I don’t know

I rather dislike not knowing things.

Wow, Marryl, what a general statement.

Honestly, I don’t like that feeling of not being certain, of constantly guessing, of just not knowing, you know? Feeling forever unsure, worrying about the truth, fabricating potential outcomes. It’s inevitable that I don’t know a lot of things, and sometimes that’s okay, or even good. I don’t know where I will be in five years. I don’t know what the world will look like when I’m 40. I don’t know what time dinner will be. And I’m okay with all of this (except for maybe the last one because I’m hungry).

But then there are the immediate or important things in your life where if it matters a lot to you but you feel like you don’t know what is happening or you’re unsure about something, it can be pretty scary. I know I’m being vague, but this post is mostly for me to get out the feels without opening a can of worms. Whenever I don’t know what’s going on or I don’t know what someone is thinking or I don’t know the truth about a situation, I fill those gaps with stories or explanations I create in my head. I play out scenarios in my mind to try and figure them out, which is a helpful strategy, but ultimately I usually end up concocting false realities that are incredibly counterproductive. Because sometimes I’m totally wrong.

But then again, sometimes I’m right. Sometimes I imagine the worst, realize I’m being silly, only to discover that the worst was true. Or sometimes it’s the opposite where I think positive thoughts but psych myself out so that I don’t actually realize the positivity in a situation. A lot of this is just because I think to much and have a wild imagination. But this imagination comes out of wild uncertainty.

I know that I will never know everything, but it would be nice to know things that immediately matter. I don’t know how to make this happen; maybe people need to be more honest with me, and maybe I need to be more honest with myself. Maybe I’m the one preventing myself from seeing reality by telling myself that it’s okay, I can’t know it all.

Like I said, I’m being very vague, so I guess I’m doing you all a disservice because you don’t know what I’m talking about. But maybe even if you don’t know the specifics, you do understand what I mean about the struggles not knowing?


I don’t know.



I will be the first one to admit that sometimes, my parents annoy me to no end.

I will be the last one to admit that sometimes, I can be pretty awful to them and can be completely wrong in situations where I say I’m right.

This past week I’ve had somewhat of an epiphany about living with my family. Since moving to school I’ve repeatedly said, “I love my family, but I like them better when I don’t live with them.” I still agree with this statement, because honestly, living with the same group of people, family or not, can cause you to lose your mind sometimes and really need your space. But what I should be focusing on about this statement is the part where my relationship with my family has actually gotten stronger since I moved away. I appreciate them more when I see them less because I miss them for a month or two at a time, and really get a lot out of the weekend or week that I’m at home.

That is, until summer hits.

I wish this wasn’t true, but my family, particularly my parents, have really gotten under my skin this summer. Tiny things that they say and do have bothered me to an extreme. I’ve felt like they just don’t understand me, and I’ve felt like I don’t belong. And that’s really hard, and really sad.

But I know for certain that a major part of why I’ve been overly annoyed with my parents is because of myself. I’ve been stupidly stressed this summer. Dumb, I know, because it’s the summer. But between working long days and my hundred mile long to-do list, I’ve been very on edge, and any little thing could push me over, even if it wasn’t actually annoying at all. So while sometimes I’m sure whatever bothered me was actually bothersome, I know that most of the time I just needed to chill.

My parents aren’t perfect. Sometimes they make mistakes and sometimes they do dumb things. But I’m not perfect either, and I make even more mistakes and do even dumber things. Parenting is hard (or I assume as much) so I have to give them credit. My parents do so much for me, like buy me food and make me food and let me live in a lovely house and let me borrow the car and sew rehearsal skirts for me and pay for my education so like I should be kneeling at their feet whenever they walk in the door (but they decided to have hardwood throughout the house so I don’t think that’s happening).

I know sometimes I will be annoyed with my family because that’s just what happens when you spend a lot of time with the same people. But if I think my life is hard, their lives are just as hard or even harder, so I should take it easy on them. I’ve been trying really hard lately to appreciate my parents and thank them and respect them and open up to them and uninhibitedly love them more than I have been, and honestly I’ve felt so much better. I know in my heart that I do belong and that they do understand me, or they will if I let them.

Of course I don’t know everyone situations, but if you feel the parental struggle too, I really recommend you try this too. It’s hard stuff to deal with and admit to yourself, but it’s totally worth it. They’re your family and they love you; don’t make that hard for them.

Except while I was away one weekend my family ate some of my mint chocolate squares and that is one crime I can never forgive.

I lost my voice this week

If the title isn’t indication enough, this week is going to be a real thrill.

(That was sarcasm. To clarify. Sometimes I genuinely can’t tell if it’s obvious.)

