Being Tall

I have people ask me all the time what it’s like to be a tall girl. Some people have even expressed longing for my height (to be clear, I’m 6’0″ tall). Before you go around wishing for this, how about I explain what you’re going to have to go through on a regular basis first.

You will wake up in the morning with your toes hanging off the end of your bed because it’s too short for your body. You will yawn and stretch before venturing off to the shower, where the tap will be pointed at your chest because, again, you’re too tall. Then you will go to your closet and try to find some clothes you will have to wear for the day. Because your pants are so expensive considering you have to go to a shop in downtown Toronto where jeans cost $200 minimum, your wardrobe is VERY limited. (SIDE NOTE: pants that are long enough for me are also typically way too large in the waist. It’s like people think that if you’re tall, you have to be bigger also. Skinny tall people have feelings too.)

On the streets, people will stare. Even at your work you will find that people are always looking at you as if you’re a circus creature. You’ll tell yourself over and over again that they aren’t looking at your height but you eventually learn that this is a lie. You find yourself receiving comments from random strangers commenting on your height, as if it was their place to remind you of something you can’t seem to forget.

My favourite one is, “Wow, you’re really tall”.

Oh my God, really? Wow, when did that happen?

At school, you will be bullied. This will start from the young age of four and continue on for as long as kids continue to be idiots (still hasn’t stopped for me yet and I’m in university). They will call you C.N. Tower and giraffe. They will bombard you with questions about being tall (just so you’re wondering, the weather up here is fine and no I don’t play basketball/ volleyball).

And then there’s boys.

I’ve dated some boys shorter than I am, and I’ve always been judged for it. Well sorry, but I was born this way and so were they. I just wish people wouldn’t have to stare.

But there are some perks to being tall.

I can model. I can reach whatever you ask me to reach without a step stool. I can look good in all types of clothes. I can be seen when others blend in. I am special because of it.

Do I like my height? Sometimes, but it has also given me more grief than I care to think about. It’s never going to be perfect for people like me. I’m always going to be classified as something because of the way I look, and that’s not okay with me.

I get that no one is ever really comfortable with the way they look, but when it affects your life on a daily basis, things start to get a little bit harder. I’m okay with how I look, I only wish society was as well.

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How to Murder Someone

How to Murder Someone

Step one: smile.
Smile at her from across the room,
make her feel noticed,
beautiful even,
and then look away and back again.
Entrance her.
Good.

Introduce yourself softly,
don’t scare away your prey.

Step two: tell her she’s the most lovely person there,
offer to take her to beautiful places,
exotic locations where she
can blend in seamlessly with
her surroundings.
Tell her you want her happy.

Take her hand and lead her away.

Step three: lead her to opera houses and museums,
to amusement parks and beaches,
to starry nights and lazy days
and show her the meaning of the phrase
perfection;
Don’t forget: you’re here to kill.

Make her lips smile against your skin at night.

Step four: become her addiction,
her every need and desire.
Become the crutch she leans against,
become the words that sing on the radio,
become every fairytale and sunset.
Let her defences fall.

Step five: tell her you love her.

Step six: leave.

Intoxicated Poems Part 1

I got myself a bit intoxicated last night and wrote some humorous poems that make zero sense (even to me???) and I thought you guys would enjoy this. I’m definitely doing this again.

Untitled (Poem 1)

Snip snap,
crocodile nips,
pointy teeth and bad decisions
tumbling in a nighttime.
Stumbling in a daydream,

lost.

These are all mistakes
Now and then.
Let me remember what is was like
to feel the cold of the blade
Replace the warmth of the skin?

Do you

Remember that time we…

Remember when we used to…

Remember me?

I want to love you,
I want to move on.
I want to:

Scream
Shout
Die
Kill
Cry
Beat the shit out of

You.

A letter to my never-was.

Poem 2 – Forrest Gump is in the Background

I think I played Disney songs in my head,
Or maybe Bob Marley
Don’t worry, ‘bout a thing,
Or maybe I just screamed.

