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I never tumblr anymore because I put all my creativity into my Euro journal.

Here are 5 things going on with me:

-My boyfriend and I signed a lease to our first place together and I am !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. (That is happiness and elation and all of the above).

-I am working 7 days a week, and mostly ok with it.

-I only talk about how to decorate our new home and I think Ryan is going to abandon me.

-I am still wearing the same clothes I traveled for 10 weeks in, and I want to burn everything.

-Last night, I had wine for the first time since Paris and today I feel like a slug. 

Oh! One more thing:

I can’t stop thinking about balloon tattoos!!!!!!!!!!!



Let us.

Let us be whole.
Racing across a continent like the vast vacuum of seafoam.
Let us be whole.
I will sink into your heart, floating elegantly like a child in the Dead Sea. Feeling no weight other than than the decompression of salty relief.
Let us be whole.
So that I can dive into the body of water made by bed sheets and body language.
Let us be whole.
So that you can trace our absence with your fingers across the gorges of my two toned foreign skin.
Let us be whole.
Let me kiss you like the first time I tasted red wine.
Let me love you like the first spring bite of a ripe fig.
Let me tumble into your body as if I was a graceful tide. Let us be whole.




My life is a bundle of questions that go something like this: “how much can I work?” “How much can I save?” “Where can I cut corners?”

Saving to go traveling is a lot more stressful than I remembered, and sometimes I think I am forgetting to actually enjoy the fact that I have a ticket to Europe, and that this is really happening. 

Beyond my anxiety and OCD to save, I took my rare and rainy evening off to listen to Bon Iver in my kitchen, prep meals for the week, and remember what I am really grateful for. 

#1 my rad new tattoo 

#2 the wonderfully bearded, open eared and equally as open hearted, loving man lying next to me. 






Words sent to me from my boyfriend on a night apart.

On the quiet fluorescent train ride home alone
The mere hours we spend apart are better described as days
The infatuation has blinded and blurred all sense of time
It isn’t that I haven’t seen you in forever
It’s that any time apart equates to an eternity
Time without you is simply a layover
The waiting for the next stop on this relationship itinerary
The people and places and time passing all blend into a wet cement mixture that we kick our feet out of when we reunite and reignite
This incredible thing we call love.




Lately, I’ve learned the power of what it really means to be loved, and adored, and admired, and respected, and cared for. It feels nothing short of empowering, and exciting.

It is important to fall asleep with someone who asks you, voice steady under the sheets, what are the 3 words that describe the very inches of your feelings. And it is very important to wake up to someone who tells you they wouldn’t have it any other way. 

I just want to travel all the continents, and take all the polaroids, and write all the poetry. With you and for you. 




A man and his (girlfriend’s roommate’s) dog. 

I love my polaroids! 

A man and his (girlfriend’s roommate’s) dog. 

I love my polaroids! 



love, blurred. 

love, blurred. 



this time it’s different

I should be doing my homework,

I should be changing over my laundry.

I should be doing my homework.

But it’s a Friday night, and I am not waiting tables,

instead I am sitting in a barely lit room, writing another trail of words about you.

And I can’t stop thinking about yesterday.

Sitting on my bed, the afternoon overcast lighting us up with a drowsy need for romance.

We kissed for as long as our lips would let us.

You were like the safest, warmest, hammock.  

I should be doing my homework.

But I am stuck on last night. Crooked in a bath tub with you. I am vulnerable, you are happy. 

The bathroom is laced with smoke, and you look impossibly and vivaciously content. The world becomes a kaleidoscope of everything you are. Everything I am. A mosaic of five months into a firework of the most simple kind of utopia. 

And I can’t believe that you are mine. 

We are naked in the bath on a Thursday night, we don’t talk much, and there is no where else we could dream of being. I don’t remember ever being this serene. 

This is what love is like with you.

I should be doing my homework. 

This time it’s different. I could write it in all my poems, I could tell all my girlfriends, speaking too fast so that I don’t miss the story about the time you brought me flowers when I was sick.

"But this time it’s different."

The way you look at me scares me. There is so much love in those caramel eyes they could gulp me up. 

I am in awe that someone could love me enough to have it radiate from their eyeballs. 

I wonder if you can tell that the way my stomach folds during sex gives me the worst kind of anxiety. 

I am in awe that after more beers than I’d probably like to know, you sway towards me with such adoration that I feel like my heart might burst out of my throat for you. 

This time it’s different. 