In case you didn’t follow my live twitter update (shame on you), here’s a recap: I got mildly sick this past weekend, had a somewhat scratchy voice on Monday morning, and then completely lost it by Monday afternoon after using my counsellor voice all day, teaching kids crafts and dance moves. What a way for it to go, eh? But legit, when I say lost it, I mean lost it. My attempt at saying “bye” to the campers sounded more like a creepy exhale you hear over the phone in a horror movie. Really comforting for 6-year-old girls.

I had never lost my voice before until two years ago. Before then, I had though that the phrase was an embellishment, and you didn’t actually lose your ability to speak. Boy did I eat my words. One week into my first year of university, after feeling sick and then going to a really loud party, my voice was gone. Almost totally gone for about 3 or 4 days, and then I sounded like a heavy chain smoker for another week and a half after that. I’m sure you can imagine how fun that was for a theatre student. And if you can’t imagine it, let me lay it out for you: IT WAS NOT FUN AT ALL WHATSOEVER BECAUSE IT WAS THE WORST.

I had this crazy misconception that losing your voice could be fun and entertaining. It’s really not. The inability to talk really gets in the way of life. Thankfully this week’s illness hasn’t lasted long, and my voice is sort of almost back. But even these past three days have been a struggle when my job requires me to yell at kids. Um… I mean… speak at a raised volume so the sweet, adorable children can hear me. But my boss made me swear a no talking oath so.

Something I rediscovered about myself through this is that I’m really bad at taking breaks. Don’t get me wrong, I can be literally the laziest person sometimes. My Netflix history proves that. But when I’m in a situation where everyone is telling me to just chill for a sec, I refuse. Like when I’m sick. These past thee days my boss (I call her boss but she’s too awesome for such a scary title) has constantly been telling me to stop what I’m doing and go take a nap in the middle of the day. I kid you not. Best job ever. But I felt like I wasn’t being productive or helpful, so I kept refusing. I was given the green light to nap and be paid for it and I didn’t take it, like who even am I? Yesterday I still went to and sang at my voice lesson even though I have laryngitis and couldn’t even hit a G. And today I went to my Wednesday fitness class. I am the dumbest person ever. I get sick and I insist on doing MORE than normal.

So I don’t know if I’ve really learned anything from this week. I’ve always known that I suck at recognizing when I need to take a break and I am really not great at taking care of myself when times get tough. I guess I should work on that. I’m okay with being lazy when I have zero excuse, but not okay with it when I do have an excuse. I can’t over much insight on that because I don’t know why that is. Maybe I just don’t like admitting defeat and that I am not a perfect and put together person all the time. Because that’s a tougher pill to swallow than NyQuil.

Speaking of which, there has been a lot of cold medicine floating through my system so I blame that for and spelling and grammar mistakes on this, or if it’s just generally a crappy post, because I need to do French homework now and refuse to proofread.

No but seriously are they trying to choke me with those NyQuil tablets?

I should be doing homework right now

Currently crying because I want to nap but the above mentioned still stands strong.

Time to vent for a minute or two.

I am hardly having what I would call a “summer”. When I think summer, I think bikinis on the beach with a big sun hat. I think a group of really good looking friends on a road trip to nowhere. I think reading Brontë on a dock by the lake. But Pinterest and hipster blogs have lied to me.

No sun hats, no road trips, and certainly no Brontë.

(Which is ridiculous because “reading for fun” is literally summer’s middle name.)

Nope. My summer has consisted of working full time, taking two full summer school courses, reading a historical novel and a handful of plays for next year, brainstorming performance ideas, finding monologues and prepping for fall auditions, and taking weekly voice lessons and fitness classes like are you kidding me.

So this summer has been far from relaxing. It’s been constantly going from one thing to another and stressing hard over the million things I feel like I have to do. I feel very overwhelmed all the time and I feel guilty when I’m not doing anything because I could be doing homework or hunting for plays. Which sounds dumb when I say it like that.

It’s just frustrating because I just came out of a really crazy and stressful year, and I’m about to begin what will probably be the busiest and most challenging year of my life. So this is my only time to relax, to binge some Netflix, and to just breathe. And I’m not doing those things.

(That’s a lie; I’ve watched probably more TV than I should. But my dad upped our internet plan, sue me.)

Don’t think I’m complaining. I’m not complaining. Okay I’m complaining a little. But I don’t have the right to. I am so flipping lucky to have a full time job, and I’m currently working at a day camp that I love to pieces. I will thank myself in the fall for taking these summer courses because they’ll lighten my crazy course load and make my life a thousand times easier. I’m incredibly fortunate to be in the program that I’m in, so in reality auditions and all this reading is great, as stressful and difficult as it is. And my booty will thank me for those fitness classes.