I could feel your unwanted breath basting my neck,
You blew my house down,
But it was made of bricks.

I think I was wearing my red shirt.
Or my other one,
But red the colour of desire;
Red the colour of lust.

Or red the colour of danger,
Red the colour of fear;
Red, the colour of warning.

Skirt up, defences down,
My world fell apart
And your arms
Help me together

I was breaking

Falling 1000 feet dropped, dropping
Falling. Breaking

I broke, Humpty Dumpty

So much to think
I said it all with three words:
I love you
said the blind woman to the heartless killer.

I didn’t. Who did (could)?

Pick me up one more time
And I will kill you in your arms.

I was the snake when it was over,
who hurt who?
I hurt you
Because I was tired of you hurting me.

Run Forrest, run.

This poem could be about two boys
Or just one boy in two bodies
Or every body in one body.

Either or way, it’s about you.

Poem 3: How do you actually feel, Tara?

Sigh
Okay
Awkward awkward awkward
Beautiful (for once??)
High (on what?)
Kiss me softly
Softer
Softest
Butterflies? No;
Caterpillars (almost there)
Hungry. More.
Filling up.
It will stop.
More? Maybe.
Far. Too far.
Sign on the life highway
High.
let me be yours
tonight.
I think you’re okay.
I wish for more.
Today only.
Tomorrow go,
be free.

I don’t know.

As you can see, I was decently screwed in my head last night. I do not recommend this to anyone (I’m lying, this is so fun). Say no to drugs and alcohol kids.

Hunger Games Fan Fiction (Because I LOVE Writing FanFic)

The first time I saw my brother’s face appear on the television set in our district’s market square, I fell to my knees.

I knew this would be coming. I knew his name was chosen and that I’d have to watch him struggle through The Games. The Capital makes sure we’re always watching, meaning there was a strong possibility I would have to watch him be killed, live on television.

Champions from District 11 hardly ever win.

I was twenty, too old to participate in the Reapings any longer. I was never chosen, but I knew of so many who had been: the quiet girl who sat in the back row of my class, my friend’s cousin, my old neighbour, my uncle.

The Games had claimed them all. And when I first saw Rowan on that screen, I knew he would be next.

The day of the Reaping, he was dressed entirely in white, like an angel. He was only seventeen; he was so close to becoming like me, free of The Games. If I could have volunteered, I would have. Years later, a girl became famous for first volunteering for her sister from an outskirt district. I could never realize why this wasn’t a more popular occurrence; it’s not like we have much to live for anyways.

When I first saw him on the screen, it was an accident. I had been carefully avoiding any television set with my eyes. It was like walking on glass, deciding not to watch The Games. I had a choice of knowing what was happening, however terrible, or knowing it was happening anyways and suffering from curiosity. I chose the later, because at least then I could fool myself into believing it wasn’t that terrible.

I heard news from town as to what was happening. The girl from our district, Sandy, had been killed in a fire that spread through the forest arena only two days ago. I heard her mother’s cry from the street over and I knew what it meant. I wondered when I would be hearing my mother’s own cry, or my own.

I was in the market buying fish for my family’s dinner when I heard a sound come from the television that made me look up. It had been a cry, and my first thought was that it was Rowan.

I was right.

Rowan stood on the screen above my head, poised over a girl with a rock in his hand. He looked surprised as the rock slowly slid from his grasp and rolled along the ground beside him. The girl’s head had been crushed to a messy pulp. It looked to be the young girl from District 12. She was only thirteen when The Games claimed her life.

I say The Games, but it was my brother who had killed her.

He dropped to his knees the same time I dropped to mine. Our cries were almost identical, but his was filled with more pain. Tears didn’t just roll down his face, they tumbled and I know that he hated himself for what he had become. I know this because I hated him too in that moment. He killed an innocent child. And another “innocent child” would probably kill him.

Rowan knelt there for only seconds but it felt like hours to me. “Run you idiot,” I thought to myself, unable to speak out loud because my tongue had turned to sandpaper. “Someone probably heard you.”

