There aren't enough words in the English language,  or ANY language,  to accurately describe my feelings of love for this woman.

https://youtu.be/KdIrnG_7uNY

2015 has pretty much become the year I see the world. My schedule is so amazing for traveling and even just random day trips. Or weekend trips. I almost went to Mexico this week haha. Bunch of girls I've become super close with on my shift decided last minute to go. But. Since I'm going to Vegas in 3 weeks and literally just booked the trip to st maartens AND I'm going to Seattle and new York in may - it just didn't work out to go last minute. But. There's always next set off. Or the one after that. Or I have pretty much all of august off. So Skys the limit really.
I have so many other places I want to go this year too. Then 2016 I'm doing a month around Europe. Maybe 2 weeks in Iceland. Maybe Russia. Who knows. My options are unlimited.
Get busy living or get busy dying right?

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

My dad asked me today for a sentence. For one strung together mash of words that he could use when attending a PD day that is geared towards lgbtq students.
One sentence to pass along, to share with the group.
As a person who, more often than not, attempts to define myself by the impact I make and the words I create - I found myself struggling to come up with something. It would have to be short, but impacting. It would need to inspire and stoke a conversation right?
Here's my chance. Say something memorable. Say something important.
A few thoughts went through my head immediately.  Would he be saying 'my gay daughter had this to say' or just 'my daughter'
Am I truly defined by my sexual orientation? It's a part of me, yes. Of course. But how big a part? 
Would he have asked me for a sentence to bring to the group if the group had been discussing mental illness, or musical appreciation? How about crafty creativity? Writing?
Would any of these other attributes that shape and define the person I am be called upon in a similar situation?
I thought about how I must be perceived in the world. How my friends who aren't gay must see me. If they see my acts of love as acts of just someone who loves, or acts of someone who is gay, who loves.
Then I thought instantly about the last few people I fell in love with. About how loving them has defined me. How loving them created in me differences and improvements and changes and growth. How the very act of loving them was in and of itself an accomplishment. A battle fought and won.  How it's through my love, that I am defined.
Does it even matter that they were women? Does that actually matter anymore?
So I replied to my dad. Just say to them, that it's not who you love. It's how you love.
And it was right after I sent that text to him that I became so humbled and grateful for my ability to string together words. Because if there is anything I want you to remember about me when I am gone from this earth, it's that I loved you fiercely and loyally, with my whole heart.

Pants vs blanket sized

Sometimes I think pretty little liars taps into my current Playlist and just runs with it. That or they stalk the best songza profiles just like I do.
I know I have to have said it before, but aria is totally big A. I'm interested to see how they're going to play the next season and a half off before revealing who it is. Sometimes I feel like my juvenile addiction to this show is waaay too much. But. I just justify it with crocheting blankets while I sit here yelling at my TV. That way I'm being productive, right? 
Speaking of blankets. I have the sometimes unfortunate and sometimes fortunate ability to remember dates of things. Like tomorrow is two months since I lost smokey. Next week is 3 years since I moved back to Alberta. And 2 days ago marks a year since I heard one of the only funny jokes to be made about a blanket.
I always find the movement of time so interesting and odd. So often I find it odd. The pool noodle theory and all that.
Oh life. You just happen don't you. With all your oddities and movement. There's no justifying that, is there?

There is something so rythmically perfect about this song.
about how it's sitting on a greyhound bus bound for anywhere. And your headphones are in and up too loud while you watch the rain chase itself down the sides of the window you've pressed your forehead up against.

Or speeding down a pitch black highway in the middle of the night. Not entirely sure of what waits for you at the end of the trip. But entirely sure that it will be remembered well before anything else.

Pants vs a whole bunch of things

I wonder if someday I'll come up with titles that don't involve me vs'ing things.
We lost a member of our family after a 3 year battle with cancer that saw him through diagnosis, remission, and back to diagnosis.
Cancer is like that. It comes. It goes. It takes from us those things we wish we could hold onto forever. Forces a sense of morality.
I've had enough death. I reckon anyways. Enough grief and processing and trying not to grieve and process.
The hardest part, I've found, is the finality of it. The concept of not being able to take it back. To go back. To change an outcome.
I mourned the death of friendships. Ones lost to stupid things like lying and emotions and the inability to retract from pride. I've mourned you and her and them about ten thousand times. But I've always known that it was never final. I've known that she'd text me trivial conversation. Test the waters. That you'd email me. That you'd apologize and so would I. And that they would question my sanity, my stance, trying to gauge my reactions based on some form of words on a screen.
I've mourned lost relationships. Ones I could not make work. I could not forgive. I could not overlook blazing trust issues and immature reactions to grown up feelings.
I've mourned the loss of who I used to be. A person I sometimes miss. A person I sometimes wish I could go back to.
I've mourned all that. Loss and love and everything in between.
But losing my best friend. Holding the 8 ounces of ashes she was reduced to. That finality. That end. That total end. That I have trouble with.
My cousin who passed away. We were not very close. I have few memories of him aside from beards and a vague recollection of boisterous laughter. But the finality, the knowledge and not just the notion that I will never speak to him again is a struggle I'm not quiet sure what to do with.
Is there ever any healthy way to approach grief?
I don't suppose there is, because if there were, the book would be a beat seller.