It's a Small World

When I first started blogging I noticed something. I noticed that while there are millions upon millions of blogs there are networks within this vast virtual world that bring a person, full circle, back to where they started. I kept coming across the same people and the same blogs over and over. I'd find them through a friend of a friend or through a comment on a blog that I found in the list of blogs of someone who followed someone else I followed. But no matter where I went, there they were. In an ocean of fish I kept finding the same pearls. It was both mysterious and comforting.

In the beginning I kept my presence under wraps. I was (and still am) in the process of finding myself and I wasn't ready to 'unveil' anything, including (and especially) my inner thoughts and deepest feelings. I felt like an outsider, an intruder, when reading the blogs of others, wishing I were part of their world. I rarely commented and I was embarrassed to follow publicly. I didn't want to be a tag-along, a nuisance. Particularly if I had nothing to contribute.

But it was like a whole new world. And, when my own was falling apart, I desperately needed that. They may not have known me, but I got to know these people, the ones I seemed drawn to. And I struggled, when mentioning them to 'real-life' people, because although I didn't know what to call them, I wanted to call them my friends.

And slowly, I came out of my shell. I did my best to be witty and clever as I commented and followed. I started to Tweet and I even went to Vegas to meet. I finally had what I wanted when I so often fantasized about moving away and starting over... I had a group of people who didn't know anything about me or my struggles. I had what I had longed for, time and time again... a clean slate. I could be whomever I wanted. I could be confident and funny, optimistic and nice. I could feel safe and not judged.

I could be the person I always wanted to be.

And although I haven't gained notoriety or fame (yet) I truly enjoy my close knit little group. I like to think they're the 'cool kids' of the blogging world, even if I'm not necessarily one of them. And as much as I make fun of geeks and online daters (no offense... I've even been there, done that) I know that I'm no better, living more in my virtual world then my real one. I get a thrill when someone comments on something I've written. And when one of the 'cool kids' sends me a message or gives me a reTweet I truly feel as though I've had a brush with fame. I'm not one for celebrity in the real world but, in the blogging world, I'm a completely different person.

And I kind of like it.

There's An Old Saying...

They say "you can never go back". One of the very songs that quite often keeps me calm, grounded and sometimes even mildly sane tends to agree.

But the day I left my old job and started my new one, I desperately wanted to. But I didn't. I told myself "give it 100 days" and "there's no going back... only forward".

So here I am, 100 days later... and I still want to go back.

The old job had wonderful people. Amazing people. The type of people who take you out for lunch on your birthday... even though you don't work with them anymore. The type of people who let you leave without a fight because they think you deserve better. The type of people who give you wings to fly.

But I don't want to fly... I want to return to the nest.

And on Monday I thought maybe, just maybe, I could. It was a single sentence sent in an email from my old supervisor. A mentor. Someone I owe my whole career to for taking a chance on me when he didn't have to. For teaching me when it would've been easier to just hire someone who already knew everything. Six simple words.

'Do you want to come back?'

At first I was hesitant. After all, the sheer horribleness of the current gig was driving me to do new things... pursue other options. It made my mind wander with the overhwleming possibilities that lay before me. Such as selling my house, car, motorcyle and scooter (yes, I am *that* cool) and moving to an exotic island, spending my days writing from a hammock on the beach.

I even considered becoming a prostiute.

Perhaps I was pursuing toomany options. Regardless, a fire was lit and I worried that going back would smother it. After all, I would feel like I owed them. That I could never leave ever again. And I worried that maybe I had forgoteen all the reasons why I had left in the first place.

Tuesday morning I shared my concerns with an old coworker who assured me things had improved since my departure (I'm trying not to find a correlation between those two things) and that nobody would fault me if I ended up leaving again and that, in fact, should I find a job in New York or buy a tiki hut on an island then, perhaps, they would even give me a leave of absence. Because that's just what people do when they want what's best for you not just as an employee but as a person.

And in an instant I thought maybe the old addage wasn't true and maybe, just maybe, you can go back after all. So I replied to my supervisor...

'Yes!'

As soon as the word was sent I waited while my old supervisor to speak with HR and the CEO. I was anxious. Nervous. This thing I didn't even know I wanted was suddenly all I could think about. I still felt bad for putting my old coworkers through all this to begin with. I still wondered if I was being fair to them. And then it came... the reply.

There's been a budget cut... there's no position to go back to.

