Making Big Career Choices: Stripping vs. Writing



Things have been a little dark lately.  Ugh.  Girl you better turn it down on all them emotions and stuff!!  I completely agree.  So with that in mind, I’ve started to think a little about the life I’ve created for myself.  Yes, I did just get a Master’s degree but why should that limit my career choices?  The answer is that it shouldn’t.  It’s time I start broadening my horizons and considering other directions for myself.  For example, what about becoming a stripper?  Admittedly, I don’t currently have that 36-24-36 physique I know so many of you lovely gentlemen love.  But given how few men want to date me but definitely want to fuck me, I have to think that there are a lot more horribly awesome bros who dig this fatty (see what I did there?  you’re thinking is she talking about a huge sexy booty or a huge sexy body and you’ll never know!! – unless you’re internet-adept enough to find me on facebook and see for yourself [hint: it literally couldn’t be easier]).  Regardless, I hate the idea that I would make a career decision based on dudes so the following is a quick analysis of whether stripping (vs. writing) is write (you’re welcome for this witty wordplay) for me.


1.  Fitness

Stripper:  Paid cardio!!  I work well for cash incentives.  I’ve never lost more weight than the summer I decided to make losing weight my “job”.  So imagine if I could not only make losing weight my job but literally earn extra money doing it?  I’d be a size 12 (because let’s be realistic) in no time!

Writer:  Writing is mostly just a lot of crying, pacing, and self-doubt.  If you cry hard enough, it’s a workout.  Not to mention, if you’re already dead inside, you don’t need cardio (though I think this could probably apply to both being a writer and a stripper).


2.  Dating

Dating is not going well (I’m lucky if I can find a dude whose not trying to drive me up the mountain to murder me, long enough to have a discussion worthy of making me want him in my bedroom).  So, needless to say, all my best moves are going unused and unappreciated.

Stripper:  Who better to cherish my otherwise unused hump techniques than someone willing to slide some lucky loonies in this lady’s lingerie.  ♪♫ I’m your private dancer ♪♫ well…I mean…until the next guy asks for a private dance because this is a business bro, no hard feelings (except that cock poking into my thigh)

Writer:  Have you ever heard of a happy ending?  Do you know who made the story work out that way?  That’s right, it was the writer.  As a writer I could legitimately write myself a happy ending.  And that ain’t peanuts.



(or wait, maybe I need to say more.  I have a huge student loan…was that clear enough?)

Stripper:  I have to pay my HUGE student loan (HOW BIG IS IT?!?!  IT’S SO BIG EVEN I WOULDN’T FUCK IT! – I’m sorry, I’m the worst)  and the money earned stripping would really come in handy (speaking of handy’s do strippers give those or just sex workers?)  Either way, I’m super good at handy’s, just thought I’d mention that (kind of the way someone who used to work with floppy disks would bring it up at a job interview for coding)…no one really cares about the thing that I do well, which no one really wants anymore, but I haven’t got a lot of skills and/or pride so I have to casually mention it anyway.

Writer:  Abject poverty sounds great when you have the freedom to leave the country and your credit report behind but turns out you can’t file bankruptcy on student loans.  This means I actually have to earn the money, and while some people are really great writers – writing brilliantly and publishing prolifically – I’m tolerable at best and may need to rethink my money making strategies.  Perhaps a future writing erotic novels for prisoners?  Or, maybe writing technical manuals for children (somebody has to tell those minions how to put my NIKEs together)?  Or, what about writing hack jokes on cardboard signs in metro stations (which seems a likely progression of my financial plan)?  Regardless, writing sounds like a gas.  I’m super excited.


4.  Friends

Stripper:  In the scenario I’ve dreamed up, given that I’m in the upper eschalon of stripping, it’s probably pretty glamorous.  Old men wanting me to touch but not really touch their balls.  Women in boas crying into my boobs because they’re getting married tomorrow.  It’s basically a trip to the playboy mansion (which I can only assume is super fun given the pools of vag swimming around and old dudes galore).  But here’s the thing, it might be hard to make meaningful connections with people, the more that I see what the world is really made of (hint: it’s not cake batter).

Writer:  Writers don’t have friends, we have readers (jk, we often have neither, apparently someone has caught on to the fact that we’re total assholes).  But seriously, know that if you’re friends with a writer at some point they’ll probably say things like “workshopping” and “has your work earned this cliche?” and “can you lend me money I’m starving to death”, and you’ll have to stick by them because you’re friends – that’s just a part of the burden.  Learn to bear it.  Also, make sure you own a poncho because sometimes the constant crying will seem more like a torrential downpour.


5.  Family

Stripper:  People always say things like how disappointed their parents would be if they took their clothes off for money, and how sad and shame-filled it would be to make money off of your body.  But you know who does that?:  athletes, models, manual laborers, and I’m sure some other people too.  Sure, they mostly (see: models) do it with their clothes on but aren’t clothes really just the religious patriarchy trying to control women (as they have for centuries)?  You’re goddamn right it is.  That being said, you want to know what’s really shameful? (hint:  I’m going to bring up my student loan debt again).  Nothing says, “Vicki you’re a huge fucking disappointment” quite like imagining the only world in which you ever pay off your debt is the one in which your parents die and your inheritance goes straight to the government.  Oh thank god, finally a reprieve I can look forward to!

Writer:  Have you ever had a family member who was a writer?  If you can’t remember right away, ask yourself if you know anyone who has lived with their parents longer than normal?  Have they at any point in their life published a ‘zine?  Gross.  They’re a writer.  Back away before they can smell your high paying job.  The only loophole to this is the possibility that they are one of the few writers that can actually make a living doing this thing with the words and the page and the whatnot.  And then, honestly, still you should back away.  Best case scenario they end up super rich and invite you over for parties and have all the family gatherings at their Cali mansion, catered by some gourmet vegan celebrity chef.  But even then you should know that everything you say and do will always be up for grabs.  They will scrutinize, and judge, write down your conversations and then make them better (or worse, depending on whether or not they like you).  Every mistake you make could be fodder for their next big work.  But hey, have you tried the vegan cheesecake? maybe a little critique ain’t so bad.


6. Donuts

Donuts are an important part of everyone’s life.  No distinction should be made between strippers and writers when it comes to donuts.  Donuts are the great equalizer.  Never say no to donuts, I know I certainly don’ut.

Pesto, West Ho!, This is My Poetry Manifesto

Poetry Manifesto


During the darkest days of my degree, when it seemed as if I would never resurface from the depths of my own inadequacy and self-loathing, I was asked to write a poet’s statement.  The goal was to consider why it is that I write poetry, what I am trying to accomplish, where I am failing, where I am faltering, and to find a way out.  This piece is the unedited version of that (full of things that reveal my sadness, my ineptitude, my frustration, my arrogance, my struggle).  Enjoy.  Or don’t.  I can’t make you love me.  It is what it is.  (the poem at the end is meant to be a culmination of all my personal writing tics).


Academic poetry is like customer service, usually awful.

–          Anonymous (it was me)


My weakness is in my knees

–          Anonymous (still me)


Pesto, West Ho!, This is My Poetry Manifesto

My Dad recently told me that some people are brilliant writers because of how they can say a thing and others are writers because of what they have to say—the special way that they see the world and what they have to say about it.  He said that he thought I was the latter.  This is not to say that he didn’t think I was the former too but, on sobbing phone calls with your desperate daughter, a man must not be greedy when grabbing for parachutes.

He may be right.

