Okay/Not Okay

I woke up at the early dawn of 5:30am in the morning and thought about him. Originally I had intended to write this post last evening when I came home from the gym, and all through the early hours of this morning, the sun rose to what appeared to be a tiresome day while I contemplated how my mind can be on two opposite spectrum. Powerful and lost.

What can I say? I suppose societal pressure dictates to us the amount of times that you can seek condolence from your peers after a breakup. Coupled with my rigorous X-Y-Z mentality, I tell myself all the logical reasons how I am going to get through this. People tend to digest the news better when they hear that you’re fine. And I am. I feel easier, with my daily thoughts less congested. Every so often, a sweep of bitter emotion/jealousy over what could have been does consume me. I tell myself this does not take away from the purity of how I felt. You are only human and these short-lived poisonous emotions will fade.

What actually helped was this cruel karma that at least I, happen to see in this light. Everywhere around me, the universe seems to be teaching me a lesson. Binge watching season 9 of “How I Met Your Mother” –  I watched Ted struggling at 34, rapidly losing faith in finding the love of his life, and realized how impatient I am. TV shows are easy though, they congest 9 years worth of the possible contingency’s of one’s love life, no, a fabricated character’s life no less, scripted in roughly 20 odd minute episodes to relay to you how many things can change and happen over the course of time. Witnessing that, I felt like being the child that picks up a book and skips to the end before they begin

I’ve never been that child. I read books cover to cover and relish it all the more for the body of paragraphs in between.

In my real life, this omnipotent message hasn’t lessened either. One of my colleagues just returned happily married from his newly wed wife, who has and still does live in India while he has been in Canada. When asked, he said, “Some long distance relationships work, and some don’t.”

To understand that this is the bread and butter of my book can be hard to digest. Like any growth spurt from fateful immaturity, I’d at least want to control the speed of which I can read through this chapter. Funnily enough, when I came upon the word control, I thought of many instances in life, but one of which I can choose to control right now.

Here is the division in mindset for me:

Focus on you.

That’s being at the gym and being a newly certified trainer for me.

“I want everything that you are to turn this way – and come at me.”

This sentence brings me to the moments of so many out-of-breath and haggard women, half way through the kick boxing circuit where I train, to suddenly alert their eyes upon me with the last few seconds as something I perceive to be permission granted.

“Yes, kick/punch/fight through this bag… and into me.”

I know there are many scientific reasons for exercise to make us feel good, but let me say this: to realize your dream is to get up in the face of tired, sometimes aggressively exasperated women, might I add with punching gloves on, and to yell at them to rock that upheld bag into your core – that has been the best form of therapy if there ever was one.

And this is what I do.

Whenever my thoughts drift amiss into the ironically shy, romantic girl that is also me, I think of what it feels like to hear the impact of my punches/kicks. Like cracks of fireworks that detonate across the gym floor. Make heads swivel. Make an example of yourself. For this work out, you will leave it out on the floor. Herd your power – think of the position of your body, turn your knees, swivel your hips, rotate your core, extended arm/raised leg, this is the last body of contact – bust it out.

This is my happy place.


It’s the duality of understanding that I am a women’s kick boxing trainer and a good one, because that’s important to me, but that I’m also human and romantic and lonely as a temporarily deflated young woman who has just gone through a break up. My mind races to soothe myself on why things happened a certain way with this man, but also how women come up to me after their work out for a fist bump because they’re grateful for my faith and enthusiasm into them. It’s okay to let yourself grief a bit, but focus on this energy because this inspires you. Bring your voice to the floor and command them to give you their best, then feel women of all shape and sizes rise to challenge themselves because of you. Train hard. Grasp this. Get your game on, Sarah. Focus.



A Few Great Men

“Of the few great men I’ve met in my life, you will be one of them.”

This is how I started my letter to him. We had just broken up not 24 hours ago and I can’t seem to fathom how one can have so many things to say and remain blank all at once.

They say the first stage of grief is denial – in which case, I am arguably so. There’s no nobility in the thought that I wish we could just pretend a little more. Let this continue to be my crutch because it is easier that way. Though that statement might not even be quintessentially true in all its form of escapism, like I said, I’m in denial.

So many things I wish for.

I wish that my love for you could supersede all of our differences. I wish you could fall in love with me again the way you once felt, however briefly. I wish to all the stars in the sky that we could forge ahead and make dreams come true. I wish to realize the life we had almost begun to mentally build together. It was beautiful.

And I tell you it was beautiful because I believe in this foreign matter of love. And I will keep looking at my reflection in the mirror – this girl – you fell in love didn’t you?

It’s okay.

It’s okay.

It’s okay.

On so many plains of logic, I understand this makes sense. Myriads of life factors account for this. We will both live great lives and realize our full potential.

