brought to you by 40 ounces of coffee

Hey, blog. It's been almost a month since I've typed out my neuroses on you (in you? for you?). But now that I've had an incredibly unhealthy amount of coffee, I will tell you everything that is currently on my mind.

1. You hipster boys with your fantasies over Asian hipster girls. Come on now, okay?

2. I can't believe the amount of authors, poets, philosophers, and so forth that I failed to discover while I was an undergraduate (an undergraduate for EIGHT years, mind you). Rilke, Nietzsche, Wittgenstein, Lorca, Munro, Chandler,... God. Deprived. At least I went through my Eastern philosophy phase (and still goin' strong!).

3. There's nothing like running into Professor Goshert while shoppin' for tubs of cottage cheese.

4. Pema Chödrön is amazing and should be read by all. You can tell she is a student of Chögyam Trungpa because of her, for a lack of a better word, "quirky" observations and ways of explaining certain concepts. Blah blah blah.

5. It's so refreshing to realize that the icky, bad, shameful, embarrassing, smelly, dark parts of me are okay. They are acceptable. They are teachers and they are the path. No more hiding from myself!

6. Go screw yourself, New Year's Eve. I mean that half jokingly. If thou art friends with me on the ever consuming Facebook, you will already know that I am stressed out about tomorrow (New Year's Eve). The parties, the socializing, the chance of awkward and uncomfortable run-ins... Maybe I should just pretend all day tomorrow that I am Pema Chödrön and see where that takes me. It sure would stop me from challenging everyone to just one more shot of Sailor Jerry's. Possessive? Apostrophe S? I feel sick. Thanks, coffee.

7. So people want me to write a novel? Gosh(ert). That is quite the undertaking. Not ready! Not ready! I won't ever be ready! But I will start tonight anyway.

8. I love you and I always will.

and sometimes lonely hearts they just get lonelier

And in my dream there was a plane crash. A small plane, a large crash. The pilot was still breathing, it was going to be okay. And I can't help but think of Rilo Kiley's song "Wires and Waves." And San Francisco was separated from California. It was in Chicago's place - so where did Chicago go? Perhaps it is now a northwestern state; or perhaps it is buried underneath Fog City, wind struggling to escape from beneath feet.

molasses and ashes

The Symbolic Dream of 2010:

It has almost all faded now, which is what usually happens to all of my dreams, no matter how intense they may be. But let me record the lingering fog (or rather, smoke...) anyway.

Our mutual friend (completely unnecessary side note, but there is a Charles Dickens book titled Mutual Friends - uh, nice try, Charlie, but it sounds pretty lame) threw a cigarette off his balcony. It created a fire - a fire that we knew, immediately, would eventually destroy everything, perhaps even us. My lover and I evacuated like molasses. We knew the danger, we knew the outcome, we knew the inevitable pain of staying, yet we were frozen in our comfort, preparing (or not) to be consumed.

And the destruction was total. And the windows were gone. And I woke without knowing if we became ashes to ashes or not.

baa

Dear Readers,

Most of us are black sheep, right?

Yeah.

My Love,

Meghan

not pessimistic

"Love is the answer, said the songs, and that's OK. It was OK, I supposed, as an answer. But no more than that. It was not a solution; it wasn't really even an answer, just a reply." -from Lorrie Moore's book A Gate at the Stairs

a journal entry from 13 1/2 years ago

I found one of the many, many journals (note: I would never call them diaries; they were strictly journals!) I obsessively wrote in when I was younger. Here is a pretty, well, lame entry. Enjoy or don't enjoy. I can not make your enjoyment decisions.

I have had weird (but meaningful) dreams. One, John Stockton came over to my house and we played basketball. Then he got ready for a date with my camp leader Joanne Mikelson. I said, "Oh! I know her! How did you meet her?" "She cleans houses and she was cleaning Gov. Leavitt's house," Stockton said. Weird, huh?