I hate the idea of the kind of hubris it takes to say that one wants to change the world, but is there really any other reason to write poetry?  I always dreamed that one day I’d end up working in a women’s prison, or a juvenile detention for girls, or maybe even just a high school running some kind of after school writing program.  Through writing, I figured, I would find a way of showing girls that they are enough, by themselves, inherently, just the way they are.  So, it should come as no surprise that, when asked what concerns me as a poet, I want to discuss girl’s who hate their own bodies, society’s attempts to control female sexuality, the persecution of the other woman, the embarrassing idiocy of humans dating, elitism, exclusion, and an inability to talk of things as they are.  (I just want to write without all the bullshit).  Though, it’s not always as grim as it sounds.  I am also concerned with joy: creating it, spreading it, celebrating it.  Nobody ever confessed on their deathbed that they wished they had spent less time laughing.  No grave stone ever read: here lies Joe, who enjoyed being miserable.

Having very little to say for myself is an irony I am uncertain about, uncertain because I’m not sure if it’s terribly sad or hysterically funny.  A writer with nothing to say in their own defense seems to be not a very good writer at all.  Perhaps it is a parlor trick I haven’t yet figured out.

In 1994, I sat in the hallway of an elementary school and wrote a story.  Because when my seventh grade teacher had asked if he was disturbing me, what with his teaching a class and all and I paying very little attention, I had answered truthfully—yes.  I was, after all, writing a story and trying to win a competition.  He was not angry, they never were.  He was certain of my abilities, as they always were too.  He gave me a table, a chair, and a hallway of possibility.  “Come back inside when you’re done,” was all he said.  He was certain I was going to be something.  My entire life, everyone has always been so certain that I would do something important, that I was going to be somebody important, that I was going to do something with my life.  Nobody has ever not believed in me, and I have to wonder if they’ve gotten their hands on some faulty data.  I used to be certain I was going to be a writer.  Now, I wish I had tried to become an engineer.  Lately, I’ve started to wonder if my writing is like a magic trick, if my writing is just misdirection.  Look, look over here and ignore what’s behind that curtain ma’am.  I’m starting to think that maybe my writing has never really been anything other than worthless, and that I’ve somehow conned people into liking my work simply because they like me.  Though what kind of asshole thinks they are so likable as to hold such power?  It seems entirely impossible that something could be true for so many years.  And yet, I’m genuinely starting to believe that my writing might just be a long con.

I am haunted by questions of quality.  I almost want to be convinced that how I view poetry is wrong, because at least then I could finally get some sleep.  I wish someone could convince me that trying to hide, and darken, and keep secret, all the things worth knowing, in the pursuit of stimulating something abstract, value being irrelevant, is a valiant pursuit.  I don’t understand the trend to obfuscate, to obliterate.  Meaning has never been so afraid.  Poems that try to numb, poems that pare it down to the bare minimum, the absolute least amount acceptable, poems that refuse to speak because in the silence I’m supposed to come up with it all on my own, poems that hold me hostage at gunpoint.  Poems that are a thin blank it.  But, we shall come back to this.

Why do you write?  The answer is entirely too cliché and yet, very true.  I write because I have to, because no other shoe fits right (though lately it feels like wearing socks on broken glass sidewalks).  Some days it is as simple as—because I liked the way it sounded.  I wrote it because I had a thought and it seemed like magic.  I put it in a drawer, after, because what kind of egotism is it to find your own thoughts so wonderful.  Nonetheless, that’s why I wrote it.  Some days I write because I had to say a thing, because I couldn’t let the words go unsaid, because somebody had to stand up and say something.  What kind of jerk thinks they can change the world?  But maybe poetry is just that selfish and naive.  I write because I’m trying to find my place in this world.  I write because one day I will die and I want to leave behind something that says I was hereI was here; I said some things; someone will remember that I existed because of the words I wrote down; someone will remember me because of ‘something she said’.

I write for the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.  I write for the waitresses, the stay-at home moms, the girls who throw up their lunches, the women who want more.  I write for the men who do things without thinking, the men who say “I was joking” when what they mean is “I’m not very funny”, I write to find my way out of this bitterness.  I write for anyone who will listen.  I write for someone who thinks what I have to say has value, who thinks I offer a wisdom outside of their own.  I write for the person who gets my jokes.

While many don’t appreciate it, or perhaps find my poems all that funny, one of the clearest evolutions I’ve made as a writer has been incorporating humor into my writing.  Incorporating jokes and dialogue into my poetry is a relatively new advancement.  I have also started trying to write with constraints (both on form and content), something that may be seen as progress.  I guess you could say it’s a willingness to step outside my box.  I value it because it makes me uncomfortable and from discomfort great things may come.  It often bothers me though because it always feels so gimmicky.  It often feels like splattering words on a page.  It often feels entirely meaningless.

If I wrote a poem that made no sense, that offered no perspective, no wisdom of experience, no point, but it made the reader think something amazing: did I do that?

A man builds a piano.  A man builds many pianos.  Many men build many pianos.  They all play music.  One day, Beethoven strikes a key.  The rest is history.  No one ever asks the piano builder about his artistry.

He is not a magician, he is a coincidence.  An accidental breach of meaning, the day someone drew a treasure map through his mine field of nothingness.  And why would I call him poet?  The cartographer is the artist, she is the word wizard.  He is a cross word puzzle, she is the high score.  Be contrary.  Be different.  Be exactly everything the world expects of poets, but act like it is news to you.  Be Oppositional Defiance Disordered syntax.  Strain to buy the con of academic poetry.  What are we even doing here?  Do you think they laugh about us at the grocery store?  Down at the coal mine? In the coffee shop across from the police station?  Waiting in line at the airport?  I do.  I think they laugh about our oblivious elitism, how entirely worthy it’ll be one day when we starve to death because we wanted to write a poem about principals and obfuscation.  Is there a janitor who might clean up this mess?

I am desperately envious of writers who are certain that they are writers.  To have the certainty that what you have is worth sharing, is perhaps the greatest gift a person could ever have.

I am terrified that what I’ve learned in grad school is right.  I am stop calling your parents because they’ll hear it in your voice, silent and breathless full body sobs on green and peach Berber, kind of frightened.  I am no longer tethered to a certainty.  I have lost my anchor in this race.  When I first started grad school, I remember talking to many of the creative stream students about their work.  The majority of them had told me that they never share their work.

“Never been published?”

“Not even online?”

“But you’ve at least read your work, out loud, no?”


At the time I couldn’t understand such a thing.  What was the point in writing if you weren’t going to share your work?  I now understand entirely.  People keep asking me to read at poetry nights and I keep saying no (that’s not the shocking part).  What shocks me is when they’re surprised by my answer of “no, thanks”.  Why on earth would I want to continue sharing my work?  Last term I took a fiction course and received an A.  So did everyone else in the class.  The A is worthless, entirely meaningless, a waste of tuition dollars and time spent and tears shed.  I have recently been given two interim grades, one in poetry and one in a fiction workshop, both B+.  If I had been getting B+’s in my academic courses, I would’ve dropped out by now.  This isn’t to say I don’t deserve those B+’s.  Most days I am still plagued by these markers of my quality.  There are a few days when I remember that if my A is entirely worthless, then so too are my B+’s.  Though, if everything is worthless, what are we even doing here?  Back on track though, my incredulity is then with the shock that follows.  If you tell someone their work is shit, you cannot then be surprised when they don’t want to rip their chest open and show you their heart.  You can’t be surprised.  The surprise is what gets me.  The surprise is constant.  The surprise is what is surprising.