I stayed up till 1:30am last night putting the last touches on his Christmas gift that I had already finished making because I had all these plans for us when he came to visit. It was equally therapeutic and painful. I wrapped it up pretty and wrote all these tied index cards to explain why I made what I made. I will send it off today in the way that I had first imagined him to receive it when he would be here.

To him, I give you my very best until the end.



“Damn, I look good.”

… is not a sentence that is uttered by many females.

I’ve always been a big fan of boudoir photography. I don’t know the technical definition of it [definition of Boudoir is French for a women’s private (thank god I didn’t stop reading here) bedroom or room. Adding photography is to capture the women in the most flattering poses that fit her body in a similar intimate setting]  – thanks Google. I just thought it was a reason for regular gals like me to get done up in porn star make up (and really cake it on, it’s your one chance) and get slutty every so often. Like selfies, but cranking it up a notch.

Why this enthusiasm?  Well, because, damn, I looked good.

I said it. I designed and set up a self portrayed photo shoot for myself with the simple tools of a flexible gorilla grip tripod and a living room chair dragged to the privacy of my room. Right after I got the pictures loaded up to the computer and after some basic cropping, I hardly waited to berate my close girlfriends about how proud I was for my body. Not to be taken aggressively – sure I work out and I love it, but I love food too, so pick your battles and eat just a little less or equal to what you burn – but to be so proud of your own body as a modern day female…gosh guys, I got to tell you, it feels great.

My high opinion of myself was blessed by my girlfriend for my creativity, because boudoir, or if you don’t feel that luxurious, just plain dirty photos of a girl can be made as a form of artistry. Ladies, we’ve got the better end of the stick here. Rarely do you not find some sort of beauty in photographing women. Our bodies are sensual, curvaceous, slender and everything else in between. Embrace it. Feel sexy and emboldened by your sexuality. Surprise yourself with your boundaries; make up themes , a persona even, and project in your mind all these mass propaganda of female model figures we’re exposed to anyway – make use of them!

For the purpose of my own privacy, I can’t share one of my favorite accidental shots that my camera captured, but below is a quick selfie I took with my phone. This particular one won’t be boasting the HD quality I received with my camera  (but don’t be afraid to really take a look at yourself in HD, honest, it adopts a sense of professionalism instead of just you dicking around with the camera and if that’s ease of conscience to you, then also take care to make the short leap and say you do in fact look good). As well I’ve cropped my eyes for publishing so we can’t celebrate the voodoo make up unfortunately, but I’m sure all ladies are born with the innate sense of a dark smokey eye. Of course it is my hope that the intention to share is received well. This post came as a bubbling forth of my cry to let women out there feel good in their skin. Matter of fact, my girlfriends wanted me to photograph them too after my enthused messages. I dare you, and then take a look at yourself and tell me you didn’t at least privately admit to yourself, “Damn, I look good.”



Surprise yourself.
And if any of you have a lucky guy to send that too – well, have him send me a large bag of Science Diet cat food as thanks. I’ll take it.
*for any of you who have known me, see, still the same. Sexy is a cloth I put over my head.

A Finite Space Capsule in Your Mind

Try to recall the oddity of how some people can be so calm – I tell myself this whenever I can feel my blood boiling. Among other things over the last week, tonight was a personal offence to my ego/life principle. I’ve always been open about my mostly prune-ish lifestyle. Among Vancouverites, I am largely unpopular in the opinion that I hate this thing they like to refer to nowadays as medical marijuana. I’m sorry, that’s about the same difference to me as somebody trying to redefine shitty work politics as smart maneuvers when in fact it is bold as day – kiss my ass. 

In even more intelligent terms to describe my feelings towards this substance, it is a massive boner-killer. There, that got through to more audience than I’ve ever managed to in years.

Thing is, even a dude, like mine tonight, wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about losing out on potential sex with their girl when they’re like that…who cares when you’re baked, right?

For many reasons, that sickens me. Mostly because an ex had walked out in order to deal drugs (and then knock on my door a year later to say it’s all fucked – way to go, I certainly did not go easy on him). But also just in the most fundamental terms of knowing/envisioning what I do and do not want in life, and what follows is definitely strongly worded and not popular – you are warned. I do wish I had a more affectionate way to communicate the following for potential partners to come, “you are welcome to join the 100% of ex’s that had chosen this substance, among others; as well the 90% of population that would rather be high than sober too. I don’t want to date 90% of the world then, I want the 10%.” Am I a complete asshole to then also apply the statistics that 90% of the world lives in mediocrity with an optimistic 10% living their dreams?  Yeah, I want the sober rocking 10%.

This is all a very broad idea and obtusely judgmental, but just let me vent for awhile.

