"Yo-yo"


I’m your little yo-yo toy,
I fly up and down my string –
A flick and I crash down to earth,
A twist to reel me in.

I’m flung around at your leisure,
I’m at the mercy of your hand –
I’m gone when you don’t want me near,
And near at your command.

I’m always spinning hopelessly,
Stuck in this awful ring –
I wish that you would let me go,
Set me free of this damned string.

This is one of the few blog posts where I'm actually going to write about my life, but if I don't vent this, I'm going to explode.

Guys Nights generally occur when guys need to get away from girlfriends/work/school, etc, and just relax and do some male bonding. That's fine. But when a group of friends consists mostly of guys, and the few girls like to do the same things as the guys anyway, where does that leave the girls?

Shit out of luck.

Add to this equation the fact that Guys Night apparently happens several times a week, (Guy Shopping Night, Guy Game Night, Guys Go to Fredericton Weekend), and what do you get? A girl who finds that, for the most part, she can't hang out with her friends when they're doing fun things, because, due to her gender, they don't want her there.

Quite frankly, I'm tired of it, and I'm tired of the excuses that come with it ("Oh, well, the other girls would get jealous..."). Either man up and deal with the other girls, or man up and tell me the truth - that you don't want me there. Don't pussy out with, "Oh, we want you there, but [insert person/group/gender] would be jealous." That's just bullshit, and I'm sick and tired of it.

In any case, this girl is more than ready to find some friends to whom her gender isn't such a big issue.

My stomach twists painfully, my heart in my throat;
I find it difficult to breathe.
I feel like I'm falling.

This is not love.
Rather, this is it's aftermath.


I once was falling in love with you;
Been there, done that,
Now I'm simply plummeting.
Painful Reality looms up beneath me,
My parachute of Self-Righteous Anger and Purpose
Shot through with Guilt
That you yourself fire every time you steal a glance at me.

"Morning After"


Gentle morning sunlight and soft voices drifting in from the kitchen awoke her. She scrunched her eyes up tight, pulling the fleecy blanket over her head, in a vain attempt to drive away wakefulness and slide back into the dream she'd been having. Ultimately, it was no use, and if the sunlight hadn't kept her awake, then the headache that came rushing back the moment it saw the chance did the trick. Amy was officially, uncomfortably, awake.

Clutching the blanket tightly around her shoulders, she rolled onto her side, blinking painfully at the room in an attempt to remember where she was, exactly. As the living room swam into focus before her, she recalled the party the night before - the word "recall" being as loosely applied as possible, though. For instance, she did not remember falling asleep on this couch, and god knows where the fleece blanket she was wrapped in, depicting golden retriever puppies in a field, came from. Before her, dust motes wafted lazily on a beam of early morning sunshine, and her friend Kyle grinned down from his graduation picture on the wall. Blankets and pillows were tossed carelessly across the floor from where they'd been abandoned, their owners now awake and talking in soft tones in the kitchen down the hall.

Rolling onto her back, Amy tried to recall exactly the events of last night, attempting to think around a headache that felt like it was threatening to crush her brain. She remembered getting there with a couple of cases of coolers, and she remembered dancing with her friends with various drinks in her hand. She remembered that Spencer had come, with Rachel by his side... Amy groaned, pulling the blanket over her head, trying to drown out the thoughts that now came back to her all too willingly.

As if on cue, Spencer and Rachel, still in last night's clothes, stumbled through the living room towards the stairs, both looking disheveled, but Rachel looking particularly so. Amy shut her eyes as quickly as possible, trying to appear still asleep, but Spencer had already seen her. "Morning," he called softly, sheperding Rachel up the stairs and into the nearest bathroom. Amy nodded her reply, although the pair were already in the washroom, the door closing behind them.

Amy wished that she could go back in time ten minutes, just ten minutes, until she no longer remembered what occurred last night - or better yet, to last night itself, so she could prevent it from ever happening. She now vividly remembered her drunken conversation with Spencer, after Rachel had already passed out.

"Spencer!" she'd called to him, stumbling out the front door onto the porch, where he stood, gazing out across the yard. He was usually sober at parties - drinking didn't appeal to him. The fact that this conversation had taken place with Amy in this state certainly didn't make things better for her, then. "Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing. Just thinking," he'd replied, turning to face her, leaning back against the railing. "What about you? Done dancing?"


"No," she'd replied with a giggle. "I'm just too warm, that's all. You should be inside! People were looking for you."

"Oh?"

"Well... no. Mostly, I was looking for you."

"Ah."