I wrote a love poem for my butcher, asked him to meat me halfway

I said I had the chops if he did, to grind this thing out

We bantered across the glass case, I wasn’t sure could hold my weight

He told me about his childhood, standing beside a jar of giant pickles

I was worried my heart was already too full but he assured me

That he would take whatever room I had, would shave himself to fit

He said, “no matter how you cut me, our love is prime”

Eyes flickered with candles and surrounded by bowls of olives

I smiled and said “Sir, my loins do ache for you”

And he laughed, because it was funny.

All the Way Here: A Story of the Worst and Best Moments of My Life

The Joy of Dating


I’ve never liked the idea that one decision or one event can change your entirely life (mostly because it would paralyze me with fear given the pressure this would put on every choice I would ever have to make).

That being said, there is one moment that changed my entire life.  Not on its own.  Not without the other decisions and events that followed.  But like a metaphorical patient zero, I can trace the current trajectory of my life back to one moment, that changed everything for the better.

I won’t bore you with tales of teenage sadness, except to say that teenage sadness bled through the majority of my years.  I was severely, desperately, blindingly depressed from the age of 12 to 26.

14 years.  (cue GnR).  14 years is a long time to be sad.

I used to think that I would never get through it.  Somewhere along the way I convinced myself that I had been born broken, that something in my brain just didn’t work right and that was the reason that I was this way.  I still very vividly remember cutting myself because at least it made sense, if you were upset because your arm was bleeding that was logical.  If life feels hopeless, when surrounded by a family that loves you and your future is (almost inherently) bright, that can seem incomprehensible.  How do you find your way out of something when nothing makes sense?

And then, one simple thing happened…followed by another…and then another…and so on and so on until now.  A string of events, where everything pointed in the right direction.  And it wasn’t just chance, but dammit if I don’t feel lucky.


It happened the year I turned 26.  I was working at Coast Mountain Bus Company call centre, a union job, making more money than I ever had before and I was absolutely miserable.  I hated answering the phones–less because the people were awful (but just to be clear they were awful) and more because I felt like management didn’t have our backs.  It was probably just a symptom of the union/management dichotomy but the point (for this story, at least) is that I was absolutely fucking miserable.  I had been moved to day shifts (which, as a night owl, sucked big time).  I remember leaving for work at 5am and getting home around 3pm.  I had started going to bed by 5pm.  I couldn’t even pretend that I wasn’t miserable.  I couldn’t hide it.

Which, as it turns out, became a much more literal truth then I was expecting.

One day in February, 2008, I was standing in my parents’ kitchen, with my back to my mother, when she asked if I had been scratching at the back of my head.  I was irritated.  I was cranky.  I was miserable.  It seemed like an insane question.  It felt like she was hassling me.

“No,” I answered sullenly.  But she wouldn’t let it go.  I thought she was just going to give me some motherly advice about how I shouldn’t wear my hair in a ponytail all the time but instead she walked over and tried to examine it.  I went to the bathroom and used the old two-mirror-hairdresser-method until I saw what had her so alarmed.

My hair had fallen out.  In a huge round patch.  Bald.  Disgusting.  Even my own hair couldn’t stand to be around me.  I’m not sure I entirely believe it, but sometimes I like to think that this was my body speaking for me when I couldn’t speak for myself.

The great irony of my life is that the worst job I ever had, turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

I started working at Coast Mountain Bus Company.

On December 25th 2008, I had my last drink of alcohol.

A month and a half later, my hair fell out.

I was lucky enough to get to go on paid medical leave.

I started counselling (that like every other counselor/psychiatrist/etc. that I had been to since I was a preteen wasn’t great – or at the very least, I wasn’t ready to let in).

I went back to work.

It was even worse than before.

One day, on the phone, after a snafu in scheduling, I yelled at my boss (nothing crazy just a raised voice).

The next shift I was fired.

By some miracle, I wasn’t technically “fired” but actually just “let go” (reason K – other) and thus I qualified for unemployment insurance.

The counselor I had been seeing was through my job and since I didn’t work there anymore, I had to find someone else.

My counselor recommended a government-subsidized mental health centre (conveniently located 10 minutes from my house).

And that’s where I found both a psychiatrist and a counselor that would help me to change everything.

I went on anti-depressants and put the CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) techniques I was learning to good use.


The way I am listing things here makes it seem so quick and easy but don’t get me wrong–it was a goddamn struggle.  I remember one time, after my psychiatrist was supposed to have upped my dosage again, returning from the drugstore and finding out he had mis-written the Rx and it was the same dose (and the pills were time release so you couldn’t just split them).  I remember flipping the fuck out, falling to the floor in sobs.  I was gutted.  The money it would cost to fill the prescription again.  The wasted pills.  The days it would take until the problem was solved.  Looking back now it seems ridiculous but I remember feeling like I had fallen overboard and just when the life raft was close enough to grasp it sunk.

I remember being so so fucking sad.  I felt like a complete failure.  A burden to my parents (would I ever be anything other than someone they had to worry about?).  I was living at home with my parents, had a degree I felt was useless, I’d been fired (in my mind) for the first time in my life and from a job I hated no less (it felt like getting rejected by someone you didn’t even want in the first place), I was overweight and in debt up to my eyeballs.  I was depressed and everything seemed worthless.  The world was terrifying.  I was ashamed and felt as if my life was meaningless, the only reason not to give up was my family who loved me so deeply (and I them) that regardless of the sad I couldn’t imagine leaving them with the kind of pain that a suicide would create.

When I started CBT, the goal was just to shower.  Just get up, and shower.  If I could do that, the day was a success.  And then it was about doing things.  Make a list.  Accomplish a thing.  Get dressed.  Go out and have a cup of coffee.  It was about not becoming overwhelmed.  It was about not seeing the world as a terrifying place (I don’t always succeed at this one).  I learned that I had to do things that I would eventually love, long before I would love them because when you’re depressed things are backwards and you can’t love anything.  So you just have to do…get out and DO…because it will get better.

And in time, I did get better.  Not quickly.  Not all at once.  But an inch of happiness here, and a moment of peace there, and life was just better.


And while all this was going on, I decided to go back to school.  I already had a BA in Psychology (let’s not discuss the irony), but I wanted to go grad school and revive my dream of being an English Professor and writer (something that seemed to have gotten lost along the way).

I had no idea if I could do it.  I needed to get another BA first though, so I applied to UBC and was accepted in.

I sold all the useless material things I owned and, in July and August, went on a 5 week solo trip to Europe (a similar trip I had tried but failed to complete ten years before–coming home after a week, hysterical and traumatized).

This time though, the trip was amazing.  It changed me.  I was stronger, more self-reliant, more durable.  I set out to do a thing and I did it.

September 2009, I went back to school.

I only took a few courses because, honestly, I wasn’t sure at all that I could do this (this being a second BA, this being going to grad school, this being anything but being the failure I felt like I was)

Thanksgiving (Canadian) 2009, my long-distance boyfriend of 6 years and I broke up.

January 2010, I started dating and because I didn’t want to keep telling the same story to different friends, I started the blog Something She Dated.

In the next two years:  I joined Twitter, I got a paid writing gig, I dated several boys, I lost weight, I gained some of it back (this one is still a real struggle for me), I started blogging for The Province Newspaper, I worked hard and got good grades (something I’d never really done up till now–I’d always just coasted).

