Maybe I don’t want to be a nice person

You’re a nice person but do you make his heart beat 100 beats per minute?

You’re a nice person but do you make his cheeks flush when you pay him a compliment?

You’re a nice person but is that…it?

Yes, this is another self deprecating post so read at your own risk.

I got an email about a year ago from a boy who, somewhere amidst his apology, he wrote: “You’re a nice person”. That was it; nothing to conclude that sentence; no dot dot dot. Yet, I could almost hear the but that should’ve come next. It was heavily implied. You’re a nice person but I don’t want to be with you. You’re a nice person but you’re not enough. You’re a nice person, but you’re not her. It makes me scoff because I’m not even a nice person to begin with so it doesn’t make any sense. I get mad at my mom for not being able to control her emotions when I know that she has mental illnesses; I almost always flake out on plans for my own selfish reasons—I almost never look in the mirror without feeling disgusted at what I see; I never give out my spare change when homeless people ask for money. There. Three reasons why I suck. However, in his defence, he probably didn’t actually mean it and he probably just said it to be polite.

With these aside, even if I were a good person, maybe I don’t want to be. Every now and then before bed I think about these words and it makes me hysterical. It makes me want to rip out my eyeballs because of the burning tears that rush down my face and wipe off my makeup, leaving me exposed by taking off the camouflage that once covered my rosacea and acne-scarred face. It exposes my skin and makes me vulnerable and at the same time, it makes me want to be vulnerable. It makes me want to run to the top of the CN tower and scream at the top of my lungs and stomp my feet because I want to have a tantrum. I want to feel fixed. I hate it. I hate it. I hate that besides the tears, I can tell that I’m ugly crying which is the worst type of cry because it’’s stupid that an ugly noise can come out from your throat even after you’re already being tortured with the ongoing waterfall of tears. I already feel pathetic, I don’t need to sound it too.

“You’re a nice person” really fucks me up because it feels like that’s it—like, its the only compliment that I can be paid. As though, there’s nothing else to say because nothing else can be said. You’re a nice person, but that’s all you are, and that’s all you ever will be is what keeps running through my mind. There’s no other sustenance to you. It feels like this keeps being reinforced because I’m constantly being ghosted and tossed aside and made to feel like nothing. I really need to know that I’m more than just a nice person, if I even am that. I need to know that I’m smart. I need to know that I impact someone’s life in someway. I need to know that if I ever leave someone that I’ll cause more than a small dent. I need to know my presence, time, and energy is worth it. I need to know that I’m wanted and good enough for someone.

Note: I don’t need anyone telling me that I am good enough because I don’t want to hear it. It’s not going to change how I feel. I need to feel it for myself.

By the time I finished typing this all out, I started to feel better so I think I’m going to have a glass of pink moscato (because that’s all I have left) and then I’m going to go to bed and dream about all the lives I’m going to ruin tomorrow. xoxo


