1. I’m a strange person; this is no secret. I was that kid in school who spent more of her time bent over a notebook journaling or writing short stories. I was painfully shy, wildly unpopular and the recipient of a whole lot of bullying. When I started College I thought the best thing to do would be to hide those parts of me that people thought were strange. I wrote at home or on the bus to and from school. I didn’t tell people I wanted to be a writer. I never told anyone I played the flute—not just played it; I performed, I competed, I took theory lessons alongside my weekly lessons. I sketched here and there, but rarely showed anyone my work.
And then I grew up and I learned that no one is universally liked. I cannot please everyone. And by hiding my true self I am doing a terribly disservice to myself.
I’m happy to say that I’m more strange than ever. And I no longer hide it. Plus, I found in a partner an equally strange man who constantly makes me laugh. I read somewhere that one of the key factors of a successful marriage is that the couple be able to make each other laugh. So, we’ve got that down pat.
2. There’s an indie bookstore downtown that holds the most interesting events. On Thursday I convinced Dela to join me. It’s been a while since I’ve felt that inspired, so thank you, Laura McBride. And to make the night even more golden, I finally got to visit PublicUs. It’s officially my favorite coffee place.
3. I’m pretty confident in saying that besides ensuring our basic needs are met (shelter, food, love, health, etc) that everyone just wants to feel understood. To be surrounded by people who get you. Really get you.
When I left Canada I was convinced that no one in Las Vegas would understand me. How could they when they didn’t know my past? And maybe, for the most part, this remains true—though not for the reasons I once expected. No one here has known me for longer than seven years. The majority of them don’t know that I grew up singing and performing Hakuna Matata with my three cousins at our cottage every summer. They don’t know that once, while my best friend and I were babysitting her younger brother, we locked him in his bedroom and he put his bunk bed ladder through the back of his door. They might not know the details of why I have a complicated relationship with my mother, or why I’m a total daddy’s girl—but, they get me.
It turns out they don’t need to have known me for my whole life to understand me.
They know that if I’m not writing; I’m grumpy as hell. That I’m fiercely loyal. That I’m terribly hard on myself. They know I drink too much coffee and that I can’t stop listening to John Mayer and Ed Sheeran. They know I read voraciously. They know I’m absolutely useless after 8pm and that I get the most work done between 7 and 11 am.
They know me. I am understood.