Amy had skipped up beside him and attempted several times to seat herself upon the porch railing. After the fourth attempt, she finally made it, clutching to one of the posts to steady herself. Spencer had gone back to staring across the yard, and Amy had simply gazed at him.

She and Spencer had grown up together, just a few doors down from each other. They'd walked to school together, rode the bus together, and traded lunches. In grade two he'd protected her from bullies, and in grade five she'd helped him with math homework at recess, so he wouldn't get a detention for not doing it. The pair had been inseparable, and had even been nicknamed by their respective parents the "Dynamic Duo." They'd even made blue capes with a yellow construction paper "DD" on the back, to celebrate the title.

It was around grade eight that Amy became aware of Spencer's affection towards her, and frankly, it scared her. She'd never thought of him as more than a brother, and the idea of dating him just seemed too weird. She held onto that feeling right up until grade twelve - by which time Spencer had taken the hint, and moved on. It was in grade eleven that he started dating Rachel, and the two had seemed truly happy in their three years together. It was also around that point that Amy and Spencer had begun to drift apart, which wasn't helped by the fact that both were now attending different universities, in different cities.

"So whatcha thinking about?" Amy had finally asked, breaking the cool summer night's silence.

"Oh... not much," Spencer had replied offhandedly. "How's Rach doing?"

Amy had bristled a little at the question, though Spencer hadn't caught it. "Dunno. Still passed out, probably. She drank too much."


Spencer glanced at her sidelong. "Not the only one."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

"Amy, you're plastered."

"So? I can take care of myself."

"I didn't say that you cou-" he'd started, but Amy had cut him off.

"-Not that I would mind you taking care of me, y'know." The statement could have come out as innocent enough, if Amy hadn't rested her head on Spencer's shoulder at the same time, running her hand through his hair.

Spencer blinked, then backed away so he could stare at her. "...What?"

"Um... Nothing!" Amy tried to giggle unconvincingly (though, to her, it had seemed pretty convincing at the time.) "I meant as friends, of course. You're my best friend."

"I don't... I don't think you meant it like that."

"And what if I didn't?" she'd asked brazenly, despite her attempt to cover up the statement only moments previous.


Spencer had just stood back and looked at her, and after that, she didn't remember very much - though she did have a vague memory of throwing up in the bushes next to the porch, a feeling of horror that went beyond nausea sitting in the pit of her stomach the entire time. She hadn't meant to say it - but, like the vomit, the words had just slipped right out.

That wasn't to say, of course, that she didn't mean what she'd said last night. Even after all this time, she still felt very deeply about Spencer. She didn't know whether it was love or not - who would? - but it was the most she'd felt for anyone. That fact that she hadn't realized her feelings for him until grade twelve - when it was far too late - nearly killed her every time she thought of it, like a recurring disease that that her body refused to build up an immunity to.


The toilet flushed from upstairs, pulling Amy from her reverie and signaling that Rachel was busy purging the alcohol from her system. Judging by how much she'd drank last night, she'd be up there a while. ...Or maybe not? The bathroom door quietly opened a crack, but only Spencer appeared on the landing, closing the door behind him. He descended the stairs, and, much to Amy's horror, took a seat next to her couch. His hair was sleep-ruffled, his dark eyes still bleary from a restless sleep.

"So how're you feeling?" he asked, eyeing her warily, as if she, too, might puke at any moment.

Amy responded with a groan. "All right, I suppose. Tired. It feels like my skull's caving in on my brain."


Spencer nodded solemnly. "No wonder. You... You had a bit, last night."

"I recall."

The two sat in an uncomfortable silence for a moment, and only the flushing of the toilet upstairs gave Spencer an excuse to look away. Finally, though, he decided to address the elephant in the room - the big, infatuated, drunken elephant.

"...Do you recall what you said last night?" he asked, eyes still focused firmly on the closed bathroom door.

"That AC/DC isn't all it's cracked up to be?"

Spencer finally looked at her, as far from amused as it was possible to be. Amy cringed at her poor attempt at humour.

"No. The other thing."

"...Too well."

Another short pause. Spencer took a deep breath.

"Was that simply you drunkenly flirting with me? I know you tend to do that, when you're drunk..."

"If I say yes, will you believe me?"

"Well, not now, I won't."

"Then I'll say yes anyway, to make myself feel better."

The toilet flushed again, and Spencer stood up. "Hang on a sec. I should get her some water."

He wandered down the hall, the soft and constant chorus of voices greeting him enthusiastically as he entered the kitchen. A moment later he was back and climbing the stairs, a glass of water in his hand. The door closed, and Amy shut her eyes tight, wishing desperately that this conversation was not happening. What a mess she'd created for herself. She decided that unrequited love was far less poetic when the recipient was aware of it. Then it just became awkward.