So in reality it isn’t all that bad. I’m enjoying all of the things I’m doing, I’m just not loving the time commitment. I just really want to marathon Zac Efron movies. Is that too much to ask? Although, I’m about to spend this entire weekend in Toronto with some pretty amazing friends, and even though I’ll probably spend a good chunk of time thinking of all the productive things I could be doing, I’ll really appreciate the break from life.

Okay now seriously I wasn’t kidding when I said I have a lot of homework I should be doing instead of writing this post so BYEEEE.


Accepting my status as “White Girl”


Okay, guys, time for #honestyhour. This has been nagging at me for quite a while now, and I think it’s finally time to come clean. I, Marryl (omitting last name because there are prowlers on the internet), am a White Girl.

I swear I think to myself/say out loud that I am a White Girl at least four times a week. So it isn’t like I’ve been unaware of it until now; believe me I accepted my fate a long time ago. I just feel that it is necessary to make a public statement on the internet for everyone to see, for my own benefit, and also to hopefully reach out to those who may be experiencing something similar.

If you’re confused as to what I mean by White Girl, let me break it down for you:

I like Starbucks more than I like my least favourite family member. In fact, I came up with the idea for this post while walking through the mall carrying a venti white mocha. And I can order these frothy beverages with the ease of being bilingual. I wear my Lululomon black leggings so often that they’re really just another layer of skin on my legs. I say a prayer whenever I almost drop my glass Lulu water bottle. All of my bras are Victoria’s Secret, or else Pink, even though I now have a scar from the kidney I had to sell to afford them. My iPhone5, henceforth known as My Child, is protected by a Kate Spade case, and if you asked me, “would you rather lose, your iPhone or your sanity?” I think we all know the only logical choice. Last summer I went to a Taylor Swift concert (whom I adore greatly) sporting Taylor curls and red lipstick, and definitely teared up at my favourite song because she really just gets me. I instagram my food and my manicure with my fave filters, and I partake in #selfiesunday at least once a month. (Protip: Bathrooms do provide the best selfie lighting.) I have spoken the words “I need to tweet that” more often than I would like to admit, and the other day I asked in earnest if by the pound symbol my friend meant the hashtag. I worship the god Nutella. Pitch Perfect was the bees knees. I swear by Pinterest. I own Uggs. And Toms. And a pink Bench jacket. I have a blog, for goodness sake.

Phew, so much off my chest. I feel much better.

The list goes on but I’ll stop there for the sake of aesthetics. Did I clarify what I mean by White Girl? Whether you call it a condition or a disease or possession or a stereotype, it is a basic as it gets and it is very, very real.

And don’t think you’re safe if you aren’t a literal caucasian female. White Girl can live in anyone. You could be a large African-American woman or a scrawny Indian boy and still exhibit White Girl qualities. Really, it’s just a coincidence that I’m a White Girl and also a white girl. It is a rather versatile stereotype that is not limited to its name so anyone is at risk of falling victim to its ways. Remember that the next time you say yes to whipped cream on your latté and wonder why you just shivered a little.

I feel the need to recognize some typical Whit Girl behaviours that I do not partake in. I almost never hashtag in earnest, minus the occasional #throwbackthursday. Nothing makes me roll my eyes harder than instagram pics weighed down with #selfie #girl #pretty #blonde #blueeyes #tannedskin #ears #eyebrows #spleen #snaggletooth. At the risk of sounding rude, I know you’re scraping for “likes” with all these popularly searched hashtags, and I don’t really see the long term benefit except for maybe some solid thumb muscle mass. You will also never see a Marilyn Monroe quote as the caption to my profile picture. Are you sure Monroe even said that? I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but “Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted, one moment, would you capture it or just let it slip?” wasn’t said by the blonde bombshell you think it was. And I absolutely 100% refuse to pronounce “OMG” as “oh-em-gee.” If you ever hear me say that, I give you full permission to rip out my voice box.

See, my condition isn’t that bad.

(Now I really don’t want to have to note that this post is resting on a strong foundation of sarcasm. But at the risk of backlash, I just want to clarify that I don’t mean to offend, whether it be racially or genderally — that’s not a word but it is for the sake of my point. I am not serious more often than I am serious. This is all for jokes, kids. Have some chill.)

I want to thank you all for supporting me as I open up about this. It is a strong reality in my life that I couldn’t keep to myself any longer. If you’re experiencing White Girl as well, I encourage you to be vocal about it. You’ll feel a lot better.

Only 107 more days til pumpkin spice lattés!