Hey Soul Sister!

I woke up at 3 am and went to the kitchen. I thought I'd get a bowl of rice and a glass of water. Oh the perks of living in sin with an Asian, there's always fresh rice.

Jay: Bad dreams?
Me: Is there any other kind?

Yesterday was my sister's birthday. I guess she's 41 now. The days are long but the years are short. I don't really think about my family. Both my therapists are not fans, they think of them more like an infected limb I should cut off and be done with it before it spreads all through me. Does that hurt? Don't do it. 

They are probably right. But my sister. We've been through a lot together. A lot of her problems, she was never around for mine. I was always there for her though. I haven't seen her or my mother in over three years. Since she invited me and then uninvited me to her wedding. One of the biggest traumas in my life, I have to admit. When she gave me the invitation I said, are you sure? She said of course, you're my sister. Then the elders got involved and even though I'd bought a dress, wrote a card, had the wedding present, I wasn't allowed to go.

My family came to Toronto and drove by my place on their way to the wedding. I was sitting on the window in my pjs smoking. Yah, I used to smoke. They honked and waved like it was any other day of the week. I went out and drank until I didn't have any more feelings.

That was a long time ago now and I've found mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers. Not by blood but out of love. I understand why my therapists and everyone else wants me to stay away from my family. The blood ties though are strong and pull at you every once in awhile. These people are pretty much strangers to me at this point but I still miss them. And wherever my sister is, I hope she's happier than I was in that life and wish her all the best.

Sullivan out.

Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness of Being Happy

I feel sorry for millenials. All true forms of art seem to be dying off with our childhood heroes. And we're not kidding anyone, we came way before the millenials. Bowie, Prince, Michael Jackson *oh yah i totally went there* everyone who has ever written a book worth reading? Dead. Except Margaret Atwood and I have some suspicions that she's actually dead pretending to be alive, I met her (she's dead).  I was looking at books at a book store the other day. They had roughly drawn stick pictures in them. I'm like this make the New York Times? *she shakes her head* and remembers she has overdue library books.

I'm as much to blame as anyone else. Everyone is like, you're a writer? Yes. You have a book? Yes. Is it hidden in some secret file on my computer that I intent to leave a letter with the instructions on how to find it with Jay for when I die? Yes.

When I get upset, I don't say, I'm feeling conflicted. I need to take some time to figure out the most positive course of action. One that will enable me and those I care for to successfully navigate this situation and ensure the best possible outcome.

I send my best a friend a text that says "FML". While I truly love the eff word deeply, I'm not using my better words anymore.

You know what's a great word? Melancholy. 

On that note, I tolerate my MBA, with only one course left after this one, I don't care anymore. I'm struggling to figure out why I cared in the first place. All that time and money. Will those three little letters after my name change anything? NO. Life doesn't care if you are smarter than someone else. The jdubs discourage education which is why I went ALL THE WAY. What I learned was I was always this smart and now I've spent so much money just to prove it to other people, who let's be honest, don't give a fuck.

Charisma, courage, passion, those are what you should do an MBA in. I'm so bored with myself, I don't know how other people even put up with me. Like let me help you with your marketing strategy, throw me a math problem I can't solve or a business I can't turn around by working your assets and assessing your balance sheets. Boring.

Today, I am definitely supposed to be writing a paper. Instead? I lure my boyfriend/manfriend/lifepartner/husband whatever you want to call him to kensignton market so I can buy sage to burn all the negative energy out of our place and get new earrings. I really just wanted to go to Blackbird Baking and Courage my Love and all the places that stole all the best names.

Then we got Vietnamese food and we're running late. So I'm like just drop me off at the market (the other market) cause Ken would would be very upset if I didn't show on a Saturday. Dudes there alone. I'm like where's Robin? She couldn't work. I've offered 17 million times to work for free on the weekends. I jump behind the cash and start ringing people in and packaging flowers. Sweep the floors and take out the garbage. Yes, I love my marketing job. Yes, I'm somewhat important. You cannot however compete for working in a flower shop for minimum wage. I was so lucky I got to do that. Coming home and your whole place smells like beauty and hope.

Some guy was saying shit about our green roses which are actually my favorite and I wanted to punch him. That's your passion, charisma and courage. But the customer is always right. I have an MBA bud. These green ish roses are amazing and by the way, I know your girlfriend and in her culture those white ones mean death and she believes it. Have fun with buying those. :)

Life is more fun when it's fun. Bur damn tomorrow I gotta stop breathing in the flowers and write that paper. Finish line is in sight. Hey, I still remember how to use my words so I'm betting on that to get me through to the other side. My massage therapist is like why do you hate yourself so much? Your body doesn't like you. You'll probably come in here next time saying you're doing your PhD. NO EFFING WAY. Thanks for looking out for me though Craig. :)

PS. I get over this, I might do my PhD, (I'm so so so sorry Jay) cause I've always thought I'd be a great therapist. But definitely a long enough break is planned where I will be the best partner and dog mom and make up for this MBA mess. 

Sullivan out.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

About a Boy

How long have I known Jay? Who knows at this point. Five, six years? Maybe seven. My new life hasn't been longer than nine so he's been around for a lot of it. We're friends, we date, we break up, we're friends again. The only thing I know for sure is we never leave whatever this is.

As y'all know I haven't had the easiest time adapting to life on the outside. Jay is the one person who always saw through whatever I was going through and could see the real me. Not that he ever knew me in my past life, he got the other version of Margaux. But to him, that version was still smart, funny, beautiful and worth loving. He didn't take my crap though. That's why we kept breaking up. He's not like me. He doesn't have some profound need to be liked that makes him put up with bad behaviour from other people. He sticks up for himself. He sticks up for me.

I'm learning slowly that the only way to love someone else is to love yourself first. I've had a lot of boyfriends. And I don't think I ever realized that I deserved to be treated well. That I shouldn't put up with being male dominated, put down or lied to or cheated on. None of us do.

So at times, I've been a very bad girlfriend to him. We were younger then. We partied too much. Didn't sleep enough. Fought too much. But there were good times. He forced me to love Game of Thrones and implemented "no pants Sundays". He could iron chef something awesome from nothing in the cupboard.

Then we started to grow up and things started getting real. My cat died and I had a puppy dumped on me. I got sick for quite some time. I went home indefinitely. Jay would send me care packages with new clothes. He'd visit me every day I was in the hospital. Text me in the morning and ask what I wanted to eat because I'm picky and he knew I wouldn't eat hospital food. When one of my best friends was dying he'd drive me to the hospital and wait outside.

He supports all my stupid ideas like coming home randomly with new animals and doing an MBA while I work. Anytime he's off work and it's a nice day he takes us to the beach because that's my favorite place. He's been there for my siblings and my girlfriends and makes sure my dog is taken care of. (Max loves him to death but he's still mommy's boy.)

I guess all I really want to say is, we don't always understand where big love comes from. I worked on Bay Street for years. All those flashy guys in suits with their expensive cufflinks and even more expensive cars. The guys you'd meet in the cool bars who all had their wedding rings in their pockets so they could pick up girls.

Real love is every. fucking. day. Good times and bad. Pretty or ugly. Money in the pocket or broke as hell. Nice vacations and then the years you can't afford to take a vacation. Shopping at your favorite store one day, dollarama the next. Sacrificing for the family. Before him, I didn't know what it was like to have someone accept you unconditionally. Flaws, imperfections, bad habits. All the things you try to hide. Guess I'm just really lucky I got so many chances to get this right. :)

Sullivan out.