In my final year, I applied to 6 graduate school programs.  In all honesty, I never really expected to get into any of them.  I got into 5.  I still remember calling my father in tears when the first letter arrived from Georgia State University saying that they wanted me.  Somebody wanted me!

I graduated with my 2nd BA (English Literature).

I ended up choosing Concordia (in Montreal) because they offered me the most funding and Montreal sounded like a great place to live, oui non?

I moved to Montreal.  The first week was brutal but now I feel like I could move anywhere, could do anything.

Grad school was great (even the times when it wasn’t great).  I became a TA in the English Department.  I did some teaching in the Engineering and Computer Science faculty.  And in this last term I even got a job teaching an English course all on my own (part time faculty, yo!).

In September 2013, I took my last anti-depressant. 

After a year in the academic stream of my degree, I decided that I’d rather do my thesis in Creative Writing.  While I have loved my time in grad school, I have realized it is unlikely that I will want to pursue a PhD in English (if anything, I’d be more likely to apply to law school but that’s another story).  I applied to the Creative stream, was accepted, and on March 26th my thesis was accepted.  I finished my courses and I will graduate with an Masters Degree in English Literature on June 9th.  

The plan is to stay in Montreal till July 31st when my lease runs out and then move back home to Vancouver to spend a few weeks (to a few months) chilling at my parents’ while I look for a job.  I’m hoping to move up north (Yukon, NWT, Nunavut)–for the adventure, for the writing inspiration, for the money.

I feel like this story explains everything, about me, entirely.  But I can’t really be sure, because I’m on the inside, I know what the puzzle looks like complete, and you guys all just have the pieces.

This is why, when it comes to dating and life, I’m always looking for the fun–the joy–the happy.

I want to date and have happiness.  I want to enjoy things just as they are.  I don’t want commitments and promises of happiness forever, I just want to enjoy the happy when it happens.  (now if only I could find a way to explain this to men that doesn’t sound like I’m using “fun” as a code word for fucking).  Because, believe you me, there are very VERY few men, that I come in contact with (online or otherwise), who can understand my desire for fun and can get on board with it.  I just want to date people and enjoy them for the time we have together.  I want to be treated like a human being, not a talking vagina.  But you’d be surprised how difficult it is to find someone who agrees.  Who can see the value in the middle ground.  Who has the ability (and desire) to care about someone generally as a person, or maybe even specifically, but doesn’t feel the need to tie their futures together.  I just want to laugh and talk and fuck and have more fun than anyone should legally be allowed to have.  

I want to date happy

Because I was so so sad for so so long and I’ve come so so far.  And I’m aware that others have definitely struggled more but this isn’t a competition, just (an abridged) story about how I got all the way here—-from way back there.

And I just hope, that if any of you are ever back there that you can hang on long enough to find your way up here because it is good.  Oh god, it is so good.  And even if I don’t always know how to help or make it better for you, just know that I’m here.  And that there is a way.  Ugh.  This is starting to sound all preachy and sappy and stuff but ya know, I’m actually a mushball (most evidence to the contrary) so whatever, I love you.


Crash Boom Bang: Disappointments Upon Disappointments

Crash Boom Bang


[dropcap]I[/dropcap] know that life is what you make it, that you have to decide to be happy.  I know that I’m privileged and lucky and fortunate and life really is pretty fucking beautiful for me.  But I still get sad, and things can still suck.  That being said, there can be a certain hilarity when life gets miserable all at once, when you’re piled up with disappointment after disappointment, in a very small period of time (picture a cartoon of me being buried alive by a landslide of rocks…don’t worry it’s a cartoon, I’ll survive).

And that is what happened last week.


So, I had finally started dating someone really smart.  And then he dumped me.  And I was sad.  And maybe I was sad because I had been rejected.  Or maybe I was sad because I had been rejected by someone I liked.  Or maybe I was just upset because he was smart and now that would be gone from my life.  Or maybe I was sad because of how he did it (rather than just ripping the bandaid he blamed it on academia and being busy) or maybe I was sad because I felt like I had been dumped before he’d even had a real chance to get to know me or maybe or maybe or maybe.  Who knows.  What I do know is this:  I felt sad.  I felt a huge sense of disappointment.  Like this was my one shot to hang out with someone who was seriously smart, who thought I was attractive, who wasn’t completely socially stunted, and who seemed interesting (if not hilarious).  And though my mother assures me that,

you’ll meet tons of smart people

I have to say, at 32 and in a graduate school program, WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY???


Bummed about being dumped, I went to my first fiction workshop (up to this point the classes had been a lot of discussion of published works and writing techniques).  And that’s where my Professor repeatedly called my writing “Chick Lit”, and proceeded to drone on about how men are basically all super awesome and the narrator of my story is a judgmental bitch (more on this later but the gist of it was that he couldn’t understand how a girl wouldn’t want to hear a bone-head guy discuss his favorite muscle group…all the while never asking her a single question…or how a girl could possibly be upset that an old man had lied about his age [by ten years] and shown up to a date looking like a completely different person than the images on his dating profile).  Oh, and I should mention that many people in the class agreed (so we can’t just chalk this up to some fucked up Professor).  The only conclusion I could come to was that I myself was an idiot, or I was surrounded by idiots.  Either way, I pretty much wanted to throw myself off the balcony.

One student actually said “why doesn’t your narrator stop dating if she hates it so much”

*throws self off balcony as life is hard and that is apparently the answer*

But then things seemed to be looking up.  I let someone in emotionally (okay, admittedly, it was kind of accidental, but needless to say a man called me within hours of said horrible writing workshop and I burst into tears while on the phone).  But that’s something.  You see, it was Top Secret, from just before I moved to Montreal.  He had moved to Ontario and was now coming for a visit to Montreal and had called to let me know of his plan.

At Christmas, when I came home to Vancouver, we didn’t have a ton of time but he wanted to hang out and hang out we did.  We went out for lunch.  It was fun.  It was nice.  It was real friendship shit.  But then, just as before winter break, he went right back to barely having any contact with me.  Sure we’d quick message here or there but if you want to be friends with someone and especially if you want to be more than friends with someone you have to put in that effort to get to know them, to stay in contact with them, to keep their (and yours, presumably) lust alive.  But he didn’t, we didn’t.

But here we were, visiting in his hotel room, eating pizza, watching youtube videos and getting reacquainted.  Or so I thought.  Because before I know it, he’s trying to kiss me.  Which, in theory, is fine.  But, honestly, I wasn’t really feeling it yet.  I didn’t, however, want to shut things down permanently, I just needed some time, because we had gone back to zero and I might need a couple hangouts and conversations to get back up to 60.

The next day I had to finish an already late scholarship application, and he seemed busy with work stuff, so I stayed in and said that we would meet up the next day.  Friday came, and I was running late to meet him for his show so I skipped the bus and jumped in a cab.  I made it to the show before him and when he arrived we went in.  Given that he was in the show, I was seated at a table by myself, at the front (WHY DO THEY ALWAYS MAKE ME SIT IN THE FRONT!!).

After the show we talked a bit, he basically insinuated he wanted to bone but didn’t want me to feel pressured and I finally had the balls to say, at this moment (and because of the reasons mentioned above), I just wanted to be friends and we could just see what happens.  He seemed to take it pretty well.

Because we were at the show, they told us we could go upstairs and hear the rest of the Motown show that was happening, and though I wasn’t super keen at that exact moment (I had developed an excruciating migraine) I went anyway because he wanted to go (plus I had just taken some excedrin so the headache would foreseeably dissipate).