My other dream: I was at this contest thingy where you make nail polish. My color was a dark purple and called "Stayin' Alive." Dennis Rodman was there (I don't really like him at all) and he was behind me. I made a gagging sign and someone took a picture of me. I asked if Dennis Rodman saw me make fun of him and they said yes. I was scared of him now. He was walking up to the door and I hid. Someone was a Jazz fan, but they were sucking up to Rodman and (or was scared of him) said, "Oh... I just love the Bulls!" I stepped out of the shadow and said, "No! I love the Utah Jazz! They're the best - even if they came in 2nd - they're still the best!" End of dream. -Meghan

thoughts: i've got 'em

Grief - keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.

Joy is the antonym. Quite fitting, seeing as it's this particular joyous season and all.

But this grief is a quiet grief. A rupture of words and a landslide of confessions (and, uh, a tsunami of sorries? perhaps a tsunami of words beginning with silent Ts?) that strangely and perhaps contradictorily resulted in extreme gentleness and exposed hearts the next morning. There is a time for the craft of wall building, but now is not that time. Now is the time for taking a sledgehammer to the slowly built walls; the hollowness behind the Sheetrock will be okay. It is okay. It makes the tearing down process easier and the excitement of furnishing foreseeable.

I use a lot of abstract language. It kind of gets on my nerves. Anyway.

Behind these walls are chambers, waiting.

A night full of talking that hurts by Rumi

A night full of talking that hurts,
my worst held-back secrets. Everything
has to do with loving and not loving.
This night will pass.
Then we have work to do.

Talking about myself in both the first AND the third person... Can I do that?! Is Meghan allowed to do that?

I want so desperately to shake off whatever is on me that has made me feel a million miles away from Meg.

bell jar glasses

Ten minutes to get ready and leave - but here I am!

WRITING A BLOG ENTRY!

I want to have a good outlook on life and events and people and places and everything else in and on and around this planet. I forget what my friend Megan called her new outlook on like, but it had the word "bemused" in it. What was it again? I liked it. And I am going to like life again!

But of course, the coffee will wear off in a few hours (or minutes, as it seems to be doing lately) and then I'll be back to Sylvia Plath-ish lenses. Which may not be SO bad...

my glamorous existence, part 1

I lead a glamorous life. Let's take a look.

I sit on a pink window seat at 10:38pm and meditate to Native American flute music. I cry. I cry because it sounds so pure and I feel so impure, full of selfish desires, motivations, and actions. Then I blow my nose and it bleeds. Stuff that toilet paper up my nose. Okay. Good. Pretty. Mascara streaks down my face and bloody toilet paper jammed up my nostril. Yes.

Then I sit on the couch wrapped up in my puffy J. Lo-ish (J. Lo? is she still relevant? should I have used another, more current celeb?) coat. I read Alex Caldiero and look at my nails. My heart sinks when I remember how nice and long my nails were getting until I bit them all off earlier today out of anxiety. Now they snag and tear. I put down the book. I pick up the remote control.

I watch a rerun of The Hills and Fashion Police. I sit (well, half sit, half lie) there wearing my incredibly nerdy glasses (and not cool nerdy, just true blue geeked out), getting more and more brain dead by the minute, the second. But I don't give a shit. It's mind numbing, yes, and that's exactly what I wanted. My eye twitches. I'm probably tired. I start nervously chewing on my finger and then stop. Gross. That's not fashionable. I am such a fashion disaster right now. Sirens, police, arrest. Booked.

(Oh, and by the way, the bloody nose has stopped by now.) (And another thing; I use far too many parentheses. If I was the reader, I'd find it kinda fun at first, but then soon the novelty would wear off and it would be distracting and obnoxious.) (Good thing I am just the writer and not the reader, right?)

So then I, in my post reality television haze, decide to look at old pictures of old me. Or whomever (whoever? sigh.) that was. The disconnect is amazing, but not shocking. I lived that life? I dated that boy and then that boy and then that guy? And why so serious in all of the poor quality photos? Did I really think it was a good idea to write such telling, borderline risque captions? I have led so many double and triple lives. I was sucked into whirlpool after whirlpool. Gotta go through all the college phases, right? And these phases, photos, friends, lovers, hazes, pools - these broken pieces - want so badly to become a tragically beautiful, poetically perfect mosaic. But realistically they don't. They just get hastily swept up and tossed out, failing to even cast a shadow, they are that small.

bearbarebearbare with me

Oh shit. Is it "bare" or "bear"? Did you all just laugh at my big mistake(s)?

lava and diamonds

So which persona fits me the best? Hippie Meg? Buddha Meg? White Rapper Meg?