Another Ramble..
“So tell me what your biggest fear is”, he asked me as he laid on his side and propped his head up with his hand.
“Sharks…open bodies of water, you know, because it’s dark and scary and who know’s what’s down there…I’m scared of a lot of things”, I rambled.
He leaned over to his nightstand and hit pause on the remote before asking, “Sharks? Really? How did that start?”
10/16: The day I gave up my “hookup virginity”
I’ve always found myself to be very open and honest with people when I first meet them. Ask me anything and I’ll answer, I’m an open book. But just because my pages aren’t filled with invisible ink, doesn’t mean that every page turned doesn’t sting a little. Memories make a person who they are and there are some things I’d rather keep myself from saying out loud. It hurts too much. But when someone looks me in the eyes and looks sympathetic and caring, I can’t help but spill everything. I’ve always believed that everyone has good intentions and that people enter your life because they want to be in it. Everyone is fighting their own battles and everyone has gone through heartache and tough times so they must understand or sympathize with someone else’s pain…Or so i thought. I guess now I’m starting to learn that that just is not true. There are people that enter your lives and learn about you not because they are there to better you or want to know you better. It’s so scary putting yourself out there and taking a chance and then having someone decide that you’re not what they want.
It’s the third date I’d been on in three months and I have to tell you, I answered a lot of the same questions. This time, however, it felt very different. I was sharing so much more about myself than i normally do and he encouraged it. I never felt so vulnerable and yet, in the moment, I loved it. I loved every second of it. And now he’s gone. Well, not just him—this silly boy that I netflixed and chilled with. This boy is all of them. You see, “he” is a representation of all the disappointment in my life. He’s that childhood crush that I had when I was eight years old because we would play on the playground every single day and then one day he just disappeared; moved to another province I think. He’s that boy that broke my heart in high school because I pretended that I was more important than I really was. He’s that voice inside my head telling me I’m not good enough because this is the third goddamned date I’ve been on in three months and not one of them have contacted me after. Three days ago, I was spontaneous and wild and crazy. I said yes to going on a date with a complete stranger. It so wasn’t me at all. Before this, I stayed home for days not bearing to leave my apartment because how could I let anyone see me like this. A mess with splotchy skin, excess fat hanging off her, and ratty hair. The fact that I let someone touch me when I can’t even look at myself in the mirror sometimes makes me shiver. I let someone in physically and emotionally and now they’re gone- and that’s terrifying. People leave with parts of you like it doesn’t even matter. He is the person that cares enough to get all of this information out of you before leaving…and without a trace, he’s gone. It’s almost as though he never existed and yet, another piece of you has been taken away. I think I was wrong when i told him my biggest fear is sharks or water. The scariest thing is letting someone get to know you and then watching them leave. I don’t want someone to find out about my hopes, and dreams, and fears, and decide that those just aren’t good enough.

I’m not as smart as I thought

I’m not smart. I guess it was easy for me to think I was when I lived in a small town where no one cared. No one cared about getting good grades and no one cared about the future. I always cared because I knew that if I didn’t, then I would end up there forever. I knew I wanted to get out of that town by the time I was a preteen because I hated it there. Most people who grow up there stay until they grow old. Most people who stay in that town have children young and just never make it out of there. It’s a cycle. I used to feel bad for the single teen-moms, but I don’t think I feel anything but envy for them now. Most of them will never have the opportunity to go to college and many of them will never be able to leave their parents’ house, but that’s fine because they’re happy. When I visit during Holidays, I always see them laughing and playing with their kids at the park, or I’ll see them enjoying a meal with their family at a restaurant. They’re genuinely happy.

I always knew I was destined for great things. I still know I am, but maybe the path I’m on isn’t for me. I always thought I had everything sorted out. I knew from the age of six that I wanted to be a lawyer, just like my grandpa. I didn’t even know what lawyers did until I hit the seventh grade, but I always knew it was something I wanted to pursue. It was like something in the back of my mind told me to make it my ultimate goal. When I hit high school and we had to create a powerpoint presentation on where we saw ourselves in ten years and how we’d get to our desired path, I knew EXACTLY what I was going to put in each slide. In the first slide, I said I saw myself going to the University of Toronto where I’d get my bachelor’s degree in Arts with a double major in criminology and political science and a minor in French. After the four years, I’d save up money by working at the Canadian Boarder as a customs officer for two years. Then, I’d take the LSATs and apply for law school. A good law school. I’d complete my degree and I’d apply to a law firm where I’d begin working immediately. In the second slide, I said I saw myself living in the city. “Vancouver or Toronto would be my first choice, but I’d settle for Ottawa if that’s where I’d get the job”, it read. The third slide was about what vehicle we saw ourselves driving. A silly question, if you ask me. Other students put up pictures of Porches or Land Rovers, but not me. No, I was a special little snowflake and I googled images of public transit because 1) the thought of driving has always scared me and 2) most people in Toronto use public transit and since I knew I wanted to call Toronto my home, I figured I wouldn’t end up driving in the future anyway. The fourth slide was about family. I didn’t grow up seeing myself married or with children. Although I like to lie and say neither appeal to me, I just never saw either of them in my cards. I mean, marriage is a possibility to for everyone, even little ole me, and while divorce rate are skyrocketing, it’s even more terrifying thinking about married couples who don’t want to be together but are. They’re stuck, like my parents. They hate each other but they’re stuck together because they can’t afford to live on their own. I don’t want to be stuck. Onto the topic of kids…Well, I’ve never really been a fan of young children. They’re just so…needy. I’m not sure I’d have the time for that. You hear these stories about the women who have it all–super mom. While  it’s possible to juggle both parenthood and a career, you’ll never truly have a fifty-fifty balance. At least, I know my parents never did. But what I’m really trying to get to the point of, is that I’m scared. I’m scared of screwing up a child. My parents aren’t bad parents, but they really messed up at times when I was younger and those mess ups have shaped me in ways that I’m not necessarily thrilled about. I wouldn’t wish that on another child. And yet, deep down, I know I could do better. I could be better. I want to give someone great experiences that I was able to have and then some.