The show turned out to be AMAZING!  I had an absolute blast.  The music, the dancers, the fact that it was free, what more could a girl ask for?!  We were joking and having fun, things seemed great.

SPOILER ALERT:  they weren’t, apparently.


After the show wrapped up, he asked so how are you getting home?

I was baffled.  Home?  It was only 11:00pm, I had assumed we’d go get some food or at least hang out and do something.  I mean shit son, I was in full hair and makeup, I’d even worn a brand new dress with uncomfortable shoes!  I said the bit about food and hanging out.  He said he wasn’t hungry and that maybe we could meet for lunch or something tomorrow.

Was he fucking serious?!?!  He expected me to wake up and do my hair and makeup for a lunch date with a dude sending me packing on a Friday night???  This dude was nuts.

I tried to convey this sentiment nicely.  I tried to convey that I thought we were friends.  After all, he’d just spent the evening telling me how awesome I was, how much more awesome it was to have a girl to hang out with and write jokes with than to have a pretty girl to just fuck, how much of a lousy lay he was to begin with…blah blah blah

(sidebar:  If I let you take a joke I wrote and then you treat me like shit, you have to take it out of your act, those are the rules)

His response:  I have enough friends

Interspersed in this dialogue was some bullshit about him being a gentleman and wanting to put me in a cab rather than have me take the bus home (which had been my original plan).  I declined and declined and declined.  However, after he said the thing about having enough friends I thought well fuck him and took the $20 he was handing me (I am a broke grad student after all, I can’t even see the poverty line let alone live above it).

Plus, I figured, as I walked for 6-10 blocks fueled by pure rage and disappointment, I would just take the bus anyway and that $20 would reimburse me for the cab I had taken earlier because I couldn’t fathom being late to his show.  I mean…







Unfortunately, this wasn’t the end of the week of shitty things.  Almost as soon as I got on the bus (a packed bus no less, given that it was 11:30 on a Friday night), a group of fine young gentlemen proceeded to talk loudly (though mostly in French) about how fat I was and whether or not all black guys or just some black guys dig that.  The discussion included hand and arm gestures.

And before anyone gets all well don’t listen to them and they’re idiots etc.  I know this.  This conversation didn’t ffect how I feel about myself or my body (I’m lovely).  It did, however, make me feel very uncomfortable and admittedly a bit unsafe.  You see, I’m rarely scared of being raped or murdered, however, it is a very real fear that a teenage boy might spit on me or something.  Also, it made me sad because while I’m able to block out this kind of despicable behavior, I know that there will be other girls, who will experience this, younger girls, more fragile girls, girls who don’t yet know that they are entirely enough and absolutely beautiful, and for those girls I felt the hurt a bit more.  Not wanting to give these boys the attention they misguidedly and desperately sought, I put in my ear buds and pretended as if the conversation didn’t exist.

And thus ended my week.  Undateable.  Isolated and alone in a writing program that fits like a wet wool bodysuit.  Having lost all faith in the ability of men to not be the fucking worst (hyperbole, I know, some of you are fucking wonderful, even if I’m currently having a difficult time remembering this).  Spiraling into sadness.  Blargh.

So to sum up…Dumped Crash!…Writing trashed Boom!…all faith in the male species dashed Bang!  Sorry for the downer post.  Let the disappointment really sink in tho.




A Day in the Life: Grad Student


A Day in the Life:  Grad Student 

10am  Alarm goes off.  Snooze.

11am  Alarm goes off.  Snooze.

12pm  Alarm goes off.  Snooze.

12:30pm  Alarm goes off.  Snooze.

1pm  Wake up.  Boil water for instant coffee before anything else as coffee is the lifeblood of my day.

1:15  Make coffee.  Drink coffee.  Make second cup of coffee.  Consider eating breakfast.  Eat a protein bar.  Get ready for school.

2pm  Go to class feeling self-congratulatory for finishing the book that was required for this week’s class.  Feel elated.  Start to think maybe I really do belong in Grad School.

2:30  Spend the first hour of class trying to look smart and engaged.  Spend the second hour of class working up the courage to say the smart thing I thought of.  Never actually say it.  Change mind about the certainty of belonging in Grad School.

5pm  After class is over say the smart thing to a few other students.  Say it loud enough for the Professor to overhear thus maybe witness I’m smart even though I was too shy to speak up during class.  Promise myself that I’ll do better next time.  Promise to start acting like a grad student.  Promise to start feeling like I belong here.

5:30  Think about going to Starbucks to get coffee.  Remember that I can’t afford Starbucks (as my parents just had to lend me money for rent, my student loan having already run out).  Make instant coffee instead.  Use the instant coffee that I keep in my office (my office being really just a cubicle in a room of 6 other cubicles with no window but I fucking love my cubicle).  I NEED MY CUBICLE.  My cubicle makes me feel like a grown up with a purpose and an office.  No man is a cubicle but this cubicle is me, man.

5:45  Realize I don’t have any milk for my coffee.  Sit at my desk in my cubicle and drink it anyway, stare at the stacks of library books and berate myself for not doing more research, for not being further along in your final research paper (thesis).  Wonder if my desk serves more as a place to put books than a place to do work.  Decide it does.  Decide I don’t care.  Realize that it doesn’t matter that my desk is small and my cubicle is in a shared space because I know the combination to this locked dungeon of cubicles that is specifically marked for grad students.  Feel proud.  I am a fucking grad student.  I earned this grad student space.  Realize it’s all I have.  Without this space I am nothing.  Go to the class I TA for.

6:00  Early British Literature.

6:01  Try to stay awake during this 1st year English class, which is most certainly on material I already know.  Listen as the Professor dissects Beowulf (which I haven’t studied in a decade, since I was busy not paying attention in 1st year English).  Realize it all seems like brand new information.  Feel like a sham.  Feel like a failure.  Doubt everything I’ve ever accomplished.  Wonder how the fuck I got into grad school.  Jump to the assumption that I’m an idiot and what the fuck am I going to do with my life.  Take a deep breath.  Realize that this just isn’t my area of expertise and that there is too much literature for me to know everything.  Tell myself it’s okay.


8:00  Try to run the discussion group for the class.  Get more uncomfortable with each deafening silence to my prodding questions.  Feel like there isn’t enough time to accomplish anything meaningful.  Remember the comments of a student from last term on my evaluation who said “she seems rushed and kind of nervous”.  Hate that kid.  Hate the fact that he/she was right.  I am rushed, I am nervous.  Wish I could tell that kid that there is absolutely no training for being a TA except your undergrad and intelligence, none of which prepare you to teach.  Feel like a sham.  Feel like a failure.  Ask more questions.  Hear more silence.  Wonder if the students even read the text.  Wonder if the students are even awake.  Wonder what the fuck is the point of any of this.  Use my backup material and turn this into a tutorial on essay writing, which they desperately need.  Watch as their eyes glaze over.  Sweat.  Get frustrated.  Get exasperated.  Sweat.  Hate life.

8:50  Hand back the mid-term essays.  Watch them read their grades in confusion.  Most of them think they deserve A’s and B’s.  Most of them deserve F’s.  Give most of them C+s because I’m part of a continent wide broken educational system.  Try to remember what my work was like when I was a first year student.  Pretty sure I was drunk for most of first year.  Remind them about my office hours tomorrow.  Encourage them to come see me, to come talk about their grades, to come talk about their work, so that I can help them.  Know that no one will show up and I’ll sit for an hour by myself, in an office I share with all the other grad students.  Try not to become disillusioned with the whole system of education.

