This weekend I’m heading up to my cottage up North.

Bear country. Fishing country. Nature…country.

Whatever you want to call it, it’s not the cement jungle in which I’m used to. However, like a true fashionista, I have packed 2 bags for a three-day weekend with friends because…being in the wilderness allows me to tap into rustic and stereo-typically Canadian outfits which would otherwise look ridiculous.

Other than the lumberjack plaid, touques and hiking boots…I’m not looking forward to leaving behind my creature comforts.

nameisnuwanda asked: I absolutely adore DisneyBound, and I just popped on there for the first time in a few weeks and discovered that you have another blog. I love this idea...I've been toying with the idea of starting a more personal blog where I talk about what goes on in my life. I'm really excited to hear about your adventures, dates, and fashion discoveries. :)

Thank you so much!

<3

Yesterday I wrote about how if I were to write a book about my life up until this point it would be called “Never Been Loved”. Well let’s pretend that book became a New York Times Best Seller - and I was approached to make a film on it. This morning…would have been the opening montage to Never Been Loved.

This morning, I woke up feeling great. My hair (due to the humidity) had this cute relaxed curl, my make up looked great…and my outfit looked adorable. That’s where my good morning ended.

Upon leaving my apartment - I kicked a pigeon. Now this is quite often a weekly occurance. Anyone who lives in a big city knows that pigeons have a cocky attitude. They are so used to humans that often…instead of them getting out of your way - you have to get out of theirs. They fly low, because they are so used to humans ducking for them. So, about once a week…I awkwardly end up kicking a pigeon.

“Hey! Lady! I’m walkin’ here!” is what I imagine them saying. In a heavy New Jersey accent.

I’m then standing at a cross walk, next to a guy…which I can only describe using my inner dialogue.

“Look at this guy. He looks like if Pauly D…no…Ronnie. He looks like if Ronnie and a carrot made babies. Why is he so orange? Does he thinks he looks good? He actually looks like a carrot. Not just in colour - but actually, his physique looks like a carrot. All big in his upper body and teeny tiny little butt and legs. Ew.”

Not long after my charming little banter with myself did he turn around to face me.

“Hey sugar!”

Did he just call me sugar?

“You work here? I haven’t seen you around cupcake.”

AND THEN…my shoe breaks. The strap on my favourite matte black wedge heals that I just bought a few weeks ago - breaks.

This has just been my walk to work. It’s been a good morning. Sigh.

It’s been about a week. I find I’ve been struggling with writers block. No, not even writers block…creativity block…no…a living block.

So where I left off, Samantha was coming over. Where theres Samantha, there are boys. However, we didn’t go out to find them. Like 12 year olds - we sat on Facebook…window shopping if you will.

“Look at him! He’s cute right? I’ve slept with him. Oh and this guy…most amazing body. THIS GUY HERE! Ah! He wrote me a song!”

I’ve always been jealous of Samantha in that way. Her ability to make guys fall hopelessly in love with her has always been something I lack. Actually, I lack that skill severely. If I were to publish a book today about my life up until this point, I think it would be called “Never Been Loved”.

“They do love you.” Olivia said to me the other day. “They just tell you in weird ways.”

Those ways she’s referring to include:

• An boyfriend of a year couldn’t tell me to my face that he loved me, so he’d whisper it when he thought I was sleeping.
• Mr. Big - and drunken late nights texts which I would receive saying “I love you, but not like that.”

Nice.

So here I am, with a few newly purchased boys to pursue. However I find myself doing a rather bad habit which many of us girls have. When we meet a cute boy, and we want to find a reason for why they are ‘the one’ we get a bad case of the ‘Me Too’s!’.

This is when we find ourselves agreeing to something the boy has said. We aren’t saying “Me too” because we truly agree. No, our me too means “I can live with that.”

As much as I enjoy the person I’m becoming, I find I miss more and more the days when I was just getting to know Mr. Big. We didn’t even have to have the conversations like “What was your favourite subject in school?” Or “Scenario: It’s a Friday night at 6pm, what would you be doing?” Because with Mr. Big, I know what his favourite subject is, what he would enjoy doing, what his favourite artists are…and all that comparable crap we all try to relate to, because he is a male-me. I already know what he likes - and it’s what I like…with no settling or compromises.