I always had a plan and I always thought I’d follow through with it. I was sure of it. Now, everything’s staring to feel jumbled. I hate it everything in front of me. My program. This school. This goddamn fucking school is sucking the life out of me. I feel like nothing I can do at this school is right. It makes me feel stupid. It makes me feel inadequate. I just can’t take it anymore. First year students at my school take general courses before being “formally” accepted into the program they applied to after high school. However, in order to be accepted into these programs, one must take certain courses and get certain grades in these courses. Unfortunately, my first year was an absolute shit show. Meaning, I was not eligible to major in either criminology or political science. It was a devastating shot to my ego because at the beginning of first year I was so sure my future would be set, but not getting in made me feel like an idiot. A failure. This summer, I had to come up with and entirely new plan. I had to create a whole new future in months when my original plan I created over the course of a decade. So I looked up top paying in-demand jobs online and picked out what I figured would be the most interesting. I did loads of research and talked to professionals in the field and I looked at the credits I’d need in order to be eligible for the master program. I spoke to my parents about it, and started to feel excited because it felt secure having a plan again. Then, my second year began and I started taking courses I’d need and slowly but surely they didn’t feel right. I couldn’t adjust. Everything felt so hard and I couldn’t keep up. I’d take tests and I’d get less than forty percent; I’d hand in homework assignments and I’d hardly pass. I just couldn’t do it. I started feeling too unmotivated to go to class or to even do readings because I knew when I’d try it would hardly show a difference in my grades. A failure again.

So this is where I’m at. I’m unhappy, I feel like a failure and I don’t have a plan. I don’t know what I want to do with my life and I don’t even know where I see myself in a year. Crying on my bed like I am right now? Possibly. Two years ago, I was that kid that the guidance councillors were happy with in high school because when we had designated meetings to discuss our futures I was the only one who had a plan and I was the only one who was certain of myself and where I’d be. This year, when my younger brother entered high school, he said that my old guidance councillor went up to him and asked him about me because he wanted to know how, me, the “go-getter [was] doing in school”. This reputation that I created for myself in high school used to make me so proud and now it just makes me hate myself even more. I didn’t know that was possible. I hate this school so damn much because it makes getting a C- feel impossible. I want to leave and go somewhere else but at the same time I don’t want to leave because this school is so prestigious and has such a good reputation among workplaces. My parents are constantly telling people what school I go to and they’re always wearing clothes that have the name plastered on the front. Everyone is so proud and so impressed and I’m not even fucking passing. I don’t know why I’m here or why I ever was accepted in the first place. The only thing that I do know is that this school just isn’t for me. I just want to have it figured out and I want everything to be as easy as it was when I planned it out in my head many years ago. I need a sign or something. But more than anything, I need help.


Dear sweet O-livia…come, why don’t you?

Hello, hello, hello,

It’s me and I’m back with anther late night ramble because I am procrastinating my studies. Again. Today’s post will be an update about myself and “exploring my inner sexuality”, I suppose.