I joke. Sort of. I know how silly it is to "shop" for an identity. Sure, we all do it. We can't help but do it. But doesn't it seem that by now (you know, now that I'm past the age of 16) I would know "who I am"? And perhaps I do, way deep down there where the lava and diamonds flow. When I talk to others about my frequent and frustrating identity crises, I often get lectures and/or laughs. I know how ridiculous these dilemmas of mine seem to others. Hell, they are ridiculous to me. But they are also real. It is very difficult to explain because I am not quite sure what it is yet - I am just starting to figure this all out. And by "this" I mean "Borderline Personality Disorder." This particular disorder fits me like a nice lava and diamond (?) glove. Do not feel awkward or bad for me - I am actually somewhat elated. It is so refreshing to know that there is something out there that can explain why I feel/act certain ways. Oh no! I am attaching to another identity! Okay. Works for me right now.

Tomorrow: I will become Shopping Meg! Not. So not.

dust

Things get (much) better, but there are still the piles and piles of dust you forgot you swept under that convenient, but ultimately destructive, rug. There should have never been a rug there in the first place-- you know that. You both know that. The hardwood floor was gorgeous when bare, uncluttered.

But now you bare with it. On the bad days you say you can't bare it any longer. The two of you struggle to understand how each of you can be both the victim and the victimizer at the same time. Then you lazily remind your forgetful self that time does not exist and blah blah blah. But apparently it does, or else how would there be dust?

What you need now is a vacuum. The broom and rug were obviously lacking, so the quick fix would be a vacuum. Everything gets neatly sucked away and then stored into a closet along with the obnoxious rug. Celebrate! The rug is gone! Good riddance. Now let's sit back and proudly admire the hardwood floor, pretending so carefully that we don't see the scratches, scuff marks, and the sawdust sign of termites below.

Santas

"Never build your emotional life on the weaknesses of others." -George Santayana

At first I thought George Santayana was Carlos Santana, but then I realized George was a Spanish philosopher, not a Mexican rock guitarist. And then I thought of Santa, which made me think of Christmas presents, which made me realize I need to stop buying Giants World Series merchandise for myself so that I can buy holiday (PC) presents for one and all. I meant "PC" as in "politically correct," not "personal computer" or "Pacific coast," by the way. Anyway...

Yeah, so never build your emotional life on the weaknesses of others. Damn, Santayana, nice one. No sarcasm. It really is a great statement. I wish I could have heard this about, oh, a year and a half ago. Perhaps it would have saved me (and of course others) a lot of roller coaster rides. Sure, roller coasters are fun sometimes, but after awhile you just wanna ride around in the teacups. Know what I'm preachin', brother?

God. Never down an entire Rockstar. You will end up writing entries like this.

But really-- excellent advice from my dearly departed friend George.

not the cool kind of empty that buddhists always talk about

B
L
A
N
K

fill them in.

roses are red and now dead. thanks a lot, winter.

Sometimes I really want to post my poetry on my blog, but I am, admittedly, worried about someone stealing my words. Fixed mediums? Copyrights? Prosecution? Over my head, Jack. So I will refrain. You can steal these words, though. And you can steal my secret poems if you know them. But as for foggy pearls, you shall never be poem friendly.

peace! junk!

I've gots me a new/old blog. FOG AND PEARLS WILL NOT PERISH! NO, fog/pearlz is used for complainin' and contemplatin', but www.peaceandjunk.blogspot.com is for phat pics. Chex it outs!

bare

This has nothing to do with the rest of my post, but just to get it out of the way since I sincerely think about it a lot: Why is it that I have an intense I-need-to-brush-my-teeth-soon feeling whenever I finish (and sometimes before I finish) chewing gum? I don't get that feeling after eating virtually any type of food, even something like garlicky raw meat soaked in onion juice (mmm, I know), just when I chew gum. It is so unpleasant. So why don't I stop chewing gum? Well, I will once I get a Xanax prescription. Or once I break my jaw.