Certainly it’s a bias opinion that does not apply to my friends, just because my life principles have weird exceptions and my conscience seems to only want to apply this singularly on that one. Certainly my take on this intake has been greatly overcast by bad experiences. Bad relationships; watching bad husbands smoke up the house while their first time wife (my friend) struggle through the first week with her newborn – honestly, husband-man-child, fuck your many life excuses for anxiety, she just shit out a 9 pound baby, now with lopsided pregnancy boobs and baby piss on her hands in the middle of the night – bless her. I also understand being inebriated by alcohol is just as valid to non-soberism as well, in which case I am by on all means, guilty every so often. I even seem to comprehend the very contradictory fact that I am a fan of many comedians/celebrities that condone these activities. Bravo to you. You’re hilarious. I am, however, starting to understand that I am always going to be me in my personal romantic life. And much as people may deny with my young age that I will change my mind one day, I don’t foresee a circumstance to which I will willingly walk alongside any induced state of anxious-free/happiness with aided drugs manifesting to be my one and only. Understanding that, just for myself, and trying desperately each day to fully grasp my own worth, I say I am just as pathetically romantic as I am likely unreasonably hateful/strict towards certain life choices like above. I am probably one of the greatest friend/lover you will ever come across if you mean well, and one of the most ridiculously small-minded person about ‘regular’ hip and socially acceptable things like these. Of which directed is only ever to the one.

It’s a little cruel isn’t it?

This repeated occasion does exasperate me to an extent. If only I was more carefree right? What I discovered while I was trying to find a way to not let finding this out tonight about my partner across the world and for it to ruin my evening all the way here is to find that collective calm I’ve been working hard to foster this last week. Capture it, Sarah. It’s his choice, to be 90% or the 10%. All of this frustration is just a tiny space capsule in your mind. It is definitely finite.Let it sail in inertia and not be bothered.

Side note: get high on your kitty litter, neatly cut up fruits and too much tea. Yes, I am rocking my own life. What percentage of 20 year olds can you find that enjoy that.

15 Years Your Junior

Something about being put in your place, because otherwise we lose perspective that way. It is easy to acknowledge that 15 years is a long time, or to count mathematically any number of years that someone has had to experience life for the matter. I easily admit to the difference in number of years between myself and somebody. I say it with comprehension of the words, not the meaning. In fact, I say it so often what with the majority of people in my life being predominantly older than me, I forget what the words mean anymore.

I had forgotten what a large expanse 15 years, in this case, can afford in someone’s life. All things considered the universe is 4.5 billion years old, I had taken this comparison out of context and let the infinitely smaller span of time we have cohesively on earth, to recognize the weight of 15 years. Take 15 years of my life – that’s 3/4 of my life. For arguing’s sake, likely the first 5 weren’t all the impressive. Then it’s really my whole life up until this point we are making a concept of.

I understood this one afternoon after a video call with him, right in the middle of my fumble for words to try to explain myself. If someone tried to make light of the 15 years I have lived, sheltered and young throughout much of the count as I may have been, well, that simply wouldn’t do. It can’t be defined, these number of years that has made me who I am. Likewise I cannot fight to compensate for the 15 years that he has above me, it is silly to try so mentally; for the people he has met and felt for, for the intensity of joys and sorrow, accomplishments and setback; these nuance subtleties that naturally impresses upon all of us with time, I cannot overwrite them with childish, possessive will. The realization of this rather simple fundamental principle behind my easily admitted statement, that he’s 15 years my senior, I feel like I’ve just understood now. And with that understanding, most of my worries, insecurities, fears of abandonment with this man has sort of vanished. I’ve thought about them and can’t recall how they have dissipated so easily considering the time it had spent percolating in my head. Hard to put into words, but there’s a calm and quiet when I think about this expanse of time he had been through while I was living through mine. Yes, 15 years is an age gap, and there is a difference in stance against life between us, but you’re here now, and I’m here. Most importantly to digest in my impatient mind – you’ll be here tomorrow, you’re here even in this hour while you sleep across the world, and I’ll remember this most for those times I awoke multiple times during the night reaching out a hand just to feel your physical presence. You’ll be here. 15 years more.


A sort of love letter.

Day 10: You’re Feeding the Beast Again

An excerpt from my inner dialogue;

“I can’t and don’t want to talk to you right now because all my thoughts are negative and I know you…I’m trying to find the words to say this respectfully…yet the fact is you did say you couldn’t handle it in the face of the beast. I trusted you to but you couldn’t.  I can’t blame you, I am only angry at myself. This weekly fallout is further proof of your fear that you don’t make me happy – I’m aware – that statement alone has created a fallacy out of my happiness. Every excitable emotion has become attributed to trying to convince you that I am happy. The thin conviction confuses me too. I doubt myself. If I’m not 110% (in joyfulness  or sex appeal) I deface my very own words that this is the way I approach relationships and I feel so damn guilty trying to talk to you. I know you, no blame, but your little to no response only spells out in capital ‘I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR PROBLEMS SARAH ‘. Benign as your incapability to grasp this beast of mine, your withdrawn demeanor while I wrestle it makes me hate myself so much.

