich Channing Tatum makes up in 22 Jump Street after dropping his used Q-Tip into his teammate’s sandwich. Apparently, that’s not what it is.

For those of you who don’t know, a meet cute is apparently the adorable story of how you met your SO. Some “how we met” stories are cuter than others (my grandparents were a blind date, my parents met at a Wendy’s, my best friend met her husband in the school cafeteria junior year of high school). The rise of using apps to meet people has really eliminated the super adorable “How We Met” story, which is why it’s becoming a less common question to ask.

If you interact with me on a regular basis, you know that one of my worst habits is comparison. I compare everything. And one of the things I compare the most is the behaviours of the boy and me to other people’s relationships. We never seem to come out on top, mainly because we never see each other. But there is one thing I am proud to say we absolutely win at – we win at the meet cute. I’m not going to get into detail because, let’s be real, I don’t want this all over the internet. But I can summarise: girl moves into student housing in a foreign country and sees boy, attraction at first sight, boy and girl start something, boy ends it, girl and boy hate each other all term, boy wins girl over 6 months after she leaves…and it just keeps getting better and better.

Although our “How We Met” story is cute and something out of a chick flick, I don’t care. I don’t care at all. I would have been okay meeting him through an app. I would have been okay meeting him in a bar. I would have been okay meeting him through a friend or as a set-up on a blind date.

I’m just glad I met him.


How many roads must this girl walk down before she can do it without panicking?

Imagine you’re really good at something that people struggle with. It makes you happy. You feel energised by this activity, even though many find it taxing and draining. You look forward to when you can do it again. If it were up to you, you’d do it every day. You fall in love with it a little bit more every time you do it. You can’t picture your life without it. It becomes a part of who you are.

Now imagine that something happens. Something happens that makes you afraid to do this activity. Instead of the joyful and successful feelings it brought you, it now brings dry mouth, nausea and shakiness. You dread the thing that you once loved. You loathe the parts of yourself that you gave to it.

I have always been a traveller. I never planned to stay in my hometown. Some people love the idea of ending up with someone who has known you since you were 15, I find that suffocating. By the time I was 15, I had already travelled outside of the United States 5 times – and not just to Canada or Mexico. I spent my freshman year in high school spring break in Australia, sophomore year winter break in Italy, junior year spring break in France and Spain. I kept a list of places I wanted to visit before I turned 25. I lived for the moment right before take-off when you know that the next time you touch the ground, you’ll be somewhere else.

And I’m good at travelling. I don’t need Xanax or alcohol to calm myself before a flight. I can pack for five days in a medium sized Longchamp bag – which I currently use as my daily handbag. I can sleep through a red eye, no problem (melatonin, an eye mask, earplugs and Evian facial spray). I can overcome a 5 hour time difference in 24 hours. I’m happiest when I’m planning to travel. I’m happiest when I’m overcoming jet lag. I’m happiest living out of a suitcase. If travel were free, you’d never see me again. I’m not the kind of person who wants to put down roots – I want to leave tendrils of myself somewhere to establish a base but I was born to roam the earth, collecting stamps on my passport and absorbing the world like a custard cream sops up tea.

But I’m afraid.

After April’s incident, I’m terrified. I learned that entry is a privilege, not a right. I learned what it feels like to be at the mercy of a government and to be treated like less than a person. And I never want to feel like that – so helpless and terrified and not in control – ever again. When I flew to Frankfurt this summer, I spent the entire flight awake – it was a red eye – and anxiously waiting to go through Passport Control. As a result, when we finally got to Frankfurt to change flights for Croatia, I had a raging migraine that took me all day to recover from (my migraines are crippling. They come on nowadays with very little warning and they are resistant to everything except for one prescription…which I just ran out of. When they stop responding to that, it’s the Imitrex pen for me). I then spent my holiday worrying about going back through Frankfurt and being stopped at Passport Control. And it’s not even just flying internationally, which I haven’t done since August. I panic when I’m dropping someone off at the airport. I panic when I fly domestic. I panic looking at my passport. I get so jealous of people I know who are travelling or plan to travel because they don’t understand how lucky they are that they just can without consequence or the crippling anxiety that they won’t be allowed into a country.

I was a great traveller. I was born under a wandering star, I’ve been here for too long and my feet are itchy (which makes me incredibly grumpy since I’m saving for grad school this autumn so it makes zero financial sense to move). I am craving Europe the way I crave Cheetos sometimes. And I am longing for the days when scanning my passport didn’t give me heart palpitations and when I could pop from country to country – when visiting my favourite place in the world wouldn’t require hundreds of dollars in visa applications. When travel made me feel completely free.