For the past week and a bit, I’ve been FaceTiming my best friend, B Hill. Something that we always like to joke about every time we mention weird things is that the government is always watching. Funnily enough, after joking around about the government (after all, Big Brother is always watching), he explained to me that there are people out there that are paid to look at the sites that you’ve clicked on and the searches you’ve made using google (or on the off chance, Bing) in order to directly find advertisements suited for you. Yesterday, we happened to FaceTime while taking Buzzfeed quizzes and on the right side of the page was an advertisement for vibrators. Yes, there was an ad for vibrators because earlier that day I was trying to figure out the easiest way to reach an orgasm without touching myself. There. I said it. Although, I’m impartial to the idea of touching myself down there because…well, I don’t want to, I’m not impartial to the idea of getting a vibrator. A vibrator. Yes, my lack of vaginal pleasure (or perhaps I should call it clitoral pleasure) is what inspired this post. Back to the point, I had to click on the ad and see what the fuss was about and girl, let. me. tell. you. I sure as hell was not complaining.

While I like to pretend that my wild beast is tamed and less-than-willing to participate in sexual endeavours, I really really am. You see, I verymuchclichedblogaboutateenagegirl has never experienced the big O’s. Nope, not honey-nut cheerio’s. I’m taking about the mother of all O’s. The orgasm. Interestingly enough, my last google search was directed towards the easiest way to achieve the female orgasm, which embarrassingly enough has frazzled me to no end because, like, it really shouldn’t be that hard, should it? Unfortunately, since my ex was no help in that area (ha ha), I decided to take matters into my own hands. I mean, I can’t wait around for all eternity.

I tried laying down and fantasizing about George Clooney and Orlando Bloom…well, not together. I tried to imagine them both separately but neither of them are enough to satisfy ‘ole O-livia. I even tried being experimental with my shower-head, and while that may have worked for a character on Degrassi, it has not worked for me. So I gave in and made my way over to the net, which I tried to avoid for obvious reasons; I didn’t want sex-toy ads popping up. But as I’ve learned, that’s inevitable.

The first site I clicked on was cosmopolitan. I’ve been iffy about cosmo since reading an article on pleasing your man by putting marinara sauce on your nipple for him to suck off. Now, I don’t know about you, but I have no interest in putting Ragu on my nip. Ew. The second article was written by a sex expert, or a sexpert, who geared the article towards couples and different positions they could try out. Now, as a single lady, this offered no help because I’m not about to spread eagle while waiting for an imaginary dick to cometh my way. Speaking of, B Hill tried to sell me on a chinstrap dildo one time, which I’m assuming would be much easier to use if I were a contortionist, but this isn’t cirque-de-fucking-soleil and i don’t bend like that. The second site told me to invest in a vibrator. So far, the closest thing I’ve gotten to a vibrator, is considering to use my Clarisonic Mia as one, but using that… down there and then using that to cleanse my face doesn’t see quite right, no matter how much I’d wash it afterwards.

I’ve never had a vibrator before, but I experienced one when I was young, and I’m not talking an up-the-hole experience either. No, no, no, I wasn’t sexually advanced until I was like seventeen. When I was about eleven, I was home alone for a few hours during a bad storm. The wind was blowing the trees furiously and the power even went out. I was so terrified of the house being pitch-black that I ran into my parents’ room and sat on the floor next to my mom’s nightstand. You guessed it. Mama’s a freak (jokes). The thunder spooked me so much so that my elbow hit her nightstand with so much force that somehow this strange buzzing/vibrating sound went off, which only scared me even more. In the end, I had just assumed that it was my mom’s lengthy massager… Ew. So since then, I haven’t really had much interest in them. Until now. So I bit the bullet and bought one.