How can a person be upset about something they never had? Something they gave up in the first place? I keep telling myself they can't. I keep telling myself that it's okay... that the fire within me still exists. That bigger and better things await. That this will drive me. That they were right the whole time... you can't go back. But I still kind of feel extinguished.

Like someone peed on my flames.

I'm oddly content with this. Now that I know I can't actually go back it feels like I have no choice but to move forward. This was my decision and I have no choice but to live with it.

I just can't help but wonder if I maybe should never have made it in the first place...

32

Much in the way I never had a favourite color, I don't particularly have a favourite number. Sure, 3 is a fun number... what with all it's bubble-ness and how it's like an 8, but not really. Plus it's fun to write! You can do it straight-up or put a little loop-dee-loop in the middle. You can make the top flat and proper, with sharp edges, or make it as round as my belly.

Oh wait... I've said too much.

And then there's 7. I want to like 7. Odds are in its favour. You can cross it. Or not. You can slant it. Or make it upright. The options are limitless, really. Or at least fourfold. But it's just so common. It's pretty much everyone's favourite number. That's boring.

And, of course, every once in a while you get some sort of smart alec who decides their favourite number is 1,209. Like, really?!?!? Why? That's just silliness and, really, that's a series of numbers. That's greedy.

But me? I feel bad for all the unpicked numbers. And I do so hate to discriminate. Unless it's against yellow candy... nothing good ever came from yellow candy. Half the time it's lemon, the other half it's banana. Sometimes it's sour lemon... sometimes it's sweet. Sometime it's true-to-life banana... sometimes it tastes like children's penicillin. Which, I may add, I'm allergic to.

All in all, a bad situation. Again... fourfold.

So while I may not have a favourite number there are, in fact, some I tend to like more then others. Not sure why. They just have a good 'feel' to them. Like 23. 23 was a good year. But 27? Nasty. 28? Showed promise but fell short. 31? I was indifferent.

But this year... I've always felt like this year would be my year. That 32 would hold big things for me. Not sure why... not sure what. It just seems like a good year.

And so, today, I welcome 32. Even though I didn't care much for 31. And 29? So cliché, it really never stood a chance to live up to its hype. I was glad to get rid of that one. Well, minus the whole turning 30 thing which, really? Not so bad.

But 32? 32's going to be different. I've felt it for a while. I've known it forever. And it has to... because the next 'good' number is when I retire.

And at the rate I’m going that just might be 1,209.

And this photo? Proof that I have, in fact, had bags under my eyes since birth. It would never work between Matthew Perry and I. Our poor children would have such sad, sunken eyes. And that Alfalfa-like hair style? My mother swears I was born with a 6-inch 'tail' of hair, which she had the neighbor from across the street cut off promptly following our arrival home from the hospital. Because, really, what mother wants a mullet baby? Had it been the mid 80's, sure... but, as always, I was simply just too ahead of my time.

And, yes... it's my birthday. The first birthday I've ever had without cake. But I had birthday nachos instead (no candle, after my friend warned me of the potential grease fire that could ensue).

See... already this year is different from the rest.

Fate Makes Amends

I'm not a fan of fate. She is a fickle, fickle bitch. She has not treated me well these past few years.

I had all but given up on her.

Take, for instance, my wanting to go to New York to attend BlogHer 2010. I hummed... I hawed... I missed the early bird deadline. And because I'm cool like that I decide, two days after the early bird deadline, that I do, indeed, want to go. So I load up the website, I select the full conference pass and I put it in my cart. And, in my true (in)decisive nature, I hum and haw some more... and my page expires. Go to do it again and... the conference is sold out.

Well crap.

I think we all know by now that the moment I REALLY want something is usually the moment when it can no longer be mine. Like I said... I'm cool like that. So I put my name on the wait list. I tried to be hopeful. I even tried to 'put it out there' (despite my general disdain and disbelief for 'putting it out there') and find some roomies. I even posted on BlogHer's bulletin board that I was looking for a ticket. And I checked my email as soon as I get home from work.

Every. Day.

And then it happened... one day there was a message from someone selling their ticket. I emailed back knowing, in my heart of hearts, that it was probably too late. Because that's just the way fate rolls. Well that and the fact in the time I took to check my email (which I can't access from work) the seller had already posted her ticket for sale on the forum. It was one of those rare moments when I hoped I wasn't right.

But I was.

