London's Calling.

I need to be there. It's as if a separate gravitational field has caught me and is pulling me towards that spot. I can't explain how desperately I want to walk on those grounds, between cobble stone and lush green countrysides. My heart is telling me that the growth I am yearning for is there. It will be found in these two weeks away from big city lights and smog days.

Although Toronto is my home, London is calling because something is there.

This House is not a Home.

What do you do when the place you call home is not the place it used to be? Maybe just not the place you were lead to believe.

As you grow up, it's funny how many things parents hid from you. The inner workings of their relationship kept secret behind locked doors or after 9 pm when you were finally asleep. Now, all of the dirty secrets fall out one private talk at a time. And you're meant to be old enough to handle it, old enough for it not to affect you emotionally, psychologically, anymore. But, what if I'm not? Because, honestly, I don't think I am. I wouldn't mind some sheltering, some moments hidden, so I wouldn't have to openly ignore it all of the time.

There's still part of me that wants, desperately, to hold on to some good household memory. Would it be terrible for them to leave me with one? Staying won't let that happen. Staying here has slowly become a dwindling option. Because fighting every moment of the day, every half hour I'm home, is not home anymore. It's just an ongoing battle that I am coming to realize I don't have to suit up for if I really don't want to.

What Are You Worth?

It's the feeling of fingers wrapping around your throat when you force yourself to say goodbye even though you don't want to.

You have to. 

Because you deserve to have someone change for you as much as you change for them. You deserve to get the first phone call, not just the call-backs. Not just the answers but rather the questions. Yes, I would like to see you tonight. Yes, 8-o-clock is fine. 

But you do not deserve to be treated like less. You know how it ends, you know what you'll have to face. You know what it will do to your confidence, your fight. It will dismantle it, year after year. But what does he know? Parents who love, rarely fight? Parents who were so clearly meant for each other. He does not know how luck it is to have that in his life. He will never understand what it is like for the rest of us, sitting here, wondering what happened? What would have happened if she walked out after the window? After the coat rack? He will never have to worry about what will happen when he leaves. What will happened when she is alone to fight. 

I will not turn out like them. I will not put myself in a position where I will become her. Broken, beaten, doing it for the kids. I deserve more than that. I deserve someone who will treat me better than just a wife.

Even though coming home is always nice, especially when the warm weather follows you, I still wish I was in Jamaica on the shores of Runaway Bay.

Being Sick Sucks.

In about four days, the boyfriend and I will be making our way on an airplane to Jamaica for a week. It will be his first time to an all-inclusive resort. I'm so excited to spend seven days on a beach with him and a couple of friends. It's definitely a good way to end four years of university.

Before then, though, I do promise to get back on the writing track. I've been battling the flu for a few days and have decided to stay in bed for the majority of that time. Tomorrow, though, I will get out of the house and do some much needed vacation shopping.

I will also get some much needed creative entries in for sure before I depart. I will make it my goal because I feel as if I have become disconnected, for some time, from what has made me the happiest. Taking creative writing classes has made writing become a chore rather than something I depended on for sanity. I guess school makes that happen, especially when you are an English major. Reading, another favourite past-time quickly became one as well.

Just as a quick note/side questions: I work at a book store and I have noticed that a lot of people are coming in for a juicy beach read to take with them on vacation. Many of the women I have talked to have asked for recommendations of the smutty nature. You know, things to read after 50 Shades of Gray and whatnot. This made me think of what I would bring on my week long beach stay. I, the polar opposite of my customers, decided on Chuck Palahnick's Fight Club. Short, intense and yet a read that makes your seamlessly flow from the first to the last page. So, to my question, What is your idea of a perfect beach read, genre or book alike?

Let me know!

Oneword: Flour.

She was concentrating hard on the credit card. Smooth, blue and expired in three months. Did he ever really use it the normal way? Online vinyl purchases, resort trips, coffee when he realizes that he's left all his change in the car?

He takes the bag out of his breast pocket. She had never seen anyone use that before. Usually it was a place for pens, pennies, maybe a mint. She doubts he would ever use it to carry those anyways. He shakes it in front of her face, showing off.

The white floury substance spills out on the glass table like grated chalk particles. Smells like nothing, and would probably leave a dry, pasty taste on your tongue. The group comes alive as if the flour substance is the only lifeline of the night.

Visa takes care of the lines. Five in total, one for her.

"Go," is all he says, handing her a rolled dollar bill.

She bows her head. The table smells like a wet bar rag soaked in stale beer. Rejecting the urge to gag, she plugs her right nostril, sticks the bill up the left and inhales.

Palms clamy, heart breaking through her chest, intense exhilaration.

She looks at him, pleading, "More."

Goodbye York.

This is it. Don't be scared now.