I am in awe that we are drunk on a Monday. My back is in your chest. We are not at our type of place and your arms laced around my ribcage feel like the womb. Your beard tastes like whiskey. You tell me you want to be with me for as long as we are this happy. You tell me you want to see the world with me. I believe you. 

This time it’s different. 

My kitchen feels cold every morning that we are not deciding how to make our eggs. 

Thank you for walking the dog last night.

This time it’s so different. 





I have been in a number of relationships. Most of them toxic, suffocating, and detrimental to my mental health, to my bank account, and to my overall well-being. Usually not all of those things at once, but at some point, whether they started off happy, or ended in plea, since the age of 16 I have engaged in these consistent webs of lovers that make me feel like shit. 

I have a number of girlfriends and male friends that admire my strength to break free from these binding relationships and start fresh. Sometimes I do that in different continents, completely alone, and sometimes I do that while writing ridiculous amounts of poetry.

I also have a number of friends that scold me for inevitably engaging in another impossibly romantic endevour with another man who seems perfect but once again, leaves me gutted. This is my achiiles heal-love and my inability to run away from it. I am a romantic. I am a lover. I am a poet. And I feel the strongest when when I have broken free from love, or when I am coddling it endlessly. My adult life has been a vicious cycle of loving, and hurting and that spell has been on repeat for the better part of seven years. Seven very long and arduous years. 

Finally, I feel that I have dipped my calloused feet into a healthy, loving, and beautiful relationship. I have thought this before mind you, but in the past, I was used, I was condescended, and I was suffocated. I was not Brittany Tiplady, writer, dancer, and dreamer. I was Brittany Tiplady who cares nauseatingly for her boyfriend, and all of his whims and fuck my own because being a girlfriend means being an obedient house pet. Right? 

And so, after ending a long distance pseudo marriage with a man I truly believed would be my husband someday, I had a lot of reflecting to do. And by reflecting I mean I needed to re-learn what it means to be a woman, what it means to be me, and what it means to be a partner in a healthy relationship that suits both my lifestyle and that of my partner. It was a long road that beat the shit out of my self-esteem, and after talking emphatically to all the right women and all the right men, and being encouraged by all the right friends, I rebuilt myself into the woman I want to be. The Brittany Tiplady that is a strong and confident 23 year old human being finishing her degree, hustling three jobs, struggling with a shopping addiction, planning a year long trip to Europe, writing impossible amounts of poetry, and loving a new partner that has fuelled all of those things, and more. Instead of taking them away from me. 

I did not know that being with a man, in a healthy way, was supposed to encourage all the things I dreamt of and then encouraged me to dream a little more. I did not know that my wants and dreams and wishes, were not supposed to be suppressed or entirely sacrificed. They were supposed to be encouraged. They were supposed to be the reason why someone loved me. I didn’t realize that I shouldn’t be loved because I gave up everything I wanted for that person. But that I should be loved, because having my own goals and ambitions, and keeping them, is all the more sexy, and all the more beneficial to my partner and to the beauty that is honing a personal life and personal goals and getting to stay up all night sharing them with your lover.

I still struggle everyday with keeping my identity and staying strong in myself, and most importantly with my self image, but I feel exceptionally lucky to have someone sleeping next to me, that helps me do that. Early in the year, I had beers with a very important male friend in my life who lives in New York and was visiting for the holidays. It was his first time seeing me post-pseudo marriage break-up and I was feeling mightier than ever. He told me, that without realizing it, I had really lost myself in that relationship. And I finally had my traveling, loving, writing, self back. I think it was that conversation that kept me on the hike back to my self discovery, self empowerment, and self worth.

And I feel really good to finally be getting there.




counting all the beautiful things.

My bills are out of control,

and I am barely pulling in enough money to break even.

But I have intense plans to travel,

handfuls of creativity, 

a lovely roof over my head,

and an amazing man that makes me feel 8 feet tall and overwhelmingly, exceedingly, and powerfully loved and admired.

So, I can not help but wake up feeling exceptionally grateful all the damn time. 




Let me count the ways.

I’ve tried to count the reasons that I love you.

Arranging the red, blue, and yellow M&M’s so that I could

colour code the way you make my spine shake all its leaves.

So that I could make sense of why my heart, even after it rots, and breaks, and bleeds, always find it’s way back again.

I have loved many times before,

but this time I am not gutted.

I am not barren.

I am not penniless.

I am not stale.

And I know that I have said this so many times, I could go blind: but this time it’s different. 

I think I love you because you do not put hot sauce on your food before you offer me a bite.