Well, not quite. I picked a pretty one out and my pal, aka BFF B Hill did and I will forever remind him that he will be the reason for my first orgasmic experience. If this isn’t friendship, then I don’t know what is. The best part is that it doesn’t actually look like a real-life penis, which is great because genitals are the ugliest things I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Granted, I’ve only ever seen my own terrifying-looking vagina, my ex’s penis that I pretended not to cringe at, and about a handful of unsolicited dick pics that have given me nightmares. They’re super weird to look at head-on and they give me the heebie-jeebies tbh. Which is why I’m so excited for my new toy to come because it looks like a pretty Christmas ornament, it’s so cute! It’s pink and rose gold and small like me, so it couldn’t be more aesthetically pleasing.

Here’s what I have to say to O-livia, enough is enough! I’m done playing an adult game of sexually frustrating hide-and-seek. In approximately 6-9 business days, you and I will be acquainted.

Later gators 😉




FantasyLand has got me all sorts of fucked and not in an Orgasmic way + Update on my BFFLs

Lmaoo why did I write this title to look like a youtube clickbait video?

Hey pals, I’m back. I’m not exactly sure what I’ll be writing about today, but I’ve been having a rough day and thought that getting everything out on paper (well, you know what I mean) would be good for me. Perhaps it’ll help me sort out my thoughts because right now everything just feels so jumbled up and I don’t know how to deal with it. Also, I’m really hoping that I don’t end up using comedy as a defence to make light of whatever I’m about to write about… but I probably will.

Let’s start at the beginning. I’ve been in school for about a month now and it’s been alright. Struggling for sure which is a big ego deflater considering I was so sure that this year was going to be my year… Ha. I have an exam tomorrow and I could not be more unprepared so after this post I’ll have to get onto studying. I’m feeling very unfocused and unmotivated and I don’t know why. I’m starting to think that being on my own is really bad for me. This quiet environment is starting to drive me insane and I hate having my own thoughts be the only thing that I’m able to listen to. I need some noise. It’s strange because I wasn’t always like this, I used to love being on my own. I loved quiet spaces and just being in my own company. Maybe that’s just the inner sixteen- year old in me talking. I miss that part of myself. Over a year ago, when I started losing important people in my life, or at least those whom I valued more than they valued me, it’s like the gates of hell opened and now I can’t sit in my own bedroom by myself without crying. I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Being alone has lead to explore the inner demons in my mind. I’m not sure if I should get this checked out by a doc, but I’ve learned I’m notorious for creating fantasies in my head. Fantasies of being happy, fantasies of being appreciated, fantasies of being loved by specific people (or person). This is why I hate when people leave, because I get attached and I’m stuck with an idea forever. And perhaps this just sounds like the melodramatic ramblings of a teeny bopper, but it really hurts. I’m alone about eighty-percent of the time (idk I made this number up but it’s a hell of a lot for sure) so it’s starting to feel very unhealthy. It’s making me feel like I’m going crazy. Fuck I hate it.

I’ve done it ever since I was a little kid. My parents worked a lot so I remember taking care of myself at a very young age. If I wanted to feel happy or wanted, I wouldn’t turn on the TV. Instead, I would let fantasies roam in my head. Of course, at the time I was just a little kid so all of that seemed… somewhat normal? But at this point, I’m adult and it doesn’t feel normal anymore.

I feel like I can’t let people in anymore, specifically of the male variety. It’s as though I don’t want them to get to know me because there’s no point, because deep down I feel like one of these fantasies of mine might play out. So I stop responding to their texts, and I don’t answer their calls. I don’t let myself get over that *thing* that I need to get over in order to let myself move on. It’s all just very fucked up and I wish it would just stop. Let me get over it already so I can just jump on the next guy I meet and ask for a good dicking. *Although I’d never actually do that, I do wish I had the lady balls to.

Annnnd, it wouldn’t be a blog post by me if it didn’t have an update on the wellbeing of my friends and family.

Recently, my friend Brandon got into a relationship and I could not be more happy for him. He really deserves this. After going through a really bad break up with his ex, he experienced such a severe self-loathing that only I have ever seen him express. Every night for months he would text me and tell me that he broke down and looked his ex up on social media. It was like he was getting his heart broken all over again. I’ll never forget the countless nights where we would FaceTime until 4am and he’d cry to me about how angry and messed up Justin made him. It makes me tear up just thinking about people close to me being upset like that. He deserves to be loved and feel loved because he is one of the most genuine people I know.