9:00  Walk home.  Realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast.  Stop at the grocery store on the way home and make impulse purchases that go well beyond my means, calorically and financially.  Use my credit card to pay.

9:30  Eat.  Worry.  Eat.  Worry.  Watch old episodes of Newsroom on my computer (I can’t afford cable, or a TV, or even to get my own wifi so I have to use the free wifi that comes with my apartment but blocks all the good websites like torrent downloading, youtube, and porn.  Eat.  Worry.  Eat.  Worry.  Make some coffee (I have a ton of work to do).

12:00am  Remember I have to read a 347 page book and a 44 page article for my class on thursday.  Start reading.

12:15  Calculate how many hours I have before my next class.  Figure out how many pages I can read in 20 minutes.  Multiply 20 by 3 to get how many pages I can read in an hour.  Calculate how many hours it will take to read 347 pages of a novel and 44 pages of an article.  Worry.  Fidget.  Worry.  Wonder if I should’ve gone into mathematics.

12:30  (stress) Masturbate.  Drink more coffee.

1:00am  Read more

2:00  I’m reading 18th century literature.  My eyelids are no longer my friends.  Drink more coffee, I  still have so much work to do.  Keep reading.

4:00am  Take a break to eat.  Watch another episode of Newsroom.  Eat.  Worry.  Eat.  Worry.  Eat.  Worry.  Coffee.

5:00  Read.  Read.  Read.

7:00am  Realize I see the sunrise too often.  Hate it.  Consider taking up yoga.  Consider becoming one of those breezy people who don’t worry and don’t get stressed.  Promise I’ll start fresh tomorrow.  Tomorrow, I will finish all my readings on time.  Tomorrow, I won’t go to class unprepared, I won’t skate by.  Tomorrow, I will wake up at a decent time and I will exercise and be at one with myself and the world.  Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

7:30  Try to sleep (hate myself for having to drink so much coffee to get through the day)

8:00  Try to sleep (hate myself for being a student when my friends have $$$ jobs)

8:30  Try to sleep (wish I exercised more, studied more, was a better person)


9:30am  Smoke some weed and fall asleep.



Second Dates and First Kisses In Montreal

Kissing in Montreal


[dropcap]I’ve[/dropcap] been known to overload my readers with details.  Sometimes the details seem important.  Especially on days when I’m asking advice (which is actually fairly rare but does happen) and I need you to see the full picture.  Other times I overload because of an obsessive need a desire to be understood.  Sometimes I just do it because this blog is a chronology of my life, a history in dating, a journal on display.  This is my real life.  These things are really happening to me.  And 30 years from now when you’ve all forgotten about me, I’ll come back to these pages and remininsce about the life I lead.  About the time I moved to Montreal for Grad School.

That being said.  Not in this post.  This post is all about the passion.

You see it doesn’t really matter how we got to the second date.  We got there how most people get there.  Talking, asking, time didn’t stop for us and then it happened.  He showed up at 8pm.  We only had a little over 2.5 hours because he had to go to work at 1045pm.  Tonight he was a bartender.

Tonight he was my breath.  My tongue.  He was my every sigh and pant.  Tonight, he held me in the palm of his hand and owned me.

He was standing at the front door, holding some sort of aloe beverage, asked if I wanted anything from the little store in the lobby.  He smiled.  I smiled.  We hugged.  We double kissed.  We came upstairs.  For the first time in my life, if the elevator had gotten stuck I would not have minded one single bit.  I could’ve spent all night in there with him.  And then we were in my apartment.

My apartment…that’s still in progress.  You see, I don’t have a TV (why would I, I download everything, who has time for commercials?!?) (see also: I’m a poor grad student).  In a bizarre twist of events, I only have about 15 movies on my computer.  The explanation isn’t worth explaining.  So needless to say I felt a bit like the world’s worst host.  Like sure, come on over to my place where all the furniture is doll sized, we have to watch the movie on my laptop and you can only choose from a few movies.  Even worse, the one movie he chose was the only one in mp4 which tends to make my computer overheat and thus we had to pick something else.

Friday Night Lights.  Because dammit, I like a theme and if I’m going to have a football player sitting on my couch we’re damn sure going to watch a football movie or a football game.  Nuff said.  Jokes aside, he picked the movie.  And let’s be honest.  Were either of us really planning on watching the movie?  Does anyone ever really watch the movie?


The movie is simply a distraction.  It’s background music.  It’s the score…to our scoring (Wordplay.  You’re welcome).  The movie is just something for us to focus on while we slowly move closer and closer to each other on the couch and get more and more comfortable.  It’s the soundtrack to our sexual tension.  First it’s my arm resting against his and then it’s his hand on my knee, my thigh.  Our hands, holding.  My breath, holding.

He said cute things.  I said cute things.  We misunderstood each other’s cute things.  No one gave a shit about the misunderstanding over cute things.  And then we were kissing.  His soft lips.  My soft lips.  Tongues and heat and breathing and pressing and sucking and pushing and teasing.

Now, I know I’ve mentioned it before, but I still feel I’m not adequately expressing how hot France is.  And I know you’re probably thinking I’m exaggerating.  All like, wtf ever he can’t be that hot or it’s just cause you like him or it’s all relative or whatever.  But seriously, every time I tell a friend about France, they react the same way, like okay sure but no big deal.  And then I send them his picture.  And the responses show up:

“Sweet Fucking Jesus”

“UUUUMMMMMMMMM…. Hot! Hot! Hot!!! I’m am speechless…”

“Sweet Baby Jesus”

“Holy mother fucking shit that is one AMAZING body!!!!!!  Thanks for those *save image*”

And so you can imagine that as we’re kissing and our lips are totally in sync and his body is pressing down on mine, that it is one of the hottest moments of my entire life.  He’s wearing this blue and white gingham short sleeve button down and it looks amazing.

Only here’s the thing.  It’s not a button down.  Because there are no buttons.  It’s all snaps.  Which I only notice because he snaps a couple open.  Maybe he needed more room to breathe (I am a sexy babe after all) or maybe he just wanted to show me the mechanics of getting him naked but whatever it was that caused him to rip open a snap or two was nothing in comparison to what motivated me to tear the entire shirt open.  Picture it like in the movies.  Because that’s exactly how it happened.  Two arms reach up…and rip his shirt open.  Le Gasp.

Abs that you could grate cheese on.  Literally.  Abs that make you want to do a load of laundry.  I want to wash my delicates all over him.  I want to soap him down in ways that would make us forever unclean.

And then…and here’s where it gets really really good.  Then we found our rhythm.  Or more, we fell into the place where he knew what I liked and gave it to me.  Now in general I try to make it obvious what I like.  Rough.  There I said it.  I like it rough.  Sure, I like other things too.  And I can have the sweet sex, when in love, with the best of them.  But with new boys.  With boys built like tanks, tanks made of solid muscle, muscle made of testosterone and sweat and my sighs, I want it rough.  Anything else seems a waste.  Like being an ass man and dating a chick with DDDs.  I mean don’t be so greedy son.