Okay, and now for something entirely different.

Days like today are delicate. There is an impersonal resignation about the grayness, a deep hollowness that is at the same time oddly comforting and obviously terrifying. Days like today solicit stabbing memories of various abandonments, betrayals, and ultimate loss. But in a quiet way. In a way that make them background ghosts, but ghosts nonetheless. The ghosts are there to spook- and they surely will- just in their sneaky specter way. They linger. They sometimes get lost in the distant fog or hide behind awkward lamp posts, yet their presence is sensed and almost sought. So what is there left to do on haunted days like today when you don't even cast a shadow? Is it too much or too little to embody a ghost of your own? A ghost of a girl who is merely looking for a warm corner to lie down and forget for just one more day.

'hood

Hello, 10:00. You should be 11:00. Daylight savings, you sneaky bastard.

Do you ever wonder what the exact moment was when you departed childhood and entered adulthood? Maybe you have already figured it out. Maybe you can pinpoint that moment, but I sure can't. When did I become 26? When did I stop being "girl" and start being "ma'am"? When did I suddenly start worrying about all different kinds of insurance, the job market, retirement, social security, assets, cholesterol, vitamins, supplements, marriage, taxes, and so on and so on and... so I miss being small. I miss being consumed by daydreams of what I will become; instead I feel anxiety of what I did not become.

I believe that this clinging to childhood has caused many complications in my adult life. It has confused me. I do not take responsibility for many things, I desire shelter from many things, and I deny myself of anything that will signal growth.

Okay, I am probably being a bit dramatic. Most days I am fine with adulthood and all it requires. Most days I am not this reflective about the loss of childhood. But today I am. Today I mourn.

to be honest, this isn't a great entry. it's not depressing or anything, just a bit boring. boredom is nirvana! is it?

Must get ready for work RIGHT NOW.

No time to write. Ah, but that's where I'm wrong.

I have all of November to write. And screw the whole "write a novel in a month" thing. I am going to write a poem (or two or seven) a day. That's where I'm comfortable (and oh so vulnerable, but in exciting ways). And a novel? My novel would just be poetry anyway. Poetry disguised as pulp.

I'm squeezing out all of the juice. Ninety-nine percent pure, fresh. (But also completely recycled.)

76%, Ian Thorpe. Nice.

monkey mind

I haven't felt impressed to write much lately (oh, aside from the occasional abstract melodramatic shiz). There is hardly anything I feel the need to express to others-- or even to myself. I am just living the 9 to 5 life (well, the 8 to 3 life), drinking my coffee, taking my meds, reading my New Yorker, making my dinner, changing my clothes, brave new world oh soma soma soma.

I need to shake things up a bit. Hang upside down. See the world from outside. Spend a night naked in the wilderness with nothing but a concoction of mustard and hot water to drink. In other words, I need to quit in order to begin.

begun; undone

It's as if I have been holding my breath for nearly two years in the middle of a crowded, windowless room with fluorescent lights at one end and dim bulbs at the other.

And the crowd is discussing swimming techniques, since they happen to be Olympic swimmers and know of nothing else but laps. I swim like a stone and reach for a brick.

But where are the windows? Oh yes. That's right.

I can hold my breath well, though. So perhaps I will survive the drowning.

Or so my pattern of thought has been month after month after...

I'm prepared for the flood. I receive the drought. How is one to survive the cracked earth?

things, briefly

Things I have grown to truly appreciate and genuinely like because of Jack:
*the San Francisco Giants
*rap music!!!
*backwards baseball caps (not on me, but on males, specifically Jack)
*sausage and pancake on a stick (NOT)

Things I have grown to truly appreciate less and genuinely like less just because I have gotten older (and slightly because of Jack):
*skinny jeans
*going to local concerts
*the gym (not like I ever LOVED it, but I am starting to fear going into the gym because of the noise)
*noise

<3 you

What is "her fog" anyway?

