When your life starts to fall apart, bit by bit, what do you do?

Stick by your guns.

In a literal manner this makes sense; not only are they threatening and a useful defensive weapon but they complete that image.

I'm a badass.

Stick by my figurative guns. Those things I've considered 'right.' Your goals, your moral compass. That voice in your head that tells you what you want. That certain Psychologist's pyramid of needs. No scratch that, I was never good at Psychology.

Scherbatsky's pyramid of needs.

I was never really in synch with what other people considered normal anyway.

That's why Marshall mocks me; I have no emotions. I can't show love.

Well, hey I'm sorry that I wasn't brought up in some backwards town where your family all love one another so freaking much it's sickening.

My dreams are filled with rainbows and unicorns, too. We all live in houses made of candy and no harm can come to us there.

I can spin a story, I can spin a lie.

Lily thinks that she can spot one a mile away. Little miss perfect. I've never done anything wrong in my life.

Hypocrite.

She's got one up on me: "I've only ever slept with one person in my life, and that's my husband."

I'm sorry that that's not me. And that you're always wondering, what if…? What if it were more…What if there's someone better out there.

Hate yourself for settling for the first one that came along. Kill yourself a little on the inside, regretting never breaking it off because it was so hard seeing him hurt.

So think about what defines yourself: your character, your past, your beliefs. Has it all changed, is it too late to change?

There's that person who always makes me question it.

Ted.

I keep falling back into this repetitive cycle. But what is it, what makes me do it? It's been established that there's no future there.

It was me.

His eyes will always reflect the heartbreak that I caused, the hope that I'll change into the thing that he wants.

It's that look, always the look. I'm going to end up alone… and it's all because of you.

I don't feel guilty. I don't know why I'm elevated onto some kind of pedestal. I've done nothing to deserve the tag.

You've got to do all you can to make a convincing argument against those thoughts in your head, the thoughts that tell you that you want something else.

I've run too many times.

Between parents, between cities, jobs, guys, friends. You change from ultimate tomboy to girly teen popstar. Move from Vancouver to Toronto, to New York, to Japan, Paris, Argentina.

And at the end of it all you're still the same girl seeking your father's approval – cutting your hair and binding your breasts, putting on a hockey jersey, slamming against the glass and feeling the warm blood rushing into your mouth and hoping that he saw you take that hit.

It takes you a while to find a balance, and you think you like it when you finally do.

Because I'm not girly, and I'm not a male – no matter how much I was destined to be. I am successful. I am Robin Scherbatsky and there's only one of me.

But you get older. Things change.

You think that you love someone enough to make a change, a sacrifice but it turns around and slaps you hard in the face.

I hit the glass hard. The blood rushes into my mouth, metallic and warm. The people on the other side are startled.

But there's no pain. It's just like it's always been.

Am I getting soft; thinking that I wanted that? Did I – Do I want what everyone else seems to want- A slice of normalcy, a relationship, a marriage, children, retirement.

I'm not getting any younger.

There's a face in front of mine, the other side of the glass.

The face isn't startled, surprised, shocked.

Sure. Certain, in fact. It smirks.

I know this face and it's different from the others. Their barbs sting, the judges hurt. This one has always remained simple, superficial. He knows what it feels like to be on the other side of the glass, with me.

Barney.

He thinks that I don't know what it's like to feel like he does; his complete mistrust for everyone around him, the fear that at any moment a steady, a sure thing will leave him.

So he stays the same. He thinks that he has to.

I recognise the respect that he has for me; he knows that I've done the same thing – not for other people, for myself.

I'm not stupid. I know he's not, really.

Things just keep moving on forward. He still looks at me like he always has, maybe a part of him has always loved me, I still see it in his face. It's there in all its subtlety.

This. Doesn't change anything.

Nothing. He agrees before taking my face gently in his hands and kissing me with a tantalizing pressure.

We go back to the bar – smiling Marshall, judging Lily, lonely, longing Ted.

And everything's still the same.

Because I'm Robin Scherbatsky, a smoking hot, scotch swilling, gun toting, badass New Yorker. And I'm not going to change for anyone.

I push myself up against the glass, fourteen years old, realising that my father wouldn't have seen nor cared about the blood coming from my mouth. My head reeling from the hit, skating furiously on the ice. Seeking.

I kick the skates out from the boy who showed no mercy and give him a well-rounded punch in the face. He should know; you can't treat girls in that manner, and certainly not me.

I'm sitting by myself in the penalty box, smiling. There's nowhere else I'd rather be.