So I have commitment issues… to my future.

This blog post is about the future.

No, not about the future- it’s about the present.

No, it’s about how the present will dictate our future. Is currently dictating our future. Which was once dictated by the past which was once our present and our current present will become the future which will in turn be dictated by this present which at that point will be the past and-

Wait, what the fuck am I saying?

I’ll give it another go, because I’m clearly on some kind of downwards word-spiral:


And apparently neither is she.

And apparently neither is she.

I am speaking on behalf of the generation of directionless youth that has been produced as a result of being too young to decide shit-all.

It’s true. To all you 30+ people out there, you guys are the lucky ones. Just know that. Embrace it. Drink to it. Let it bring you comforting dreams of stable salaries and healthcare plans.

I guess I can’t speak for all of us, but when it comes to my future, I’m a little bit like this:


Except you can’t run away from your future. Oh no, Cory from Boy Meets World, you can’t run.

But you can seduce it and make it feel stable and comfortable.

And then cheat the fuck out of it.

That’s been my way of living for going on six years now. I find a potential future, flirt with it a little, get to know it, buy it some drinks, enrol it in some classes, and then BAM.

Find a new one.

It’s so easy. I’m the Tiger Woods of Ambitions.

I leave that future lying in the dust of my newfound romance like Brad did to J-Aniston.

And I’m not even sorry.

My first chosen Future was a little childhood romance; I wanted to make it to Broadway. (I italicized the way because that’s how the pretentious New Yorkers say it).

I did everything right. I went to vocal competitions and kicked the shit out of the girls who always sang “Part of Your World” and sat on a beanbag chair wearing a mermaid tail for “authenticity.” Those poor unfortunate souls…

I got into an arts high school for musical theatre, and decided it was to be my first step on the road to the Big Apple. I walked into that school like a m********* g***** boss. 

Unfortunately, the other students didn’t see it that way.

I quickly realized that not only was I a mediocre performer, but I couldn’t dance to save a baby from a burning building held captive by Satan himself.

Every time I tried to bust a move, I ended up making people cry with laughter. And then came grade 11, when we had to learn how to dance all seductive-like.

I tried, I really did.

It didn’t go so well.

By Grade 12, I had had enough. I sent my regards to Broadway, and left that dream in the gutter with the rest of the baby prostitutes to fester and die.

And I said, “You know what? Imma become a doctor. A mothafuckin doctah. There ain’t nothin more noble than savin’ people’s lives.”

So I tried that, more adult-like, future out for a while. And it was pretty sweet at first.

I was all like:

But honestly, it wasn’t that good in the sac. (By sac I mean sex-bed-of-love).

And by “wasn’t that good” I mean, “synthesizing organic compounds is really hard, and I also hate it.”

Science is hard- and not in the fun way 😦

So I kicked that dream out the door with a one-way ticket to Whore City. I assume it was responsible for the recent U of T sex party.

Then, I had an epiphany: I would become a psychologist! Psychology’s like science, but easy! And studying Freud is both gross and cool! I dove into that one head-first like a love-sick fool. But unfortunately that Future stabbed me in the back like a stupid crabs-ridden bitch. It was more of a one-night stand than a romance.

Because, as it turns out, crazy people like me should try to see a psychologist, not try to become one. 

I was experiencing my first “It’s not you, it’s me” breakup.

I was distraught. Would I ever find The One? Or would I jump from Future to Future like a common sorority girl with a large chest size and low self-esteem?

Very soon afterwards, I fell into the arms of the most blissful of potential Futures. That of an English and Film major. I can hear you scoffing from here, you biochemists and international relations people with your “useful” degrees and your higher employability rates.

But you know what? I’m in love. With the brand new, happier me.

When I was doing all those other things, whether it be chemistry or vocal classes or psychoanalysis, I was never as happy in school as I am now.