                  Shut up.

You said , ” but you got yourself out of them didn’t you?” (In reference to my negative thoughts). This was your immediate response.


He didn’t mean it that way

I’m so stupid

I know. I’ll fix it.

You said, “I don’t like the lingo you use to call this a problem.”

I’ll fix it. (It is a problem. You can’t handle it.)

So godamn stupid.

Fuck, just kill yourself Sarah

 Shut up.

You’re doing it again!

And I can pour my soul out and explain to you what it feels like but you will never feel the same for me. Never like that Dutch girl. Fuck her. You say don’t remind you because you regret it so much – you regret the very act of falling and this is where I am. I feel so damn guilty, as if I have begged and dragged you to stay (out of pity). This fallacy is built on my thin to none faith in myself and my thoughts plummet when I think of you in times like this. I want you to help me but you can’t.  Nothing I do or say or any amount of emotional/mental effort I invest will return in the same impact for you. You may walk away onto another lack – Lustre relationship in my eyes. You’ll never feel the intensity. The worst part is you would not fight for me to stay – you wouldn’t fight for us – because godamn it…I’m just not worth it to you. It’s like embracing a losing battle all the while confusing it with a sort of young love. And I know I don’t deserve to think of myself this way. I know. The thing is, I feel like a spinning coin defying the laws of falling, no landing – driven to insanity by the force of inertia that keeps the coin spinning. I can’t see it. The me that deserves the love and affection I try to apply. I’m trying to say I CAN’T SEE IT !”

*                                      *                                  *

(Sometimes) I wish I could be one of those bloggers that contributed, though blessedly redundant, such connective universal ideas of peace for oneself and happiness in simplicity that every reader can be touched from. I look back at this blog from when I was 16 years old, and with a solemnity I note with sadness just how mean I am to myself . “Why does this girl say that about herself?”  I ask.

Guys, it’s really, really fucking hard to break a bad habit.


In the Dream I Shot Myself

I first started with apologies to my mom. Then to my ex from the beginning of the year. Last, to the man I visited in Vienna.

Somehow, in the tapestries of human subconsciousness, this all took place in an unassuming grocery aisle.

While googling this photo, I came across the liquor aisle. I wish my subconscious was that cool .

The dream came to me fast – the way light travels faster than sound. I could feel my physical body catching up to the helms of fleeting imagination, like I was being lifted, and it felt like the whole story unraveled within the condense few seconds my conscious mind took to register the sunlight.

7:56am, I opened my eyes and saw my phone.

I first apologized to my mom.With foreshadowing remorse because I knew what I was doing. Then my ex was brushing against my backside in the grocery aisle, looking over my shoulder at something. I felt his approval. I felt our excitement. The kind of lust and young puppy love attraction. The feeling seemed to melt or dissipate in an abstract way, much like Picasso’s art [Scream]. Then he was there, whom I was most sorry to. Note: *I am overwhelmingly sorry to my mom to be sure, but I think I have gone through this process too many times for the thought not to wear.

Laying in bed, I looked outside my bedroom window and saw the grey cast of a sleepy day. Mind ticking away to grasp the reclining dreamscape that always seems to want to say something.

It was the thought that they wouldn’t believe I am sorry. So I apologized one by one in due diligence.

“I am sorry, Mom.”

“Hey you, you were a great guy. I’m sorry.”

“And you.” I can only smile sadly. Bravely. “I’m sorry.”

Then I shot myself.

I thought about this dream while I brushed my teeth this morning and wondered whether it was supposed to be a sinister indication of my mental health. I didn’t think so. Not so much holding in mind the subject matter, but rather the sort of ecstatic imprint it had left behind. I felt like I had come upon an epiphany without knowing what the revelation was.

On the bus ride home from work I thought about my ex again. I found our last messsage in my phone and wrote a simple paragraph to apologize and wish him best of luck. I think about the last 5 days – when I had first begun the challenge to put myself back on a ‘core’ run. Back to reading the books, plunging into healthy thoughts and putting your mind at ease all the while. Sometimes I do indeed narrow into a bit of a pickle with myself and doubt the integrity of this impassive calm that has come upon me since. I felt good and in one breath of air I wanted to laugh aloud.

What a load of escapism, these thoughts of death.

I ran through a mental dialogue of explaining this revelation to someone else (as one does). I thought about his reaction. Maybe I’m still working on the incline to not feel the need to prove my sincerity, but today I feel good. And somehow this odd, disturbing dream had been the pivot point, in the dream where I shot myself.