Who has been awful at being a consistent blogger?

Duh. It's me.

Why?

I'm guessing it has something to do with the volcano/tornado/tsunami of events/emotions/mistakes (mistakes that still serve a purpose, mind you, so aren't necessarily mistakes mistakes) that have occurred these past few weeks. They have all but sucked the life out of me.

But this won't be a sob pity sad complain post! I am actually feeling much better lately. I am hopeful, motivated, and slightly (ever-so-slightly) more confident. Oh yeah, I am still bat shit crazy at nighttime, though. But I am working on that (how? yeah, I don't know. going to bed and sleeping it off? that's not really working on it... more avoiding it...).

Okay, thoughts are scattered. My writing has been suffering. Much of what I say feels cliche and forced and vacant. And unsure. BUT MY WRITING HAS ALWAYS BEEN DOUBTFUL. That's just me. Uh... That's the way the cookie crumbles. Takes one to know one? I know you are, but what am... Never mind. Goodness, I need a cup of coffee.

To end this, I will tell you that I am trying to be much more responsive on the few blog comments I receive. I have already responded to a few! I also want to be a great friend. I want to reach out and listen and give. Take advantage of me, please! I am here for you!

<3

whoops, guess this is on facebook as well

If I'm so frightened of peacock feathers because of the whole "it looks like an eyeball" thing, then why the hell am I okay with potatoes and aspen tree trunks?

long-winded, short-lived

I miss the long, philosophically naive(?), heart-to-hearts.

The rooftops--ah--the rooftops.

pen to paper, please

Yesterday I spent the entire day at a writers' workshop with the authors Craig Childs and Amy Irvine. I shall not explain who they are because I am leaving that up to YOU. Wikipedia is only a click away.

The workshop was pretty good. There were only 12 of us, which was nice for the participants because it meant more attention from the authors, but it is also a bit depressing that only 12 people in the entire state of Utah (and surrounding states) decided to attend a workshop taught by two award winning authors. Sure, it cost a little bit of money, but for a six hour workshop, it was a good deal. I guess everyone else was too busy listening to Boyd K. Fudge Packer talk about how gay the gays are. Understandable.

(I apologize to those who were offended by my comment on President Packer. I also apologize to the gays who have to put up with this massive corporation oppressing them. Meg: Gettin' All Opinionated!)

Okay, I'll admit it: My dad "made" me go to the writers' workshop. Sure, I was excited to go, but I would have never made the effort to actually sign up for a workshop and pay for it. So I am a bit of a hypocrite. Amy Irvine pointed out that if you want to be a writer, you need to attend workshops and other opportunities that allow you to meet and socialize with other writers and that "force" you to write. She is right. So now I will write.

okay okay

I "caved in." I started taking my medication again.

I really wish I didn't have to be on it for a myriad reasons. And I feel like one day I won't have to be on it or on any kind of antidepressants. But considering my current situations and the constant noise in my brain, I believe I should stick with Wellbutrin a tad longer.

Tad. Wasn't there a movie called Dating Tad Hamilton or something? I just googled it and it turns out it is called Schindler's List. Oh wait, I just ask jeeved it and google was wrong. It is called Win a Date with Tad Hamilton. Neat.

So yeah. I'm doing better.

Lady Boohoo

Damn. I lost a follower. Eh.

So I have been pretty fucking sad lately. I don't think going off my medication was the best idea. I wish it could be much smoother, of course, but maybe I have to accept the fact that I may always need to be on an antidepressant.

It's not that I am "just sad." It's as if my brain is trapped inside of a closet and that closet is trapped inside of a sauna and that sauna is trapped inside the foggy city of San Francisco and that city of San Francisco is trapped inside of the Great Depression and that Great Depression is trapped inside of my brain which is locked inside of a drawer inside of a closet.

You know?

