Shit happens. Keep calm & move on....OMFG

My purse committed suicide last week. Okay...that's not entirely true. I may of assisted in its murder. In my defense, I was drunk. No -- drunk is not a sufficient enough word to describe the state I was in. I was totally, ridiculously, insanely and outrageously wasted. It was the end of the night on my 25th birthday last week and as I stumbled out of the cab to get home (in 4-inch heels, no less), I left my beautiful black purse in the backseat, thus committing the first crime of my quarter century year: pursicide.

One wallet, $200, one passport, a driver's license, health card and several bracelets later I learned my first lesson of the latter half of my twenties: shit happens. Keep calm and move on. The first part of that lesson has never been my forte. A highly emotionally-charged being, I'm prone to freaking-the-fuck out when shit hits the proverbial fan. Mostly on the inside, some times on the outside, and always electronically. My poor Droid has received the brunt end of my emotional lashings via endless texting spazzes and even a few throws...thank goodness for hard box cases. What do these freak-outs do? Next to nothing.

Besides dehydrating me via the massive amount of water I expel through my overused tear ducts, having mini meltdowns over ex-boyfriends this, missing out on that and everything else that tends to cause me stress just makes it worse. I always tease my barely emotional friends for being robots, but at times I wonder if life really is easier with the ability to suppress any uncomfortable feelings. Unluckily for me, I'm a freakin' feelings monster who seems to thrive on functioning at a wavelength that only prepubescent girls and I can hear.

And much to my recent dismay, immaturity is exactly what I've come to realize freaking out amounts to. I'm twenty five now for goodness sake; I think it's time I get a handle on two things: 1) that exes suck balls and 2) that my emotions can't run my life. Mr. Roboto, I never will be, but there's definitely room to improve emotional intelligence-wise. I know my tear ducts will thank me later.

Suddenly one wallet, $200, one passport, a driver's license, health card and several bracelet's doesn't seem like such a high price to pay for one darn good realization: taking control of things that affect me negatively and making them not is entirely in my hands. A wise man (ahem, Thomas Neary) once told me progress is the key to happiness...ending teenage emotional sprees at twenty five may be late, but it is progress nonetheless. From pursicide to epiphanies -- it's all about taking negative experiences and transitioning into positive realizations. Shit happens. Freak out momentarily. Keep calm, keep smiling, and move the fuck on.

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OMFG -- A little Perspective

When I was 18, I got my first tattoo of a small pair of wings. It was not some deluded tribute to thinking of myself as an angel, or anything to do with fairies, but a simple reminder to always have perspective in life. The wings were my freedom, the ability to fly away and gain perspective when it came to any situation, and see it with fresh eyes. Throughout the years I've amassed a couple other tattoos which are more like love scrawls that create a delicate narrative along my body, and realized that I needed perspective more than ever...instead of being consumed by situations since I am so driven by emotions, especially when I think love is involved.

I've been in New York the past couple days, and I can't think of a better place to regain my perspective. Being alone in the most influential metropolis in the world puts you in your place in every way, and also allows one to find an identity in its vast anonymity. It's not that I was a wanderer up until now (love, and always will love Toronto.) but anyone who has been to NYC knows the impact it can have. Spending solo time with nothing but the city and your thoughts is bound to lead to some realizations, even to the most spacey of space cadets, let alone an over-analytic, hyper-thinker like myself.

Add rainy weather, gray skies and slightly more desolate than normal streets and you've got yourself the perfect scene for the emo kind of day I've been having. Pathetic fallacy, my late English teacher from high school taught us it was called when inanimate objects (like the weather) reflected a character's mood. Although I can't blame my thoughts on the dowdy Manhattan weather -- it was beautiful and sunny yesterday and still my brain was thinking faster than it normally does...close to combustion I think it borderlines on at times. Just what is all my perspective being gained in, you ask? Why the answer is obvious for anyone who remotely knows me. Love. Love, love, love. I don't think anyone who's not a Romantic era poet thinks about love as much as I do.

It's a lovely sentiment to live by, but also a huge weakness and my ideas on how it should be in my life (cough, perfectly, cough) usually end in disaster. How does one cope with the little girl who lives in a fairy tale? I have no idea, and neither does any man I've dated. Realistic and rational and unshakably chill I can be, but for some one who is thoughtful and caring and places so much of her happiness on living life that way, it's hard to find that expectation reciprocated in one's romantic life.

And so, with all my trials and tribulations when it comes to being a lovey dovey romantic, I've slipped on my pair of wings here in the Upper East side where I'm staying and attempted to see everything I've been through with fresh eyes. As long as I move forward with some sort of progress, I'll be satisfied. After all we are nothing if not for progress.
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