I was devastated. I was even a little angry. I thought "why did I even bother" posting on the forum if it doesn't do anything? So I post again. I plead. I beg. I ask for someone to email me... and just give me a few hours to respond before posting their ticket. I even used the word 'please'.

Repeatedly.

I checked my inbox every 5 seconds that night, I'm sure. I had a restless sleep (nothing new for me) and checked it again in the morning. I went to work... and worried about it all day. After what seemed like forever I finally raced home (within the confines of the legal speed limit, or thereabouts) and before even taking off my jacket I checked my email. I didn't really expect anything. Because, like I said, fate has not been kind.

But fate... she did good.

Not only was there an email but it was from Beth Anderson, editor-in-chief of Chic Galleria. And while I normally refrain from even uttering fate's name consider this... while Beth graciously waited for me to get home from work to reply her email when, really, she didn't owe me anything and could have sold it in a heartbeat to someone else... she perused my blog.

And she liked what she saw.

Out of all the people in all the world to have a ticket to sell.... and out of all the people in all the world she could have sold her ticket to... and out of all the bad (nay, good) luck of the day before... Beth and I crossed paths.

And, well, long story short: I'm going to be a contributing writer for Chic Galleria!!

I am so excited! And grateful! I hope this is the first step towards something wonderful. Something different. And with all the frustration and struggle I've come across in my 'real-life' job this came at just the right moment... the moment when I thought all hope was lost. The moment when I questioned what I was going to do with myself and my career. The moment when I was didn't know how I could possibly make it through another work day.

But now I know. Because that? That's just a job. But this? This is just what I needed. And so, with that, fate makes amends. I'm still not sure we're even but we'll get there.

Or at least I hope we will.

Money Well Spent

I have a 9 year old little sister, T. Not a biological one, though, that would be gross. The very thought of my parents fornicating in their senior years is enough to make me puke. No, I got my little sister through the YWCA's Big Sister Program, a very worthwhile program I would highly recommend to any 30-something singleton who's looking for a means of validating a life without children while wondering how their life may have turned out had they had some sort of role model growing up to instil some sense of self-esteem and pittance of confidence.

Clearly the program is more geared towards me and my issues than that of the child’s.

But, alas, how fun it is! The last time I checked it wasn’t entirely socially acceptable for someone my age to be tobogganing, flying kites, coloring pictures and seeing every cartoon ever created. But this way I have a front for such shenanigans. And when I'm at a loss for activities for us to partake in because, really, there are only so many times one can go to the museum, science centre and Chuck E Cheese (although T would disagree with me on that last one) I give T a loonie (that's what we Canadians call them), take her to the dollar store and tell her she can buy whatever she would like.

People… if you have children and are looking for a way to kill a few hours this is it! Just be sure to grab yourself a coffee on the way because it just may be the easiest, yet most boring, family activity you’ll ever experience. Of course I have the luxury of saying “what would your mother think” every time T runs amuck in the store… which is my way of letting the other, obviously annoyed, patrons know that I cannot take any responsibility for her behaviour (unless it’s good) because, hey, I am not her mother. You can get away with a lot when people think you’re doing the world a service.

Just saying.

Anywho… it takes at least an hour for T to go through each aisle, eyeing the endless possibilities that one shiney looney can hold. It then takes another 2 hours to pick something, put it back, pick something else, put it back and repeat... about 929,132 times.

All in all, a dollar well spent!

The thing is… I remember what it used to be like to be a kid. When a dollar seemed like all the money in the world. When the thought of buying 100 penny candies (yes, I am *that* old) thrilled me to no end, despite the fact I wasn't actually allowed to have candy. If that meant I had to eat the whole kit and caboodle before I got home and risk getting a stomach ache then that's what I had to do.

It was, quite literally, a amall price to pay.

I remember what it was like to get $5 a month in allowance, back in the day when allowances had to actually be earned trough such tasks as vacuuming, dusting, washing dishes and folding laundry. I remember what it was like to save, month after month, for a special toy because, in my day, toys were only received twice a year- on Christmas and birthdays. I remember the excitement being overwhelming... being on pins and needles as we drove home from the store, knowing it was only after we arrived and got in the house that I could finally open my purchase. Taking in every bit of newness… the smell, the feel... the bragging rights. Playing with that toy day after day, treasuring its newness... and mourning the inevitable loss of pristineness when the sun would finally melt doll heads, crayons would break or that one critical Lego piece would be lost.