And I know that this can be an uncomfortable territory because what if I wasn’t into rough sex and all of sudden he’s pulling my hair, laying his heavy hands across my chest and around my throat.  I mean Jesus.  That could get really awkward? scary? ugly? hairy? and fast!!!  And to be honest, in the heat of the moment, I don’t know if he went slow and steady and listened for my moans and smiles or if he just knew.  If he just knew that going for it would pay off.  Big time.  But whatever it was, it worked for us.  [and just for a quick lesson into my psyche…I’m not damaged…this is not broken home shit…this is a fantasy…if he was actually acting violently towards me…well shit would get heavy real quick son, but this is sex and it’s what I like and I’m not ashamed of that.  I’m fairly certain it stems from a feeling of him wanting me so badly that he cannot contain himself…but like I said…it’s all in good fun, all in good fantasy].

And Jesus was it hot.  Especially if you think about the PG…er…maybe NC17 nature of the action.  I imagine he went in hoping (like all men) for sex but expecting that it wouldn’t happen and I know I definitely had no intention of it getting that far.  And to be honest, it actually got further than I had been anticipating.  But can you really blame me?

Shortly after I had torn his shirt off of him, he tore my shirt off of me.  Or ya know, casually removed it.  And then we were dry humping like grizzly bears.  Okay so technically I don’t know how grizzly bears hump but if you know me at all you know I’ll slip in a bear/man reference wherever I can.

So yeah, the humping.  Slow and smooth.  Heavy.  Laden with lust.  Hard.  And I have to tell you, I’m not sure I’ve ever enjoyed dry humping so much.  Maybe it was because he was so strong.  Or maybe it was because he was so fucking hot.  But it was amazing.  If our dry humping was a person, I’d call it baller and expect it to be getting comped bottle service and blow in Vegas.  And wearing million dollar shoes made of gold.

After that it’s all a bit of a blur.  Buttons were undone, zippers slid open, his hands my pants, my hands his pants.  The dry humping may have become a bit wetter.  And I would make a joke about it being a bit of a pants-off dance off except that I did everything in my power to keep those bad boys on even if just in a technical sense.  I know how quickly things can progress, when you’re so into each other and full of the kind of desire that breaks beds and apparently couches, and while in an overall sense that’s definitely where I wanted to go with him, I didn’t want to go there tonight.

I’ve said it before.  I’ll say it again.  I’ll say it till I’m blue in the face and he’s blue in the balls.  I like my stages.  And gentlemen, I know it’s hard because I can feel it pressed against my thigh but I assure you that what little you suffer in being put off, you will reap a hundred times more when we do finally do it.  I need time.  I need the build up.  I need the backstory and the fantasy and no good can cum come of rushing me (I’m the no good in this story…and I’m telling you I won’t cum come).  Seriously.  If you rush me, if you’re skipping things and going too fast, eventually when we bang…at first I’ll be all excited…loving it…but there will come a moment…when I’ll know that it’s not going to happen, and then I’ll fake it…and then we won’t ever have sex again.  All because you couldn’t handle one night of blue balls (which is really bullshit anyway because if you’re not going home to beat off to me and all the sexy things I just did with my mouth on your mouth and my body pressed against yours…and imagining all the nasty things you expect I’ll want to do with you in the near future…well then…we really shouldn’t be having sex anyway.  Step your mind game up, kid.)

And then it happened.  Somewhere in between flushed cheeks and panting breath, the clock struck midnight for cinderella or 1045 for the barman and he had to go.  Sure, getting dressed was slow what with me tracing his abs and him playing grab ass, but eventually he was ready to go.  He had asked if I wanted to come watch (I assumed watch was yet another language barrier word and that he simply meant I could go with him and chill at the bar but I had girlfriends to call and tell all the details of what had just gone down writing to do).  Plus, I imagine chicks EVERYWHERE flirt their little asses off for him and no newly dating people need to see that.  It’s just too much information.  He also invited me to a football training session that he runs every saturday (and as much as I loved the idea of being in close proximity with a set of buff burly dudes throwing me the pigskin around, I wasn’t quite ready for him to see me all sweaty and out of breath at 10am on a saturday morning…that’s what relationships are for.

And that was that.  A few more ass grabs.  A few more you’re so sexys.  A few more intense kisses and a song or two played in the key of rock hard chest and abs and I was closing my door, after the hottest dude ever, on the sexiest second date ever, on my first kiss…in Montreal.  And then proceeded to pant from excitement for the next half hour.


And PS…we broke the couch…and I don’t even care!

New Move, New Site, New Boys, New Life


New boys, new life



Some of you have been reading from the beginning.  The way back when.  The precipitating moments to some of the biggest changes about to occur in my life.  You were there.  I was there.  And now we’re here.  But where is here exactly?

Here is…moving to Montreal for graduate school (Concordia University).  3 years in the making and it’s finally here.

I’m thrilled.  I’m stressed.  I’m excited.  I have trepidation.  It’s going to be amazing.  I’m absolutely fucking terrified.

I don’t know anyone there.  Not one single person.  I don’t speak french (unless you include the 5 years of high school french I took which you probably shouldn’t given the fact that the only knowledge I retained is je suis fatigue [I am tired].)


Though I’ve been lucky enough to travel quite a bit, I’ve never actually lived anywhere outside of the lower mainland so to me this move is a huge fucking deal.  For you guys, it probably won’t make much of a difference.  Admittedly, I think I’ll have to say goodbye to my tagline of Something She Dated:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place One “Something” at a Time but otherwise then that you probably won’t notice much of a difference.

Or…well…maybe there will be some changes.  Good ones.  In my opinion.  And hopefully in yours.  But changes nonetheless.



AUGUST 2013 UPDATE:  It was but now that I’m writing about various topics I’ve got the new (and permanent…no more changes I swear) site here (which technically you should already know, since you’re here, reading it)

First off, there’s the new site design.  Like everything new, it’ll probably be irritating at first, you’re used to seeing this button here and that thing over there.  But like when you get a new iPhone, you hate it for 30 minutes, you adapt and it basically becomes your new boyfriend.  No?  Just me then?  That’s cool.

Rather than bore you with a run down of everything on the site, I’ll let you explore and see for yourself…or don’t.  To be honest, if you’re a long time reader the layout likely won’t matter to you.  Just know this, you MAY (read: probably will) have to RE-subscribe to the RSS feed (and if so, just click the feed button…it’s on the top right under the scroll bar and you’ll be good to go).  And, because who doesn’t like a contingency plan)…when in doubt…and you just want to read the most recent posts and you can’t figure out where to look but you know you want to read them in order…look to the right…middle of the screen and you’ll find the heading “recent posts” and you’ll be all set.



So that’s the next thing that might hopefully could maybe will be different.  Boys.  Hopefully there will be more.  Lots more.  Both here and when I move.  I expect a few more stories than usual because I have about 4 weeks left here and why not go balls to the wall right?!?!  And then of course not only is Montreal a completely new city that I haven’t yet dated my way through but let’s be honest, I think they’re a bit more my key demographic if you know what I mean.

Additionally, I’ll finally be able to answer (in an informed way) the truth about the theory that Vancouver Men Suck.  And I won’t just be doing online research, I’ll be getting out there, talking to people on the street, in cafes, in class, in the halls, around campus, on my bed…wherever 😉  Needless to say, online dating won’t be my only avenue of contact, I’ll be getting down in those dating trenches and loving at least 50% of the minutes of it every minute of it and then reporting it back to you.



Another change is that you may see a few more life related posts mixed in the…mix.  The truth is as amazing as this move will be, I expect it to be equally stressful and when stressed, I turn to writing and what better way to keep you all up to date then with posting about it all here.  Some of it may be boring.  Some of it may be hilarious and exhilarating.  I’ll be doing my best to keep it to the latter.  Read.  Don’t read.  I’ll still love you either way.

