Featured Writer of The Week: Bianca Scarlato

Yet again, I’m privileged enough to have another feature writer on MyCompNotebook. I met Bianca while interning at MTV FORA, and after I made mini pumpkin pies, she decided to befriend me. Bianca sent me this while I was shopping for cake mix at Dollarama (glamorous) and after reading the first few lines I decided to sit down in a corner, and read the rest to myself. Then I read it again. Everything just immediately resonated with me, so I asked her if I could feature it on my blog.

Although somebody else wrote it, it felt like an internal monologue was happening. For example, Cher’s monologue in Clueless when she was walking around Rodeo drive, succumbing to the realization that she was in fact falling in love with Josh.

But I despite my love of plaid, I’m still Clueless. Which is healthy. It’s a sign that we’re not supposed to have our shit together all the time, and despite the fact that people think they know what’s best for us, they don’t. Only we can have these moments of self reflection, but we can also choose who we let inside our crowded conscious.

Ladies and Gents, Bianca Scarlato


I don’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t think I ever will. I want so many things. I set so many goals for myself; for my days, years, life. How do you know if something you want is something that you really need?
I feel like I’m comfortable. But do I want to be comfortable? Does comfort mean safety? Is safety boring? Is boring necessary?
When I’m laying in bed at night staring at the ceiling wishing there was a warm body next to me that I can cling to, I’m also wishing I was in a different time zone, somewhere far away, alone and awake.
I’ve mastered the art of deception. I tell myself I shouldn’t more than anymore. I tell myself I can’t. I tell myself I can.
Why do I believe that the things I want aren’t the things I need?
I’ve gotten so good at holding back that it’s become second nature.
Everything comes with precautions and consequences. Everything affects everything. And holding everything together means that love and living have to suffer. Happiness has to suffer. Sadness has to suffer. When did feeling become so wrong? Maybe I’m wrong about myself. About everything. Maybe I’m lost. Maybe I need a stranger to roll down their window and ask me if I need directions.
I’m hitch hiking towards nothing. Towards self satisfaction that doesn’t exist. I’m looking for opinions and answers everywhere except for my fucking heart. What I want and what I need are so influenced by what’s right and what’s wrong that I’ve lost track of what’s important. I’ve been ending sentences with question marks because I’m afraid of commitment.
And all really want in this stupid analogy about life, is for the stranger that’s going to roll down their window and guide me back to the real world, to be me. 


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