Professors and registrars and parents and even friends will all tell you to pursue something “useful.” Something safe. And if you genuinely want to make a career of it and you know you’ll be happy, then go for it! But if you’re doing it simply because you’re scared of making mistakes, turn back now.

The world has forced us to make a lot of decisions very early in life. I was only 17 when I started university- I wasn’t even an adult, and yet people were letting me decide what I wanted to do with the rest of my life! It’s a flawed system, but sometimes you just have to break through the barrier of social expectations and see yourself and your dreams for what they really are:

The truth.

I may not be going to med school, or getting a job in a psychology lab, but I’m way less stressed than when I was pursuing those things. I’m a strong believer that if something in your life isn’t making you happy, find out what it is and change it. Unfortunately, we live in a society that values quick decision-making and capitalist ends.

I don’t know where I’m going to end up, or where I’ll be working in ten years. All I know is that I’m in a field that I love, and that’s what matters. I refuse to ever feel like my life wasn’t under my control, and I hope that whoever reads this can take some sort of idea away from my blog: It’s scary to take risks, but it’s also thrilling. It’s thrilling to know that, if you work hard enough, if you’re passionate enough, and if you dream big enough, it just might work out for you.

In the words of the wisest children’s TV characters:

So don’t be afraid to sleep around until you find your brightest Future. Your life doesn’t have to be an arranged marriage- this isn’t a Jane Austen novel for Christ’s sake. And anyways, once you’ve found The One, you’ll never want anything else.


I think I might have an unhealthy relationship with TV…

Sometimes, it’s healthy to take a step away from yourself and evaluate your life from afar like one of those Tween Queen bitches from middle school used to do to me in the mall food court.

By performing this judgmental evaluation of yourself, two conclusions can be drawn:

1) “You  fuckin’ rock at life, you hot piece of ass.”


2) “Sweet Jesus, what kind of human garbage have you become, you useless future agoraphobe?”

Sadly, I did not come to Conclusion #1. I do not rock at life, and I am not a hot piece of ass.

I am hopelessly devoted and Intervention-level addicted to TV.

It’s unhealthy.

In retrospect, I really should have noticed the warning signs.

For example, when I heard that “30 Rock” was going to be cancelled, my first reaction was something like this:

This reaction quickly turned into:
After shoving several dozen peanut-butter cupcakes into my tear-ridden face (baked by yours truly- that’s right, this bitch can bake), I took a trip back in time to see if there had been any other signs warning me of my addiction.
Oh god, were there ever.
I remembered a time not so long ago when I explained, in great detail, the process of meth production and distribution to my twelve year-old brother.
As well as the process of money-laundering.
He believed I knew from personal experience and looked at me with a combination of awe and fear.
No, sweet child, your sister is not a money-laundering meth dealer, she is simply delusional.
When my sister suggested quietly that maybe I should set the record straight, I replied with:
And walked away.
To a well-adjusted human being, this would have been enough for their conscience to say: “Hey man, maybe you should stop watching the idiot box so much… You’re not doing so good, bro.”
But not for this raging beast of TV burden (I know that doesn’t make sense, but I’M DISTRAUGHT).
My friends began to compare me to Abed from Community….and I didn’t even care. Sweet Beyonce on High, I was flattered.
Granted, he is the best character on the show and he’s pretty awesome and whatnot, but we’re talking about a character whose friends only keep him around because his delusions make their lives more entertaining.
Whatever, I thought.
The final red flag waved at me like a French prostitute’s TB-infested handkerchief on Bastille Day.
i.e. It was really, really obvious but I was blinded by the promise of television art every night before bed (and no, I do not mean porn, but I still respect you if that’s your vice of choice).
It happened on a day. This day was no different from any other day. I was sitting alone in my room, watching my computer screen with strained, reddened eyes, my irises reflecting the movements of the on-screen images that so mesmerized me.
I was watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, namely, the episode containing the musical, “The Nightman Cometh”. Now, I will defend myself once by saying that this entire episode is a piece of comedy genius, but that is really neither here nor there.
Now, if you haven’t seen the Nightman Cometh, in order to relate to my sad existence, I would suggest you watch it here:
This isn’t a suggestion. This is an order. A desperate order. Please watch.
Anyways, I was watching it and dancing along, as one often does whilst watching an inter-textual musical on a TV show. Like this:
I was laughing really hard. Like really, really hard. Like harder than an Indian guy at a Russell Peters show.
Suddenly, my euphoria was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” I asked, reluctantly pausing my video and fearing the inevitability of real social interaction.
“Elektra,” said one of my roommates, (name has been changed), coming into the room with the trepidation of a visitor to the ICU.
She glanced around my room, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Oh,” she said, “I thought there were other people in here… I heard laughing… Never mind.”
And she left.
She left me standing there, next to my computer, hands frozen above my head in a mid-clap position, shell-shocked.
It wasn’t until I took a step back from my life that I realized what I had become.
A junkie.
And I didn’t take it well.
Until I decided, you know what? TV is fuckin awesome. And there’s a little bit of Abed inside all of us. Each of us is an Abed, a meth dealer, a perpetually single food-addicted showrunner, and a Nightman who Comeths.
And I don’t think I’ll be changing any time soon.
And you can bet your ass that I’ll be tuning into Community on Thursday on NBC, and in the wise words of the now deceased Liz Lemon:

Full House Lied to Me

Alright, so I know most of you will probably be up-in-arms over this post going, “This is your first blog post, how could you say stuff like that?” or “She doesn’t even know how to use the internets yet!”

Well, to you haterz, I bid you adieu.

What I’m going to be talking about is how the men in our generation are failing, and how the girls refuse to compensate for all of this.

I mean that boys just don’t try anymore.

I watched “Full House,” I know that romantic shit happened in the past, like when DJ (or was it Deejay? Who the fuck cares.) gets a phone call from a boy who actually TOOK THE TIME to punch in her SEVEN DIGIT (pre-area code age) number and TALK TO HER VOICE THROUGH THE PHONE instead of SnapChatting her a picture of a dick.

And you know what’s sad? The idea of face-to-face or voice-to-voice contact in the early stages of a relationship has completely dissipated- and we didn’t even see it disappear! It’s completely normal to have entire flirty conversations over BBM and iPhone (or regular text messaging if you’re poor), and no one seems to notice that this is kind of an effed up situation.

Back in the day, boys actually had to “call” on you. They weren’t scared little boys with pubic-looking facial hair and video game-induced carpal tunnel syndrome- they were gentlemen suitors.

I mean, look at this:


That shit is ROMANTIC. Look at Jimmy Stewart. Where have the Jimmy Stewarts and Cary Grants gone from our generation? Are they the twinkie boys from “One Direction”?

It hurts me to say this, but I think it must be so.

Boys, some advice: If you like a girl, tell her you like her. Don’t write about it in a diary, or try to tell her with your eyes or some other weird stuff- use your words.

Girls: If the boy you’ve been seeing is too afraid to take things further, don’t waste your time. Tell him to either man up or get out.

Because at the end of the day, you’re some hot shit:

Okay, I realize I’ve been hard on the guys here. I understand that with the recent blurring between gender roles and such, boys and girls have more equal parts in a relationship.

But girls have also been conditioned to expect certain things of men. Namely, heartbreak and lessons in faking orgasms, but good things as well, like effort. And taking control of the relationship for a few minutes.

When I started writing this blog, I didn’t want it to end up as one of those columns that Sarah Jessica Parker wrote on that shit show where everyone talked about vibrators and drank cosmos. But I also think that this is a necessary point to bring up.

At the end of the day, love is supposed to be reciprocal. If you leave it all up to the girl in the relationship to take the next steps, do cute things that give you warm fuzzies and stroke your ego, you might end up alone.

Let’s bring this back, because I think we need it:


In the wise words of my favourite Hepburn, “Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get- only with what you are expecting to give. Which is everything.”