It's very rare, as an adult, to have purchase like that. To find things that fill you with simple happiness... without the overhanging dread of a car loan or 25 year mortgage amortization that includes a yard that needs to be mowed, a house that requires maintenance and a car that requires weekly trips to the gas station.

But today... today I made a purchase I've been waiting to make for what seems like forever. Something I had longed to have but didn’t even know if it really existed or if I had only dreamt it. Something I got from a tiny little family-run store. The kind of store that still closes 2 days a week and isn't open in the evenings. Today I bought a new and shiny toy that cost a mere $40 but is, surely, the best $40 I've spent in a long, long time. Today... I got a shoe stretcher.

So my wide-ass feet can fit into my too-tight shoes.

And as I opened the box to find my new prized possession I was delighted and surprised that it came with something else I hadn’t even expected... a bunion adapter.

Score!

Sweet Dreams

Why is nighttime the scariest time of day? What is it about the darkness that is so frightening? Why is it that I have had 30-some years of nights where nothing bad has happened and no harm has come and, yet, when the sun sets I fear the worst?

I've been trying to nap during the day. I figured I should try to bank some sleep during regular waking hours since I always seem to be awake during normal sleeping hours. In my nap attempts I've done my best to create an atmosphere conducent for sleeping. This mainly consists of fuzzy socks, an eye mask and my favourite calming music. And while I wouldn't say I've become a successful napper I do believe I've gotten rather good at dozing. I base this solely on the fact that while I may not recall sleeping I do tend to close my eyes one second listening to one song only to open them the next second, or so it seems, to another. It may only be a track or two but, still, that's progress in my books!

Imagine my delight, then, to discover that not only does my iPod docking station have a clock (who knew?) but also a sleep function! This revelation filled me with the hope that I might extend my sleep routine past the realm of daytime napping into my evening bedtime routine.

I was so confident in my endeavours that I even went to bed early. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, downed my routine glass of water and ensured my alarm was set (even though it has yet to fail me, all these years). I then turned on my music and turned out the lights.

And I could NOT. GET. TO. SLEEP.

I kept worrying that if the music was on I wouldn't be able to hear if someone were to, say, break into my house. You know... because all break-ins occur under the cover of darkness... when burglars have the best visibility and can be sure the occupants are at work.

Oh wait... that's not quite right.

But, still, I couldn't seem to get over not being able to hear the nothingness that is nighttime. After all, what if the house springs a leak? The fridge knocks? An alien invades? Or, worse yet, the sleep function on the docking station doesn't turn off?

So, of course, I had to stay up long enough to make sure and, sure enough, the music shut off when it was supposed to.

And I didn't even get raped!

But, man alive, was I tired this morning...

I Don't Ask For Much...

...really, I don't. But once, just once, I'd like to have a coffee or lunch break at my new job that does not consist of my coworkers talking about going to the bathroom. Seriously. Is that too much to ask?

At first I thought it was just a fluke. Maybe it isn't *every* time. So I started listening for it and, lo and behold, it is EVERY time. I cannot get through a meal without them talking about the giant load they took that morning (at work, no less! Isn't that against labor laws?!?), that someone's lunch looks like a hunk of poo or, today, how my asparagus soup is going to make my pee smell. Seriously? Now you're telling me what *I* should expect the next time I urinate?

Needless to say, I did not finish my soup. Had I really been on the ball I would have wittingly replied with "that only happends if you have an STD" but, alas, I only think of such comebacks about 2 days after the fact.

I try not to sterotype, really I do. After all, not everyone who works in IT can be a giant, disgusting geek who only ever talks about video games and food because, hello, that would imply that I am a giant, disgusting geek and, surely, that's not the case, right? RIGHT?!?!?

Never mind the fact I won't shut up about my diet, Just Dance and my adult acne.

Fashion over Function

I've been doing my best to consider my new job as a fresh start. I bought some new clothes (although not enough to have more than a one week rotation of outfits); I got a hair cut (colour is set for next week... which I'm quite excited for since, with some failed attempts at highlights, I've only ever been one shade- black. Which, really isn't a colour at all, is it?) and even lost some weight (6 pounds, to date... leaving a mere 21 to go. And by 'mere' I mean 'argh').

And today I wore new shoes. Fancy new high heels. Purple with grey lace-like trim. Mary Jane style. Not my wisest shoe choice, given the fact I had to step in a snowbank to scrape my car windows but whatever.