You thought I was just another bubble-headed blonde bimbo!

It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that I have been geeking out over Harley Quinn for ages before the first Suicide Squad trailer was even released. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that a certain individual will whisper “Why so serious?” in my ear at the most inopportune times (yes, yes, I am very much involved with a boy who loves him some Mr J. It’s most appropriate that we go hand in hand as well. He did not dig me in the blonde pigtails, but he does dig the red and blue hot pants. Boys). Fun fact for all you bandwagoners out there who jumped on the Quinzel train post-SKWAD trailer – Harley Quinn wasn’t in the comics originally; she was created to be the Joker’s sidekick. She was such a success (insert Harley happy squeal here) that they eventually wrote her into the Batman comics and gave her her own comic series. Sure, she’s a little crazy – in her own words, “a certified nutso wanted in twelve states and hopelessly in love with a psychopathic clown.”

MR quinn
Margot Robbie as Harley Quinn

At first, I felt really weird about how much I completely adore Harley. But then I realised – Harley Quinn isn’t pathetic and hung up on the Joker. She’s totally badass. She, like me, feels things so deeply that it affects who she is. The whole reason she fell for the Joker was because she empathised with him, she wanted to fix who caused his “troubled past.” She’s smart as hell – she’s a freaking doctor; Doctor Harleen Frances Quinzel. She just leads with her heart, allowing it to seep into her brain and govern all of her moves, even when they’re not exactly legal. And trust me – I get that. Not that I’ve discarded my identity to assist the boy in ridiculous crime sprees, but I do tend to let the emotions I feel be my guide.

Here’s the thing – Harley knows she’s crazy and she embraces it. She pulls out all the stops. She has no problem confessing that she’s got issues and she asks for help when she thinks it’s needed. She’s also willing to assist her adversaries when it’s called for (the BEST episode ever of Batman: The Animated Series and the reason I now sing/chant “Sneak, sneak, sneak!” whenever I do anything sneaky). She loves the Joker relentlessly, even when he’s so undeserving of her. And this is where I need to channel my inner Harley. I need to embrace my crazy, my anxiety, my flaws and make it a part of who I am. I need to love relentlessly even when someone doesn’t exactly deserve it. I’ve pushed aside my so called weaknesses as low-points and parts of myself that I just can’t accept. But I think Harley says it best.

“Look…I’m only doing this to help you. Let’s try this again. Acceptance.”

MM Quinn
My best friend as Ivy and yours truly as Harley, Halloween 2015

You got it, Harl.

I’m not made of glass although I fancy myself a broken doll

I have forever referred to myself as the “most broken China doll on the shelf”.

I started using this in high school after a very emo-esque foray into songwriting, where I compared myself to a paper doll (the guy I liked started dating a girl who looked like an uglier, larger version of a Barbie doll). Then it rapidly switched to porcelain and China when I started creating cracks in my own surface. When I went through a rough breakup my last year in college, I expressed relief to no longer be the most broken one out there when my very good friend got dumped after me (not in an insensitive way – it took me far too long to get over my exceptionally shitty former boything and it was a relief to have someone else’s pain over a similar issue distract me). I used broken glass to describe who I was, treating my own feelings like a microwave-safe plate from IKEA when really, they needed to be treated like ceramic – capable of being dropped but not too hard.

Right now I’m struggling with an AWOL boything and a lack of communication on his part. I get really frustrated with him when he doesn’t reply and I feel like I need him to. However, I recently stumbled across a quote in a book I’m reading (the same book that mentioned my name and my current boy’s name together as characters happily in love and comfortable – and my name is NEVER used in anything ever) that made me see the whole comparing myself to something glass and breakable in a completely different light.

“And that was my first lesson in learning that I wasn’t made of glass and there were a lot of things [he] couldn’t possibly know unless I told him.”

Wow. Okay. Here we go.

I am the worst at expressing what I need, especially from the boy. I send messages at times when I need him to be present but I don’t actually ever tell him I need him to reply. I convey no sense of urgency or need in these messages – they are simply “Hope exams are going well!” and “Have you seen the new Star Wars film?” and then when he doesn’t reply (and he is a busy boy, he’s got his masters and he’s been travelling), I whip myself into frenzied hysterics and anxiety over whether or not he will answer.

I am not made of glass. He can’t look at me (he’s thousands of miles away) and know what I need if I don’t tell him. I can’t get angry at him for not messaging me when I made no indication that he should and that I need to hear from him.

I am not made of glass and I will not break if he doesn’t reply.