I went to a Slow Magic show last Thursday. I’d been gunning on it with a few friends for months – we were blown away by his energy at Wayhome and heard he was even more awesome in a dark room, where his mask would light up in a kaleidoscope of neon colours.
All three of them ended up flopping.
It’s somewhat hard to blame them – two lived/worked in Mississauga (an outer ‘burb of Toronto) and one stayed late at the office. I was left with the choice: to go or not to go?
I’d gone to a concert alone once before – Lowell was playing at a small venue near my place, and again, a friend of mine flopped on the day of. It took a bit of convincing on her part to get me to go alone (she’s done it before in Paris; it’s something that’d been on my bucket list but… well it’s there for a reason, right?). I was terrified. But when I finally pulled myself out to the show, I was nervous, a little socially conscientious and I relied heavily on my phone to keep me company (something I regret and have learned not to do).
Having done it once, I decided not to let the decisions of others influence my own. I went, and had a great time. (Note: it was a very diverse crowd – I stood besides lesbians (they were at least bisexual per my gaydar), a gaggle of university girls, and later on, a wave of Asians.)
I need to start doing more things on my own. Sure it can be a social thing, but going to a concert doesn’t have to be with somebody. I’ve yet to eat at a restaurant alone, nor seen a play/musical/movie, but I’m certainly more open to the idea now.
Sidenote, I’ve started making my Resolutions for 2016:
- Tardiness is selfish. Don’t be late.
- Don’t say “I don’t know” unless you really don’t know. Even then, can you fucking Google it?
- Speak with more authority. Don’t end your sentences on high, whiney, bitchy tones.
- Quit your job.
- Come out to your family.
There’s a strong sense of security that comes with having a job. I’m not talking financial – that’s a given. A 9-5 (or whenever you end) job anchors you to a period of time each day, five times a week, where you are being productive and you are occupied. It’s routine, it’s secure, and it’s the source of livelihood for the lucky.
Which is why I’m terrified of quitting.
I won’t go into the reasons for quitting here, but I wanted to articulate (for myself) my thoughts about the best time to quit. For me, I’m debating one of two things:
- Quit with no job lined up – I`m quitting so I can have the time to figure out what I want to do, instead of jumping at the first opportunity.
- Quit when I have a job lined up.
I was very ready to jump at number one. The first day I went into work after a night of deliberating my future and deciding to quit, I walked around with the lightest step I`d had in a very long time. I was excited at the prospect of being unemployed – I’m financially stable and have enough saved up to be okay and independent. When would I get another chance at that?
Number two, on the other hand, I’m almost afraid to admit, but it stems from a deep sense of insecurity; am I quitting with no job lined up because I can’t get a job? Do I need to prove to my peers and family that I am a wanted and employable professional?
I visited New York for the first time last week. It’s been a priority destination for a long time now and it lives fully up to its standards. It’s cliche but really a city that never sleeps.
Despite having a few friends in the Big Apple, I chose to stay in a hostel because I wanted to meet people and make friends,
and maybe just maybe find someone. I met millennials from all walks of life – a 19-year old liberal white Calgarian boy, a 27-year old Danish woman who had proper Danish sensibility but also a compass for fun… and also a 26 year old tall and lanky Asian hipster with a manbun who hailed from a nearby suburb of Toronto. We chatted and had good talks for a good portion of the night, about being introverts but taking chances, our careers in a somewhat similar industry. He’d taught himself how to code and was doing a bit of real estate appraisal on the side. This was interesting to me and my career path.
He was very curious about me the whole night and we ended up somewhat separate from the other hostel-goers at the bar. As we talked, my gut feeling was that he mistook my interest in him (as a fellow human being) as a romantic interest… and he decided based on that to reciprocate it. I didn’t want to be assumptuous, but took advantage of when he asked “So what do I need to know about you?”
I knew immediately what I was going to say but hesitated. Fuck it. “Well first, I’m gay.” and followed with two points. I passed the ball to him.
He was speechless for a good couple of seconds before he started. His second point was that “He was heartbroken”.
One of my highschool friends who came out after high school invited me to a panel+networking event on the topic of women speaking up in the workplace. Being a huge fan of Lean In and women-empowering events, I would usually click “Attend” in a heartbeat.
But this one was hosted by Out on Bay Street – an LGBT organization – an featured gay women.
Since receiving the invite last week, I’d been hesitant to do anything. I was interested, but didn’t want to click Facebook’s new “Interested” button at the fear of somebody in the 905 (my hometown region) seeing, let alone my mom (who would most definitely see). If I break down this scenario, it’s a no-brainer. I should get over myself and go.
But at this point, it still feels like I’d be coming out to everyone in the room.
What if somebody asks me my sexuality? I still can’t say it with ease.
I wrote the above two days ago. Tonight was the night of the event. I did not go.
I crashed on my newly-bought Queen bed hard last night at 2am. It was an early night back from my friend’s Halloween party (we never made it to the bar) but in true too-drunk-to-sleep tradition, I lay in bed watching Youtube videos til I was no longer able to fight off sleep. This was in my subscriptions and it was so fitting, it hurt:
Here’s what happened:
I met a girl at the party last night (yup, that’s how we’re starting). She was Robin Hood (or Peter Pan?). I was undead, part of a 6-pack of #Squadghouls.
She looked oddly familiar. There weren’t too many new people (girls) at the party – I counted two – so she caught my drunken eye pretty quick. She was hanging with Lucifer for most of the night (were they an item? I’m 75% sure they were… or maybe they were just friends???). I managed to meander into their group, half of which comprised friendly faces – my friends were the majority of partygoers so it wasn’t hard at all. Also I have a tendency to be louder and more sociable when I’ve had a bit of alcohol in me. (People who think I’m a social butterfly are in for a let-downnn!!!)
My gaydar was going off on her. The more she talked (the way she talked, her tone, her interests, habits, etc.) the more it went off – but even then I was still hesitant because up to that point I was sure Lucifer was her boyfriend. (Side question: if a girl likes to sip whiskey on the rocks, that’s pretty gay, right?)