At least I had the foresight to bring an extra set of shoes... for the moment when I lost all feeling in my toes. Not all toes, mind you... just the big ones. On both feet. At first they tingled. Then it was as if they no longer existed. I went another couple hours, just for the sheer curiosity of the situation. I found myself stepping on them, to see if I could feel them at all but, alas, I could not.

You know the feeling you get when you fall asleep on your arm and wake up to wonder "who's arm is that" only to find out it's yours? It was like that, except on a smaller, stubbier scale.

And that, my friends, was the extent of my day thus far. Exciting, isn't it? Fear not... I'm on my way to not one but two birthday parties. I'm not sure which I'm more excited about... getting to actually go 'out' and drink at a pub with the 30 year-olds.... or jumping in a bouncey tent with the 4 year-olds.

Clearly both have their advantages.

A Different Perspective

Very rarely does anything good come from the words "I have something to say and you're not going to like it".

But those are the words a friend said to me today. This friend, in fact. The one who believes in "putting it out there". She said she'd been thinking of how I ran into Him at the grocery store.

I stopped her right there.

Someone told me, once, that when you are upset and want to say something you should ask yourself "is this going to bring us closer together or further apart" and if the answer is "further apart" you shouldn't say it. You should think about it, reword it, think about it some more and then ask yourself if what you want to say is really worth losing a person or relationship over.

I did that the last time my friend gave me her theory on the situation but this time I just couldn't bite my tongue. I told her I didn't want to hear her theory about how I draw these things to myself by, subconsciously, "putting it out there". I told her that when she said such things it felt like I was to blame and that I was tired of everything being my fault. I told her it hurt me.

I told her it hurt me a lot.

It took her aback. In her defence, she didn't know. She thought she was helping. She thought that maybe tough love would, somehow, trigger me into thinking only happy thoughts. It never once occurred to her that it might make me more upset. And why would she if I never told her? We had an 'ah-ha' moment, her and I. After all this time she finally understood. She apologized. I forgave. And all was right with the world.

Except that wasn't actually what she was going to say.

Oops.

Turns out she had been doing some thinking. A while ago she told me she had "put it out there" that she was going to win the lottery. In an attempt to make my point, albeit in my true pessimist style, I told her that I, too, had bought a lottery ticket and I, too, had "put it out there" and so had many, if not millions, of other people. I asked her "so who's 'putting it out there' gets to win? Do we take turns? Are we guaranteed that that's enough? Do some people deserve it more? Less?". They were questions she couldn't answer. I didn't mean to diminish her faith but I wanted her to see that perhaps everything that happened to me wasn't because of something I had thought, imagined, hoped or longed for.

I just wanted her to tell me it wasn't my fault.

And for the first time in forever she had an epiphany. She said she'd changed her mind about me. About how I always kept running into Him. She told me that perhaps it wasn't me at all.... perhaps it was Him. Perhaps it was He who had "put it out there". That perhaps He wanted to see me and somehow, just like the lottery, His wanting to see me had trumped my not wanting to see him.

She said perhaps He was sorry. That perhaps He was so overcome with guilt that He wanted to make sure He hadn't broken me. That perhaps He needed the same thing I did...

Closure.

She said that perhaps, on some level, He just wanted to make sure I was okay. And that until I really and truly am I'll continue to see Him. Because perhaps He's not meaning to hurt me at all.

Perhaps He's just checking in.

I can't tell you what a difference such a notion has made. True or not. And to know that, after all these years, not only can perception of the situation change for myself... but that it can change for those around me. And maybe, just maybe, for Him. Perhaps someday I'll be the only one left who thinks it was all my fault.

And, with any luck, maybe that will change too.

I Used to Make Fun of People Like Me

I've heard it been said that people who spend too much time on line are "wasting their time". I've heard it from coworkers who say they "don't get it" while I, shamefully, pretend to agree. I've read it on Facebook statuses (ironic, yes?!?) from people who say it's lame, yet keep their account. And I even thought it myself, not that long ago.

But then things changed.

I became a person who didn't have anyone to come home to. A person who was so sad and lonely she crawled into bed the moment she got home, hoping for a phone that never rang and emails that where never received. A person who just wanted to feel like her presence in the world mattered, all the while wondering how long she could go missing before anyone would even notice. Days? Surely. Weeks? Probably. Months? Quite possibly.