Because you know my favourite kind of chocolate, even when I didn’t.

Because you ears are endless tunnels of listening. Of nodding. Of relentless understanding.

Because your voice, late at night against the pillow soothes me like chamomile tea.

Because you know just how to fuck me. 

Gentle and strong.

Because you always like my hair, and you tell me that I look great, and late at night, when I am completely vulnerable before you, and every bruise of every man who once broke my heart, is lit up only by the street lamps peaking through my windows, you trace my body with your perfect hands and you tell me that I am the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. 

I think I love you because you taste like poetry.

Because you are poetry. 

Because you write me little speckles of poetry that are more like little speckles of your heartstrings woven into words. 

And I don’t know how I ended up here yet again.

But every time you roll over in the middle of the night and grab me tighter-I think to myself that I’ve never felt more ignited. That I have never felt more wanted.

More worshipped.

And maybe it was the way you looked at me at dinner-like I was the only woman in the city that could ramble aimlessly about child acting and family quarrels. 

Or maybe it was when you grabbed my hand and stroked the branches of my fingers when we both knew that that talk was about exactly about us.

Perhaps it was the time we were drunk and in bed on a Tuesday, and everything about the week, and the world, and my accumulating bills, and whether or not I was going to make rent, went entirely still, and I just wanted to taste the wine on your tongue for the 10th time that hour. 

Maybe I love you because I linger every time I have the slightest chance to hear the pebbles in your voice. Or at the slightest chance that you will catch my eye, and the world will shrink into the scope of your gaze, and my knees will tingle, and my pelvis becomes fluid, and my heart does somersaults, and jumping jacks and back flips. 

I don’t know how I ended up here again. 

But I do know, that if lovers were bodies of water, we would be the greatest of lakes. 




bedtime Nirvana

Waking up to you feels like being held in the cocoon

of a gentle storm,

I sleep with such stimulated serenity. 

We dream like spinning tops, forever revolving

only stopping to breath when our eyes awake

like sail boats cruising through tranquil waters.

I look at you and I see so many stories.

I often wish that we could sail with such

ease forever. That the seas would never part

and the revolution of our cycle together would spin

until we were too dizzy to know differently.

I bit into you, even though you were forbidden.

The bites are endless, and the nectar of everything

that is you tastes like the Nirvana of contentment. 

Your arms, the cornucopia of nourishment, I float.

Across the stream of our muddy waters

we are buoyant in our divinity. 




There was a time

when I looked at you

and I saw two children playing in the sand,

wrinkled hands conjoined,

I saw pregnant bellies

and a beach wedding,

I saw yellowed photo albums

and endless days in bed.

But on that highway with you,

illuminated only by tiny red lights,

and the weight of your tears falling

heavily on my arm,

I watched every vision I had of us, fade into the

exit signs. 

We passed them by, one by one.

And I knew.

We were never cryptic and we were never scarce.

But we were bold and we were beautiful,

And our love was as sturdy as mountains,

until I decided that instead, I needed travel across them.




My life in this past month has been a whirlwind

of change and transformation and I am both weary

and strong.

I feel as if I could take on the world better than any

warrior ever could. And yet my pallet of multi-facetted emotions 

are becoming swirled into one colour that is grim and unidentifiable. 

I am finding absolute serenity in solitude and the idea and fantasy of stepping on a plane entirely alone.

And yet I am still yearning for men. And I am hungry for love. I am thirsty for lips on my neck and hands on my chest. And that thirst seems to be unquenchable. Unattainable. 


Why do I find myself at the utmost peace when I am being coddled by the pheromones of a man?

It is not malicious and it is certainly not without contempt or care, it is  my inner instinct that pours out of me and possesses my heart and mind as one. 




It is not and it is.

I used to think life is too short to not tell the people you love that you love them.
But maybe that word is tossed around like hockey pucks. Always crashing into walls in the end.

So I decided not to tell you that I love you, but to tell you that you are bigger than the Great Lakes. You are the first drop of water in the morning. The first trip alone on a plane. You are the most persistent hangover, and the most satisfying nap. You are déjà vu. You are the surprise post card in the mail, and neatly wrapped presents. Both open and mysterious. You are chapped lips and clean hair.

I have had my heart broken approximately five times. And I’ve been in love about six. And throughout my travels of being beaten and bruised I have learned one thing:

Love is not a feeling. Love is not way of living and it is not a state of mind.

It is every body of water that soaks up the whole world. And I am just a tug boat on the Pacific.