As for an update on my best friend Breanna, she’s doing much better. She’s been given new meds and she’s been taking them everyday on schedule. I’m so proud of her and I hope she knows this. Her boyfriend and her mom occasionally give me updates on how she’s doing and I’m so thankful for that. It was really stressful last year because we’re five hours away from each other and I didn’t know how badly she was hurting until it was almost too late. I could hardly focus at all and I remember being so upset at myself for letting it get to that point. Maybe if I didn’t choose a school so far from home, then I would’ve seen the signs. I could have protected her from herself. She’s working part-time while in school this year and while it’s great for her to get back into a healthy routine, I’m worried she’ll feel overworked. I’m try to keep up with her everyday to get updates on school and work to see if she’s handling everything okay. She deserves to be happy because she works so hard to make other people happy so I really hope she’s able to be this year and onward.

As far as I know, P is having a good year so far. She working right now because she’s just applied to a school fairly near me–about and hour away. I’m hoping to get to see her more often because I haven’t seen her since Brandon’s big birthday bash in May, and we hardly ever video chat or call because she’s always so busy. I believe she still sees a therapist every now and then, when her work schedule allows it. While she’s always one to play positive and happy, I know she still has nightmares about the night of her assault. I’m hoping that the therapy helps her move forward. She has one of the kindest souls and she deserves to be treated with respect.

That’s all for now. I feel a lot better having let this all out.



Not another one of those self-depreciating posts about me hating that no one has fallen madly in love with me yet

Tonight I was talking to one of my best friends about how bummed I was about having moved to a large city and having had no one approach me. Not one. This is supposed to be where the vast majority of the dating pool is. It really had me wondering where are all my fish at? Because I don’t sea any. HA!

Back to where I was going with this, in high school, my friend told me that guys didn’t always take me as an approachable gal because I always look serious. “It’s not a bad thing”, he’d say. He’d tell me that “it was the manner in the way that I carried myself” or some bullshit along the lines of that. None of what he said was untrue, it was just that I didn’t want to hear it. I know I have a very serious looking resting face and maybe I should blame that on my mom’s side of the family. Curse our downturned lips. It was my own fault for asking. And yet, I did it again. This time, he told me that it had to do with the way I sat in class. He’d mentioned that because I sit upright and place my arms on the table with my elbows stretched out, I can look somewhat uptight. We hadn’t always been friends, so I understood that he didn’t mean anything bad by this, but to him, my exterior comes off intimidating. I’d never thought that coming off intimidating was a bad thing until I had realized that it makes you less approachable. I also never realized that the way I sat in class was coming off that way either. Again, I will blame this on my mom’s side of the family. The only reason why I sit up straight and place my elbows on a desk facing outwards is because I have hiperhydrosis.. I’m literally just airing out my fucking pits and yet that supposedly comes off uptight. I am the poster child for this emoji right now 😩

I guess I figured the more I asked, the more he’d give me tips on how to be likeable or approachable. Obviously, there’s nothing I can do about my sweat glands (aside from a surgery that would pop my lung and botox injections that would cost a fortune), but I was hoping for tips that would help me change myself in other ways. Pathetic, isn’t it? i never thought I’d be like that. I never thought I’d need tips on how to change myself to please guys in order to prop up my self esteem…


The more I think about it, the more it shoots my ego down.