“Excuse me, are you going to buy that?”

I tore my eyes from the screen and watched as the woman’s eyes widened as she recognized me as Rowan’s big sister. “Sorry,” she mumbled and ducked out of the line.

My eyes snapped back to the screen just in time to watch Rowan flee from the girl’s body as the canons were fired. Part of me was glad to watch that girl die. It meant my brother was one step closer to coming home.

The screen changed to the District 4 pair running through the woods, away from some creature or other. I lowered my gaze and bought the fish I came to buy. I could not watch anymore.

The worst part is always the waiting. I’m waiting from my brother to kill or be killed.

Or both.

How To Be A Good Customer

What retail workers everywhere want you to know!

1. Be understanding.
If the store I happen to work at doesn’t carry the specific copy of whatever it is you’re looking for, don’t stand there and yell at me for ten minutes about it. I can’t do anything. What did you expect, that we would magically be able to cater to your every whim and fancy? Try not blaming me for something that isn’t my fault. Also, if YOU read the sale sign wrong, DON’T cry to me about it; buy a pair of glasses so you can read it better next time.

2. Be patient.
If I’m looking for something you asked me to find, don’t try and rush me please. If you’re in a hurry, come back another time. I’m taking time away from other customers who may need help so that I can help you, and trust me when I say I’m going as fast as I can. Having you nag at me over my shoulder is only going to slow me down. Little quips like, “Jeeze, I could have bought this and been out of here if I had bought this at any other store” are equally unhelpful (Really? Another store sells Enterprise-shaped pizza knives? REALLY? I highly doubt that).

3. Be polite.
Nothing is worse than telling someone to have a nice day only to have them grunt in reply, or fail to acknowledge you. “Please” and “thank you’s” are always noted and appreciated by us workers, so take the extra 0.1 seconds to add some courtesy into your replies. It really does go a long way.

4. Be quiet.
This one especially applies to teenagers. If “your new jam!!!” comes on the radio, please for the love of God don’t start squealing and singing and dancing along to it with your friends. There are other people in the store and I can guarantee not all of them will welcome this, and some of them are liable to even complain. Sing along quietly if you want, but excessive noise in a public setting is never really a good idea to begin with.

5. Be friendly.
No ma’am/ sir, I am not telling you I love the movie you’re buying just because I want you to buy it. I’m making conversation because I see we have something in common and I like your taste. It’s possible I can recommend other things you’d enjoy also, but you’ll never know unless you take the time to give me a response that doesn’t sound like, “Oh”. Today, I had a nice, long conversation with a gentleman who came in looking at the Poirot mystery DVDs, and we talked for ages about how much we both enjoy Agatha Christie films and he told me he would be back again to talk soon. Be like this man, I’m begging you. Talking to interesting people is the highlight of my day.

What TV Shows Lied To Me About

I grew up believing that wishing on a star would automatically get me a free consultation with a cricket and a blue fairy. Imagine my surprise when I realized that crickets not only couldn’t talk, but couldn’t grant my wishes either. So here’s a list of unrealistic expectations movies and TV shows have given me.

1. Long hair doesn’t mean majestic hair.
Pocahontas, you don’t even have a fucking comb. How is your hair always perfect? And wait… why doesn’t Tarzan have a beard if he has super long dreads? I can’t believe Ariel spent sixteen years in salt water without managing to destroy her hair completely.

2. I thought I’d have to encounter a lot more danger.
Where’s all the crocodile pits and quicksand and booby traps I’ve heard so much about? I’m also thoroughly disappointed by the lack of people trying to kill me and take over the world. Kim Possible prepared me for Dr. Dracan, not algebra.

3. Life problems are more complicated.
How come all my problems aren’t solved within a 20 minute period that begins with a conflict, peaks at a climax and ends with a solution? Oh yeah, because life doesn’t work like that.