All too soon, Spencer was back and seated next to her. The toilet flushed again.

"How's she doing, anyway?" Amy ventured, trying to steer the conversation to safer waters. Spencer shrugged.


"She'll be lucky if she can hold anything down for longer than ten minutes, the rate she's going at. I expect she'll be fine by tonight, though."

"That's good." Silence reigned for another good twenty minutes, sustained by the soft, constant thrum of the kitchen conversation, and punctuated by the sounds of the toilet. Once again, Spencer felt responsible for breaking the silence.

"I was going to propose to her, you know."

Amy sat bolt upright. Unrequited love or no, Spencer remained one of her closest friends, and the fact that he hadn't mentioned this before now stung deeply. The stinging, however, was overwhelmed by the throbbing head rush, and Amy was forced to lay back down.

"...When did you decide that?" she tried to ask nonchalantly, as if her violent reaction hadn't just occurred.

"A couple of months ago. Now, though..."

"Now, what?"

He shrugged, staring down the hall, but simultaneously looking past everything, as if to forget the crowd in the kitchen, his girlfriend in the bathroom upstairs, and Amy, sitting next to him. "...You know I still like you," he finally offered.

"No. I didn't know."

"Well, now you do. And if, maybe, there's still a chance for you and I..."

"No."

"What?" Spencer turned to look at her, clearly confused. "But you-"

"I know. But I know you love Rachel, Spence. I see it clearly everytime you're together. And hell, you've been together for nearly four years now. Who's even to say we'd last out a month?"

Spencer sat quietly, deep in thought, and Amy's voice softened. "Decide whatever makes you happy, and don't worry about 'if's. Whether you marry her or not, I'll always be here for you."

Spencer smiled warmly at her, the smile that had always signalled to her that they'd be friends forever. "Thanks."

Amy grinned, trying to offer some levity into the conversation, and pushed him gently. "Don't mention it. You'll know I'll always trade my bag lunches with you."

The moment was interrupted by the toilet flushing again, this time accompanied by the bathroom door opening, and Rachel crawling partway out onto the landing. "Speeenceerrrr... Can you bring me some more water, please? Mine... didn't stay down."

Spencer nodded, jumping to his feet. "Be right up, love." He dashed out to the kitchen again, and Rachel retreated back into the bathroom. When Spencer returned down the hall, water in hand, he glanced over at Amy.

"I think I'm going to propose to her."

"I think I knew that."

Spencer smiled longingly at Amy, then disappeared back upstairs and into the bathroom. Amy, meanwhile, turned to face the couch, before anyone could see her eyes burning, prospective tears ruining her already sleep-smeared makeup. Quite frankly, she, too, felt nauseous - though for a reason that no simple glass of water could help.

Kara's Vagina Monologue:

My university just recently performed The Vagina Monologues, and this is the second year in a row that I've participated, last year as one of the introductory women, and this year performing the monologue "Hair." Last year I spent simply figuring out what the Monologues were (I originally thought that perhaps the use of the word "vagina" was as a metaphor for women - surprise! It's actually about vaginas), and coming to terms with the fact that I was saying "twat" onstage. This year, however, now that I was more familiar with the material, I began to feel some discomfort with it.

As mentioned, I presented the monologue "Hair" this year - possibly the only monologue that I found that I could even vaguely relate to. Truth be told, unlike the women we portrayed in the Monologues, who all have varying relationships with their "down theres," I don't think about my vagina very much at all. I don't find it ugly (though I don't find it particularly attractive, either), it's not a "bad luck zone," it's not a "beautiful flower," and I don't imagine it to be furniture. I don't think about it any more than I think about my little finger, really, and, for that matter, I don't find it any more integral to my self-identity as a woman - no more than my breasts, period, or fallopian tubes, anyway. So where, exactly, does that leave me as a member of the Monologues? I felt that, like most women (I'm assuming), I don't stop to consider my vagina very often, and so have no place here.

I have to wonder, as well, about the choice of simply the vagina as representative of women's empowerment. Why something so inherently sexual? Why not call it the Uterus Monologues, and employ our reproductive capabilities as empowering? Or, hell, just call them the Women's Monologues, and celebrate every part of our bodies, from our breasts to our periods to our seemingly inherent nurturing capabilities? It is true that the vagina is useful as a symbol for femaleness, being the center of childbirth, sex, and, unfortunately, abuse, but, unlike the woman stated in "The Vagina Workshop," my vagina is NOT my center. As not just a woman, but a fully functional, capable, and intelligent human being, I am so much more than simply my vagina. Because of this, there is not much for me to connect to within the Monologues.