This time, I asked him what was wrong with me and like any other good friend, he started off with: “there’s nothing wrong with you. You don’t have to change”. I appreciate that because I know he really meant it. What he said next surprised me (lol this reads like a clickbait add). He said, “I think we’re rare and unfortunately the repercussion is that our significant others are rare”. Well, shit. I always thought myself to be different, and I don’t mean this to be taken in a I-think-I’m-different-than-other-gals-and-that-makes-me-better sort of way, it’s just that I always knew that my behaviour or reactions to things was always a little bit off compared to other girls’. Brandon’s always gotten me one-hundred percent me all the time. We’re so similar that we’re practically the same being. As crazy as it might sound, sometimes it feels like we share the same mind. He’s always understood how I feel about being unapproachable because it’s the same for him. We’re different. Not different in a bad way. Just.. different. I used to think that there was something wrong with me—well, up until tonight when I texted Brandon “…it makes me feel like there has to be something up with me because no guys talk to me and I know I’m a chubster but that’s irrelevant because I’m super fucking cute and funny”. Then I went on to say, “So like, at the same time it has to be them and not me because I’m a catch”. And do you know what he did? He validated that I’m a catch and as stupid as it sounds, I really needed that. He added, “we’re an “acquired taste required” kinda peeps” and this shouldn’t be more true. As lonely as I am, I really can’t settle. No one should. So I’ll wait because there’s no rush. My fish will find me.


This post is dedicated to one of my best friends, Brandon. Thank you for being my source of inspiration for this post because Wattled won’t stop reminding me that it’s been a hot minute since I’ve written up another mediocre post/ i actually needed to get some of this stuff off my shoulders and out onto the internet for the world to read. PS. ily

The Fuckery that is being forgettable

I’ve never quite understood what’s made me so forgettable. Is it the way I speak? Perhaps my sense of style? Why is it that I am so bland that it’s come to this?

So now here I am further procrastinating applying for jobs so that I can come up with a list of reasons why I am always forgotten. Now, this isn’t to say that if I were to die right now, at this very moment, that my parents and distant relatives would completely skip out on my funeral because I am not memorable. I mean, I’m sure they would attend. They’d have to.

At this point in my life—as I gracefully exit my failed attempt at completing first year with a moderate GPA—I’m just like, what the fuck, why don’t you remember me? I don’t know what’s wrong with me that just makes me so forgettable. Come on! I like to think that I’m kind of cute and that my laugh isn’t completely terrible. People needn’t forget a cute face and a cute laugh.

What I really mean when I ask was it easy to forget me is less about the people I pass by in the grocery store or the person I sat beside in class, and more about people who really knew me. You see, I don’t forget people. I never have. I once read this post on instagram (author unknown, apologies) about letting people into your soul and showing them everything about you. It said, “It’s easy to take off your clothes and have sex. People do it all the time. But opening up your soul to someone, letting them into your spirit, thoughts, fears, future, hopes, dreams…that is being naked.” I don’t solely relate this to romantic relationships, but platonic ones too. No matter, they all wind up with the same outcome.

It’s ironic, really, because I’ve always let people in easily. I don’t shy away from telling people my hopes and dreams, my fears or my family’s hardest secrets. When people tell me theirs, I’m always so amazed. Like, wow, this is a person. With feelings. Beautiful feelings. Beautiful thoughts. Even their fears are beautiful because it makes them them. So I don’t move on. I keep those words and stories locked up in some memory box in my brain and I never forget. I appreciate every little detail that people share with me because i know how important every aspect of one’s life is. Even years later and I still remember those small details, and yet, everything I share—every hope, every dream, every terrifying moment in my life that I share—is forgotten. Just. Like. That.

I want to know what it is about me that makes me so…unmemorable. Everyone else just moves on and it makes me feel like I never existed or that I was never a part of their lives in the first place, while I will always carry around pieces of them with me; from their most favourite commercial, to their least favourite jelly bean. I remember and I have difficulty moving on. But they don’t.  It cuts deep and can really make you feel irrelevant. It doesn’t matter how cute you think you’re face is or how cute you think your laugh is, they’ve moved on overnight. One day I woke up and realized that people aren’t amazing with me like I am with them. They aren’t mesmerized by my thoughts and feelings like I am with theirs and my stories aren’t locked up in a memory box in their brain like theirs are in mine. It’s just sad that my name is forgotten and that any sign of my presence is untraceable.

Like I never existed.