I am the last of my friends to get married. The last to have kids. The phone calls are few and far between and I rarely get to go to the places a single girl should: no pubs, no roadtrips, no concerts, no dinners at fancy restaurants. And I get it, I do. People are busy. Lives are different. But the more diapers they change and playdates they attend the more I fear we have less in common. I love the coffee dates, the card games and the movies we go to every now and then. I love the babies and the husbands and the fact I'm included in families not because they have to but, rather, because they want to. And some of the best words in all the world to hear are "Auntie" and "friend". I love that we can still laugh about times gone by and sit comfortably in silence. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't worry about the times that lay ahead and wonder if there will come a day when the differences are too great. After all, I am, quite literally, The Last Girl Standing.

And it's lonely.

But I am not alone. There may not be someone waiting at my door after a long, hard day but with the push of a button and the opening of my internet browser I have people to come home to. My phone may not ring but my twitter chirps. There for every email I don't receive there are endless comments, statuses, photos and posts to let me know that everyone seems a world away some of the world's best people are actually ready and waiting.. and in my living room.

And last night... you guys really came through for me.

Much like Who Wants to be A Millionaire, I had phoned a friend hoping to be saved. Wanting another chance to play the game and advance to the next level. But I should have known better. Love her as I may, this friend has the notion that everything in life, good and bad, is the result of something you've thought. Something you've done. Something you've "put out there". And while that may work for some it does not work for me. So when I phoned, upset, saying I had run into my ex at the grocery store I explained how it was yet another occasion where only moments before it happened I had thought "gee, I hope I don't run into Him" she simply said "see... you put it out there and look what happened"...

It wasn't exactly the understanding and encouragement I had hoped for.

So I hung up the phone and, tears streaming down my cheeks, thought about standing there in line at the grocery store... exactly five years minus a day since the-break-that-turned-into-a-breakup. FIVE years. That is a LONG time. That's half a decade. That is enough time for people to buy a house, go to Palm Springs, become engaged, get married, move again, have a baby, move again and plan another child. That is more than enough time for people to do all that. Especially if 'people' is Him.

But not if 'people' is me.

Five years can erase a lot of memories. A lot of pain. And even a pittance of regret. But, apparently, five years does not erase the ability to recognize the sound of laughter coming from the man you thought you'd marry.

I shouldn't have turned around. I shouldn't have noticed Him only 2 people behind me. After all this time, I shouldn't have known the sound of that laugh. But I did. And so I stod there doing the only thing I could... staring down at purchases that made it blaringly obvious how I was doing and how far I had (not) come... 4 frozen entrees.

Weight Watchers-style.

And although I may not mourn Him specifically I still came home brokenhearten. Sad for a life I may never know. Overwhelmed by the emptiness of the life I am living in its place. And crushed by the words of a friend that seemed to imply that this, too, is my fault.

But then I "put it out there". A single, non-descript phrase. Set asail on the sea of Twitter in an ocean of other posts. Nineteen characters that said, quite simply, that I was "Having a sad, lonely night".

And that was all it took.

That was all it took for the people I come home to every night to take me under their wing... without question of why or how, never judging who was at fault or what I should have done.

So when someone says, quite flippantly, that people such as my self are wasting their life on such nonsense... that hurts. Because, deep down, I know that my life could easily become a waste if it weren't for these people who are always there, always supporting me. It is so easy for someone to belittle something they don't understand. It is so easy for them to take for granted what they have... a partner, a child, a home that is new and a car that works well in the winter... and it is so easy not to see what others don't. And to say things that hurt. Because this nonsense world is sometimes the only world I have and I would be lost without it. And if that's a waste then I guess that's what I am. Because if it were to go away so would I.

I would crawl back under my covers.

And so I am glad. Glad for such 'time wasters' like Facebook and Twitter and blogging. Because without them I would, quite literally, have nothing to help get me by until the next time I see my IRL friends. And as much as they are been there for me whenever they are able to... it is my online friends who are there always.

I may not know you to see you... but I know you to feel you. You make me feel like I can never be lost, never go missing. You make me feel like I am loved. Needed. Wanted. And never, ever alone.

I may not have much to give but I will do my very best to do for you even a sliver of what you do for me. Because on days when the world seems to be a cold, dark place... when my heart hurts and the future is bleak... when all I want is someone to hug me... love me.... and tell me it's okay.

You do.

And I can never, ever thank you enough.

But I will do my very best to try.