So that's how I feel. Or don't feel. Aren't you supposed to start "feeling" again when you go off of antidepressants? Aren't you supposed to awaken from some deep sleep and start seeing the world in color again? Aren't you supposed to suddenly be a creative genius and sexual genius and a genius who doesn't even know they're a genius because the real mark of a genius is being oblivious to the fact that they are, in fact, a genius? Because I am not feeling any of these things. The only things I do seem to feel is quick anger and frustration at the silliest things, like a certain vegan girl that usually only slightly frustrates me and insignificant grammatical errors.

And I'm always tired.

What do I do? I think I am on the verge of giving up-- giving up on a variety of people, things, ideas, and myself. And I don't really care.

FREAK FLAG!!!

I can't stop saying this phrase: LET YOUR FREAK FLAG FLY!

There are variations of it, too. "Am I freakin' you out with my freak flag?" "Let me freak you out with my flag!" "Freaking out with my freak flag flying!"

I don't know why I am saying this. Well, it's probably because I feel so freaky and free these days.

No more bad crazy pills for me. I am free.

(Jack has to deal with me proclaiming all of these... uh, proclamations... so he's a good sport. He also likes sports. A LOT.)

tightrope walking

The body and brain definitely know how to balance themselves out.

After days and days of stimulation, I feel the inevitable crash coming.

I am going to crash. I am going to be tired. I am no longer going to be wired. (And I will no longer rhyme.) I am going to snack on everything in sight. I will forget and stutter and shut my mouth for an extended period of time. I hope I don't become rude and snappy. But who knows. The brain will do what it needs to to restore balance.

So now is my turn. So now I must return balance to my soul. I have a peace somewhere inside of all of my pieces that is just waiting to be put together. And some pieces, like the ever-so-sought-after corner pieces, will be missing. But the core will be there; it has always been there.

What's left to do is cut. Cut through, cut out, cut down. Starting... tomorrow. Tonight I will find shortcuts instead.

yo, bitches

Plane Crash in C.

wonky

I sure went all wonky in my last post. I felt like I was 19 again or something. SoOoO dramatic. Loony bin.

(But then again, I shouldn't ignore those strong, fleeting feelings. I am sure they are trying to tell me something, I just need to listen.)

From now on I am not opening up to anyone. I am hiding away inside of myself and will smile whenever anyone says anything, no matter what.

Dramatic!

But serious. I am so frustrated.

this book is vegan and also really good

This recommendation may be getting old to a lot of you, but I don't care.

READ David James Duncan's The Brothers K.

Okay, so I don't want to build it up too much. I don't want to claim that it's my most favorite book of all effing time, because it's not. But it is still pretty damn amazing. Duncan is a writer's writer. He's like some crazy love child of David Foster Wallace, Thomas Pynchon, and J.D. Salinger. He is basically a literate hipster's wet dream.

The book is big. Almost 700 pages. And now you are thinking to yourself (or saying out loud if you are into saying things out loud), "Geez, BuddhaOremMeg, where will I find the time and/or attention span to read such a thick novel?" And I will say back to you (either in my head or out loud or through carrier pigeon), "Hey, man, listen: it ain't War and Peace. This moves quickly. It is actually fairly addictive. You will read this book the same way you would shoot heroin into your tired veins. The characters are superb!" And you will thank me.

Happy reading, loves!

written not today, but on aug. 7; however, typed today

Maybe this can be my refuge? This writing business, this busy-ness (no hyphen, I suppose), this journal, this pen, this exact moment of writing. I am currently experiencing full body chills. Dizzy spells. Dry spells in my attempts to read. The focus is there, but it's off doing something else and I must track it down. Does the hunt (less treasure, more point-and-shoot) begin with the pen? Am I, right now, in the process of hide and seek? I am, and I am simultaneously hiding and seeking. So I will search the corners, rummage through the drawers, peek into the freezer with a slight, ridiculous hope (it's always the last place looked, last because it is found and anytime it is found it becomes the last). I will claim that what I am looking for is solid, but you already know my claim is false-- and because of this, I am bashfully blushing-- I have been caught. But you can't see any of that because-- remember-- it's dark in here.

remembering to forget

And how do you recover?

