Hard to Speak.

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It’ s hard to look at someone and tell them something very important about you. The thing that makes you, you. The event or the situation that made you realize that the world is not a safe place, that people are not always nice to you, that people are selfish and they only want things for themselves without the consideration of others.

Now this is even hard to tell someone who cares the most about you. For example my father. And telling my father what has happened to me, did not occur in the way that I expected it to occur.

I just came back home for the weekend, and somehow I was driving us both back home, him from work and me from dinner with friends. And the conversation we were having slowly guided into what happened to me. He ask for details, and descriptions, which I was struggling to give up. Muffled nods and yeas were all I can say. Although I did go into how I’m letting him know now because I’m grown up, I realize what happened, how I feel about it. I have pretty much summed up the situation with no doubt about what happened and I have accepted it.

The car ride became a long one when we were on the street where our house was, but we kept driving around the area talking still, until my father said to drive on the highway until another city so we can go to a casino. Yes, I know, not the typical answer to a situation. But after all the talking and tears (on both ends) and hand holding and hugging I thought it was well deserved. He did give me a warning not to tell my mom, which I already knew was given.

After the casino winning $5 more than I spent, and my dad losing his $40 that he played, we called it a very late night of 3am. We sneaked back home without waking my mother and called it a night. I don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow but for today I know that me and my father bonded.

Death.

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Just a couple days ago was the death of my father’s boss. Why does it matter?
Because to me, that man was more of a grandfather to me, than the two I already had. And it sucks as one grows up they tend to not visit people as much as they should.

I remember when I was younger I saw him once at least every summer. But was also before I left the city for school and before he continuously fell ill. But you know I could have seen him in the past two years. But bad people and bad timing stalled the whole process.

Even though we slowly drifted apart I was glad that I did call him and talked to him, because the moment my father called me to tell me that his boss has passed, I quickly thought back to the last possible time I talked to him. And then realized that what if…

Just what if that we didn’t end on good terms, It’s already too late. The person is dead, and there is nothing that anyone can do about it now. That other person will leave the world thinking that you were mad at them, or they’re still mad at you.

Aside from that, I have never had any too close to me pass, and I think this may be the first for me. Just the thought of the person is no more doesn’t seem to phase me. Also probably because the idea of that seems ridiculous; until it isn’t.

Damn.

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This is coming from a short brown girl. Who’s believed her whole life that no Asian man of any sort would find a brown girl attractive.
I may be delusional or perhaps drunk (let’s be real that’s when these things happen) but tonight has been the second night in uni that an Asian guy has willingly made-out with me.

Though I think tonight would’ve gone further IF I have let it, but I didn’t.

I don’t know, I’m a girl who comes from Toronto, the most multicultural city in Toronto and I’m still having a hard trim adjusting to the fact that I can be liked by other ethnicity. I’m not sure if that is racist, because I am down playing myself here, but it is mind boggling that I do appeal to men.

Food for thought I guess.

Sick.

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Another thing I realized when living alone. The thing I was fearing.

Becoming sick, when you’re by yourself.

You’re bedridden and you can’t get up, you’re hot, sweaty, eyes tearing, head pounding and you still have to get up in the morning to make yourself a cup of tea. I basically spent the last two days rolling around in bed because I couldn’t do it myself.

If it wasn’t for my floormates I think I would’ve camped out in my room, with chips and hot water. I got food without leaving my room, warm honey water, and lotion, soft tissues.

Even though I still feel pretty bad, and miss having my mother take care of me, I think this is another milestone that one has to cross as they grow up. Who wants to be under their mother’s/father’s wing, and who really is going to run home the moment they get the sniffles.

My mother called and asked how I was, and mocked me if I wanted to come home, and when I said no, she said good, if you’re gonna be on your own, you have to do it right. (though she did keep texting/calling to see how I was.)
I’m sure it’s much harder on them then it is for me. But at the end of the day, you have to get up and take care of yourself.

Home?

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For the past two week I’ve been calling my 2×3 room “home”. 
Force of habit? I don’t know. Does it really only take a person 14 days to call a new place home?

To me it feels really weird right now to be sitting in my own bed, though it is exceptionally more comfy than my other bed. And the room is much more spacious and not to say SO much warmer. 

As of right now I’m not sure which is home to me..