And that’s pretty much it guys.  All the new news in my life.  The loosely drawn map of the adventures to come.  It’s going to be great.  And feel free to leave me comments about things you like or don’t like about the site (and things that aren’t working or any troubles you’re having….unless of course the trouble is with the commenting system or something…and then…ermmm…email or find me on social media).


All my love, till the next juicy boy update….



Vancouver Dating Blog: You Can Always Come Home To Me

How to Write a Dating Profile

It’s been a long time coming.

I’ve been meaning to write it for ages.

But somehow I just kept putting it off.

Because it’s not really a dating post, or a humor post, or a sex post, or a poetry post even, it’s a post about me.  Little old me, and what I’ve been up to and what (not who) I’ve been doing.  Because admittedly, in this last year, it might have gotten a little confusing.  So I’ll try to keep it as short and sweet as possible and if there’s any questions at the end…well…that’s what the comment section is for, right?

In September I started back at UBC.

I was approached by a dating website who wanted to buy (like with real money) my writing, both past and future.  I thought long and hard about it and though I hated the idea of parting with my writing (not a first rights kind of deal, a complete selling of ownership type deal) I figured I’d always have more material and beggars can’t be choosers and a number of other considerations that had me agreeing.  And so that’s what I did (which is why, you may or may not have noticed, many of my old blog posts disappeared).  For the next 6 months or so things were peachy.  I mean school was insane and my own blog pretty much fell to the way-side but I simply directed all my readers over to the dating website I had been working for to read my posts.  And then sometime around the end of January-ish something happened.  I had to sever ties with the site.  Unfortunately, the owner and I had some very different ideas about the ethics of editing (much like the differing laws in Canada and the States) and that was that.  He owned my words and I asked for my name to be removed from all content.  Ties severed.

However, very close to the same time I was approached by an Editor at The Province who asked if I would like to blog for them.  Ecstatic, I, of course, agreed.  And that was that, I’ve been happily blogging for the Province ever since.  But, I mean, there’s only so much writing about sex and dating a girl can do, especially when I was still in school at the time.  So for the time being, I publish on The Province and shortly after the article goes up on my own blog, this one right here.  Now of course, there’ll probably be exceptions (like say with this post, this one has no need to go on The Province’s site, and posts that contain poetry will always only go up here).

Additionally, I’ve started blogging as a #SWEXPERT for a UK dating site called Singles Warehouse, along with numerous other bloggers.  And while I’m not certain how or where the relationship will progress too, like my work for The Province, it will eventually end up on my own site (this one, in case that wasn’t clear lol).

Now, here I am in early May and I’ve graduated from UBC with my 2nd BA.  I have been accepted to Georgia State University, North Carolina State University, University of Massachusetts (Boston), and University of Saskatchewan, and I’m still waiting to hear back from Concordia and George Washington University.

What any of this means for the future I don’t know.  Will I be moving from Vancouver in September?  Can I really afford to take on the debt of an American University?  What would it be like to live in Saskatoon, a place I’ve heard I would eat the boys alive, and what if there were no boys at all who wanted to be eaten?  Will I take a year off, work and save as much as possible, and then reapply to schools next year (because at least now I know that getting in is a likely possibility; to be honest, I had been bracing myself for an across the board rejection)?  Could I continue to write about “Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time” or write for The Province, if I neither lived in Vancouver, nor the province of BC?  Will I spend the summer writing a book?

Who knows.  I have no real answers.  Yet.  But I’m happy.  And the future is bright.  And when in doubt over where to find my writing, know that it will always come home here at Something She Dated, ready and waiting for your loving eyes with its open arms.


Playing Catch Up, Like Playing Catch But With Fewer Balls Thrown At My Face

Playing Catch Up

[dropcap]January[/dropcap] was all about finalizing grad school applications and the disastrous effects of dating Cry Baby Romeo.  I’m not sure if I ever mentioned it but on that first date of ours, he had told me about how he dated a girl from Vancouver.  They’d gone out, had a nice time and chastely parted ways.  However, the next morning she was sexting dirty messages and asking when he’d be over.  He, of course, went to her place later that night, they boned and that was that.  He said she called him two weeks later, just to say that she couldn’t see him again because she didn’t want him to think she was that kind of girl.  At the time, I joined in his laughter, ha ha ha fucking crazy chicks ha ha ha.  Because with the way he told it, that was how it sounded.  But after my own experience of awful sex, followed by him texting a joke about how you’re not going to never talk to me again are you?, I began to see what had really happened with them.

I bet they had sex.  It was awful.  She ceased contact.  Eventually he reached out with a phone call and she was so flustered that instead of beating down his manhood with a quick and to the point um…you suck at sex, also you’re boring, she simply hit him with something that would scare any boy off: crazy talk.

And here’s why I’m so certain that’s what happened.  Because we had sex.  It was awful.  I ceased contact.  And lo and behold two weeks later, I get a text about what’s up Houdini?  To which I promptly informed him I wasn’t interested.  I hadn’t felt compelled to inform him earlier since to be honest, he hadn’t contacted me until then.  Obviously, he had one playbook and wasn’t about to stray in order to throw a hail mary.  Sadly, it’s too bad he didn’t have a better coach working with him on some plays.  But I digress.  So that was January.  Worst.

February was…slow.  At least in the dating department.  I read once that dating websites (and probably dating in general) see a big lull in February.  This is mostly because in the few weeks before Valentine’s Day people don’t want to get involved with someone new.  It opens the door to a ton of problems, or potential for missteps.  Is a 2nd date on V Day weird?  do you have to get her a gift? was the teddy bear just a cute gesture or a sign he’s really into me?  and the list goes on.

And in the weeks after Valentine’s Day people are generally at work on themselves.  Maybe you spent V day alone (and felt bad about it) and now you’re working on you.  Maybe Debbie dumped your ass or Teddy told you to take a hike.  Maybe you just have the winter blues.  Who knows.  But they were totally right.  In the 2 weeks before Valentine’s day I saw a 98% drop in contact.  No joke, I almost didn’t get a single message, not even a Nice Tits from a lonely web trawler.  And then about a week after Valentine’s day the flood gates crashed and I was swept away in a torrent of stupidity.

March.  And then March happened.  Final push for grad apps.  Final push for school.  It was term papers and class presentations and to be honest…even for me…sometimes the stupidity of peoplethe sheer idiocy and social dysfunction of the masses, it just all becomes too much.  And so at the beginning of March, I deleted my Plenty of Fish.  But not before messaging two fellas.  You see, somewhere among the 40 odd messages, left un-responded to, were two guys who seemed…well…promising.  Sure, I wasn’t super excited.  Sure, we’d barely messaged.  But they were both clearly interested and both had relatively good profiles.

So, I went balls to the wall.  Let them think I’m weird and acting hysterical by removing my profile I thought.  To be honest, I didn’t care enough to worry about it, I had shit to do.  So I told them I was off Plenty of Fish but if they wanted to talk more they could hit me up on my email.  And that was that.  I actually thought I was miss it more.  And maybe it was school, or friends, or the fact that MegaLove and I still hang out every few weeks, but I barely even noticed.

And I know what you’re thinking.  Wait…it’s almost May…where’s the entry about April…and that’s when I say the words all blog readers hate…except for those who like mystery and suspense.

To Be Continued…


Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time