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Via Darren, the next rung on my ladder towards insanity.

Name all 192 UN Member States in 10 minutes.

Haven’t done it yet. Will report back with tragic results soon.

I love few things more than singing at the top of my lungs. Especially in harmony. This is what ballads were made for.

Sundresses are the ideal physical state.

The only conversations I really find irritating are about Survivor.

Really good sashimi is mind-clearing. But if you don’t like it, you REALLY don’t like it.

I make the same dumb mistakes all the time in my writing. Overuse of “that” and TOO MANY ADVERBS and sentences that end like this? Stop the madness, Fowler.

I hate smiling with teeth in pictures. Outside of pictures, there’s no other way I smile than with a lot of teeth. Crooked teeth. But happy teeth.

I’ve injured people with my hand-talking.

I am the queen of the worst case scenario. I have missed my calling in risk management.

I make a wicked baking powder biscuit. Don’t underestimate the power. Or the powder.

I really love cold skim milk.

I’m still really not down with the clowns. But I can accept now that not all clowns want to eat me.

Just a second ago, I got teary for absolutely no reason. When your mom tells you menopause is weird and disassociative and alien, BELIEVE HER. And then give her a hug.

I will never wear my jeans tapered at the ankle. I know it’s cool again. But evidently, I won’t be.

I feel an instant kinship with other hockey fans. And as much as I know that’s an artificial bond, it’s comforting.

Things are rarely as scary as I anticipate them to be. So I should probably chill out.

I have too many calluses on my feet.

I am a cynic who loves and hates cynicism. And an optimist who doesn’t trust optimists.

Stars in the sky are a good enough reason to cuddle.

Part of me still thinks my mom can fix anything.

The other part of me still thinks my dad will beat people up for me.

Both parts are right.

So quiet around here!

Alas, it’s been a busy weekend. Much in the way of things and stuff.

And there’s more tomorrow… but I’ll tell you all about it once it’s over. For now?

A couple goofy pictures from the night out:

(oops… no flash.)

What’s going on with you this weekend?

I have a love/hate relationship with difficult men.

Which seems only fitting, since that’s pretty much the relationship difficult men have with the world.

Maybe I view them as a challenge, or maybe just in need of some intangible help I think can provide.

Patience? Laughter? Grace? Acceptance? Delusion? No idea.

But I know I’ve ended up in more than a couple of impossible relationships because I decided I would be the one to love someone other people found hard to take.

I would convince myself that rejection was a cry for help, or that meanness was a shell of protection, or that ignorance could somehow be justified by trauma. There was something more under there, right?

I was brilliant at making excuses, brilliant at trying again, brilliant at being the apologist for the unapologetic.

Except for the fact that no one bought what I was saying. Not even the boys.

I still do it now and then, as much as it hurts, as much as it aches, as ridiculous as I feel when things fall apart, because I know that I’m difficult, too… and I don’t want anyone to give up on me.

I’ve been more difficult than ever these last couple of years, flirting with my pain in the ass skills and licking my wounds and holding frustration in and starting arguments where no conflict needs to exist. My friends have been there for all of it — sometimes flinching a bit at how raw things would get, but mostly just willing to be a part of whatever came.

I think they stick with me because they know that these jagged edges aren’t the things I’m proud of, or the attributes that are emblematic of my character. I would much rather love than shut down. I would much rather find something to be excited about then rob other people of joy. And there is so much of life that still makes me passionate and giggly and fierce and joyful and flush with hope.

I will always try. Even if it takes me a little while to figure out how.

So I don’t need to keep giving assholes a chance because I’m an asshole sometimes. Or even a lot of the time.

I don’t need to keep banging my head against brick walls because I can be a headache sometimes. Or even a lot of the time.

I don’t have to settle for a lack of depth or kindness or reason or wisdom or responsibility because I am not a perfect package, because I am not beautiful, because I am not a fantasy.

I am not ugly enough to deserve ugliness.

I maintain that we are all broken in some way, that all of us bear scars, that every relationship that works is a series of choices and sacrifices. We are not romance novels, not romantic comedies, not love songs, not eHarmony commercials, not celebrity weddings, not pot/lid.

We are all challenges.

Still, there comes a point where the red flags become stop signs and the dark and tortured shit becomes indulgence, not reality. You can paint pictures of it, you can write songs about it, you can write lower-case emails, you can make cryptic remarks about it late at night.

But I am no longer interested in triage.

I’m interested in people who apply some pressure to their own wounds.

Meh. Missed three states.

and

94%, 18 miles accuracy.

Update: I have now scored perfectly on both. Obsession payoff!

Don’t ask why. I can’t explain why. Yes, I’m Canadian.

I just like to know everything.