Begin by not revisiting that day. Do not, under any circumstances, remember how that was the day you purchased a white bra, a black bra, and contemplated buying really ugly discount panties as a joke ha ha. He'll get a real kick out of that ha ha. If at all possible, push out of your mind the pleasant dress you were wearing and how your new white bra made the dress less pleasant and more va-voom. He told you you were "too good" for him. You laughed, you straddled, you caught him off guard. When you recall the smell of the library you went to with him that night, try to think of any other smell in the world, any other. Burnt popcorn, cheap cologne, your locker from junior high. Any scent is better than the last place the two of you were together, the place that smells like musty books and freshly vacuumed carpet. You were a little on edge that night, but try to forget that detail. Forget that you told the librarian, in your edgy way, that you still had eleven minutes until the library closed and that you planned on using at least ten of those minutes to continue reading your book. Which book? Don't ask.

You slip out of the library, you say your goodbyes, you go home.

Good evening, for the most part, but you can't wait to take off this irritating bra.

And now you are in your living room watching some late night junky show about nothing in particular. Or are you brainlessly and shamelessly Googling classmates from high school? Maybe you are just reading and waiting in your bed, alone, waiting for morning so you can wake up and continue sleeping through all that has transpired during the night. He acts differently in the morning. He doesn't kiss you right away. You make some jokes you think are pretty funny. He looks tired. You need to wash your hair. You say your goodbyes again. You can't stop saying them for the next 365 days. And so you try to forget.

tonight i like words

haciendas
voracious
indiscriminate
sputtering

caught

Looking at old pictures the other night reminded me (not that I needed reminding, though) of when I, to put this bluntly, ate less and less, exercised more and more, and got damn skinny. This was mostly during 2007 and a little bit into 2008. At the time I had no idea how thin I actually was, despite the fact that all of my clothes fit baggy and the veins in my arms were incredibly noticeable and enviable by needle users. Even after getting better (better as in healthier, heavier, and a little less obsessive), I still couldn't see what so many other people saw during that time-- that I was sick. I thought I looked great in those pictures and would get depressed that I couldn't fit into those teeny jeans anymore. Ah who cares if I now had a calmer, more peaceful mind that could actually think and be rational? Who cares if my skin regained color and my ass became an ass again (asses are good things, by the way)? But now I am beginning to see my bag-of-bones self as a separate entity. I don't know who that girl is and oh she looks so sad. Her head is too big for her body and her cheeks look sunken in. I want to simultaneously slap and hug her. But that doesn't mean I don't catch myself feeling jealous. Jealous of her concave stomach, her jutting hip bones, her knobby knees. Her lightness, her purity. Because she seems so ethereal. And she is. She is not quite touching the ground, she disappears silently, she has the "supernal happiness of a quiet death." It's these moments of awe and fascination that are more dangerous than anything else.

Look at these knees and these twig legs! But please overlook the outfit.

pretty incoherent, yes

Fillin' up time. Empty time! No, fill it up! Cut cut paste paste. Ten pages read here and there. Another cup of coffee, not for the road, but for the pages to be turned and the time to be turned into past time and my pastimes are not, sadly, baseball games and flag football, but refreshing pages on the screen and screening the calls I don't get and not getting called by this elusive inspiration. Come on, second cup, let the inspiration begin! Gun shot and they're off. Racing around my head, but only in circles. Going somewhere, even if that somewhere has already been gone. Gone? Is it gone? So fickle, inspiration. Fickle rhymes with pickle and that makes me mad that that's the only thing I can think of. I like when Cs and Ks are together. Unnecessary, sure, but they seem to like one another's company. The other day I made what one might call a "gaffe" and referred to Brave New World as Brave New Company. Who does that? And why? Why would I do such a thing? Huh. At least I did not call it Brave New Fickle Pickle. I sure do miss my brainchildren. Fill it up!