4. People don’t have catchphrases.
“Later days” is probably the greatest way to say bye EVER, and yet no one uses it.

5. Breaking the third wall isn’t a thing in real life.
Will Smith totally mislead me to believe I was being followed around by a camera that I could turn to and talk to. Zach Morris taught me that I could even say, “Time out!” when I needed a break from life… It doesn’t work, and I don’t recommend that you try yelling that during an exam.

6. Parental guidance is a myth.
My dad never sat me down like Mr. Matthews sat down Cory to give him a big long talk about humanity and life and dating and school. My dad bought me comic books and asked how my day went. Furthermore, can we talk about the fact I was totally expecting my grade four teacher to be Mr. Feeney?

7. Dating isn’t a thing until puberty.
Sorry Lizzie MacGuire, but there’s no way you should expect me to believe you kissed a boy before you even got boobs. And “dating” doesn’t happen until you don’t have to be dropped off at “dates” by your parents.

8. Why hasn’t real life technology caught up with television technology?
I want a Kimmunicator. I want a Jet-X (Zoey 101 incase you didn’t get the reference). I want all those gadgets given to Sam, Clover and Alex on Totally Spies! Why haven’t these things been invented?

9. Pixie dust makes you high, not fly.
Say no to drugs, kids.

10. Hogwarts DOES exist, but won’t accept you because they’re scared you’ll take over.
Fact.

Spoken Word Poem

My first attempt ever at a spoken word poem. (NOTE: the effect won’t be the same written down, so try saying it out loud if you can). ALSO: I wrote this based off of a poem I read earlier today about the dating cycle (aka, I was hurt once so I’ll hurt you and you’ll in turn hurt someone else etc.) and I wish I could give the person who wrote it credit but I can’t find the link anymore. Enjoy.

The Ruiner

Quote, “Promise me you won’t fall in love with me”, un-quote.

Not that you’d want to. Awkward, tall, awkwardly tall now that I think about it, and too sane to be crazy, or is it the other way around? Either way in every way, don’t think this way will be permanent. I’m not a permanent person, whatever that means.

Whatever you do, don’t start to love me. I’ll make it harder for you if it helps. Not that I’m already any such delicate and simple flower; I’m more like a thistle, a cactus. I’m thorny and rough and dangerous to young minds, and these protruding spikes should get my point across but just in case they don’t let me hurt you once, just a bit, until you get the idea.

I’m a cactus. Look but don’t touch. Admire from afar and don’t get too close to feel my sting. I have given you fair warning.

Don’t hold my hand, hold my attention. Don’t call me “babe”, call me at two in the morning to come over. Don’t ask to see more of me, ask to see “more of me”.

Don’t let your heart trick your mind into thinking this means anything.

I’m telling you right now that if your fingers find their way venturing to my side of the bed at four a.m. they will find nothing but a cold shoulder. My body does not welcome “that kind of touch”. Just so we’re clear, my spikes can get aggressive past midnight.

Don’t cry because we have an expiration date but enjoy the fruits before they spoil. Enjoy this now, while it’s still here.

I can see the pain clouding your eyes and turning your accusations into a river of regret that pours over your face like a flood, a tidal wave. Will I choke on the words at the back of my mouth when I remind you that I told you so?

Was I always this much of a stone cold bitch? No, I don’t think so.

Once upon a guy, I was the one who reached out and grabbed emptiness. I called him “everything” before I could call myself anything and I pretended he felt the same way when he called me beautiful. I wonder if he reads the words I wrote to him still or if he ever did more than glance.

My fingers entwined with his as his mind wandered away from me. I could hold him the way I could hold smoke: never longer than a second.

He didn’t even flinch when he told me that I had known what this was from the beginning. I’d like to think I didn’t.

He ruined me. And in turn, if you ignore my warning, I will ruin you.

When I say the dreaded patterned words: You knew What This Was, I wonder if I will be able to see the shadow of the girl you say those words to dance across your face. I wonder if you will see the reflection of the boy who said those words to me in my eyes.

I wonder if I will ever be ruined again or if I will forever be the ruiner.