This isn't to say that Eve Ensler's goal isn't worthy - the Monologues raise thousands of dollars every year for programs which help save and empower women, which is astounding. On its own, however, I don't feel that it is adequate as a way to celebrate myself and my empowerment as a woman.

"Going"

The powdery snow swirled around in little eddies, intent on obscuring roads, melting down the backs of necks, and getting caught in eyelashes and hair. The city streets were quiet - perhaps because of the thick, muffling snow, perhaps because everyone was tucked away safely inside houses with warmly-lit windows, perhaps a bit of both. I stood there, nose-deep in scarf and jacket, a lone figure bathed in the steady glow of a fluorescent streetlight; a lone figure in the street, period. Not another soul disturbed the gentle quiet of the fresh snow.

The silence was interrupted by a distant rumbling, and the city bus, older than was probably safe for such treacherous winter roads, chugged around the corner, skidding and screeching to a stop before me. The doors protested in a squeal as they slid open, and the driver looked expectantly at me as I fished around in my pocket for some change.

"Shit... I think I'm a quarter short."

"Eh, whatever. Just get on."

Hauling my backpack over one shoulder, I managed to pull myself up the bus steps without slipping, settling into a seat near the front before the driver could start up again and throw me off balance. An elderly woman across the aisle smiled kindly at me before looking away, and a mother towards the back hushed a fussing baby as she shifted the child against her shoulder. Outside, the outline of houses stood against a steadily darkening pink sky, and vivid orange streetlamps contrasted against the soft blue of the snowdrifts, all behind the grimy curtain that was the mud-caked bus window.

The bus trundled down the hill, into the depths of the snowy city, clipping snowbanks and sidewalks as it took corners made sharper by the sheer amount of snowfall. Eventually the woman got off, later to be followed by the mother and child, and were replaced by a couple who cooed to each other in the back, and a drunken gaggle of laughing and shrieking college students, who all piled off again one stop later, one of the girls having forgotten her purse. Various others circulated through the noisy, muddy bus - a little old man with a cane who grumbled to himself about the weather; a teenaged girl wearing work pants and a Sobeys apron under her coat; a pair of middle-aged women off work, each clutching Subway sandwiches in plastic bags.

The bus chugged its way through the relatively busy downtown, with a short break, so the driver could stretch his legs and have a smoke. Then he was back, the doors screeched closed, and off we went again, rumbling through the city. Clipping another sidewalk, the bus turned right, and was faced with the bridge - a long, dark span, with only the occasional streetlight to reflect off the dark, turbulent river below. The sky was a deep blue by this point, and the inviting downtown lights faded as we crossed the dark, threatening river, made only more treacherous by the cold; and then we were safely on the other side, enveloped in the warm lights of the dilapidated buildings of this side, the "wrong" side of the city.

We passed by little shops and businesses, and through a tiny neighbourhood of small, poorly painted houses with snowmen, now buried thick in fresh snow, sitting in the yard. We passed a strip mall, an elementary school with an old wooden playground, a post office. One by one the remaining passengers trickled off the bus, and soon enough, no one else was left. Fifteen minutes was spent driving in complete silence, just the bus driver and I, with only the deep rumbling of the bus to accompany us.

He pulled into the empty parking lot of a small whitewashed church - the half-buried sign read, "St. Bridget's." Leaning sideways out of his seat, the bus driver turned to look at me, adjusting his hat.

"You get on the wrong bus?"

"Um... no," I replied, pulling myself out of my reverie as I glanced out the window, and hoisted my bag back onto my back. "No, I didn't. Thank you."

Ignoring the strange look from the driver as I hopped off the bus, I shuddered as the cold air hit me once more, and took stock of my surroundings. To the left of me lay a few lit houses down the road, the road that gradually led back into the city. To the right of me sat the church, and then nothing - simply the road curving away from the river and into the trees and the dark. I turned and watched as the bus trundled off, the rumbling fading into a dull roar, and then disappearing into the snowfall completely. I was totally alone. Without a moment's hesitation, I started through the shin-deep snow, out of the parking lot, and turned right, down the road.

Hell if I knew where I was going. I was just going, that was all.

"Home"


This, this was my home,
Now a tidy bed, an empty dresser
Walls devoid of the memories that made them mine

Home is a highway through nowhere
A crowded bus seat, a city that's not mine,
A bed hundreds have slept in before me.

My existence fits snugly in a suitcase.
I am ready to leave at a moment's notice;

Settling is for those who have somewhere to settle.

Once again
I'm on the road
Making my way home -
If only I knew where that was.