coffee ain't cuttin' it

Due to turning the ripe old age of 26, I no longer have insurance. The antidepressants I have been taking (Wellbutrin) cost me a mere $7.00 a month when comfortably insured; without that comfort, Wellbutrin costs $78.00. That's right, sugar plums-- a simple $71.00 more. What a bunch of crazy bull shiiiiii... I don't have any pills left, so I have had to stop cold tofurkey. Not pleasant in the slightest. Mostly I have felt suuuuper sluggish and a bit out-of-my-body-- like my soul is one step behind my body. Weird? Yeah. Oh, and I have also chewed my fingernails down to the quick. Neat! Here is a list of symptoms of Wellbutrin withdrawals. I suspect thou shalt not read the entire list, so I have made bold some of the symptoms I thought were the wackiest. You may just read the wacky ones if you wish. IF YOU WISH!!!

Wellbutrin Withdrawal Symptom List:
Anxiety
Dizziness
Fatigue
Muscle and joint pain
Jolting electric "zaps”
Tingling sensations
Vertigo
Gait disturbances
Restlessness
Tremors
Visual hallucinations
Headache
Insomnia
Nausea
Vomiting
Diarrhea
Blurred vision
Sweating
Fever
Abdominal discomfort
Aggression
Sleep disturbance and insomnia
Nightmares
Vivid dreams
Flu symptoms and general malaise
Anorexia, agitation
Irritability
Confusion
Memory and concentration difficulties
Chills and hot flashes
Crying spells
Suicidal thoughts
Lethargy
Weakness
Myalgia

solid remains

Currently

You are hanging by a string. You crave odd objects, not just food. A damp hand cloth folded neatly across your face, torn up bits of construction paper, rice cakes at midnight.

You are being strangled by your own omission. It's like you are trying to remember where you buried your feet in the sand, but can't walk around to find them. And you can't remember if the waves washed up these used cigarettes or if you smoked every last one of them out of a stagnant boredom (because there is such a thing as active, animated boredom).

But things are getting messy now. Your stage fright is becoming unbearable, the front row littered with matches, dropped programs soaked with gasoline. You are a little giddy, you admit it.

Presently

Products of wood combustion, dried bone fragments, compounds that remain, rituals. A love affair with the memory of the rapid oxidation of a material.

I think a plane just landed on my head.

A thing to ponder:

Why did I laugh at the summary of Madame Bovary? It's not a particulary funny or uplifting book. Yet for some reason it struck me as wacky. I am actually fairly excited to read it! Lovers! Financial ruin! Extravagence! Suicide! A laugh a minute, folks.

A thing to wonder:

"Wonderwall." Great song.

A thing:

Giraffes.

why do you need to know anything else except your ABCs?

When I went to the U of U waaay back in 2002, I would come home from class every day and watch an episode of Kindergarten, an HBO documentary following a, well, Kindergarten class in New York state. I fell in love.

To this day I am still in love with the show. I adore each of the children, who are so tragically no longer five and six years old, but so totally the bratty ages of 14 and 15. A part of me wishes to see the people they are today, but a larger part of me longs to freeze them in time and not have to think of them (or see them) inching towards adulthood, pimpled out and depressed.

kompletely krazy for cangaroos

things that drive me crazy:
*that spam in some Asian language that always leaves comments on my posts-- always gets my hopes up
*accidentally wearing patriotic colors on the fake 4th of July (today, the 5th)
*insomnia

things that drive me non-crazy:
*my ever growing Buddhist library
*newly discovered (to me) author Edith Nesbit
*almond milk

things that drive:
*a chariot
*a stagecoach
*a mule-drawn barge

3 June 2010

written while on my retreat:

Last day, want to write poems, could this be a poem? If you say so.

Sitting in the stupa in front of a gigantic Buddha with Western features. A man's man, but also a girl's girl. The Buddha is hollow and filled with blessing wrapped around incense and some prayers that are packaged to unintentionally resemble packages of Top Ramen. Was the Buddha a starving college student? I will stop joking, more sacred. (But laughter could be the most holy of all.)

Kept seeing Disney characters in the Stupa's marble floor during my ommm time. A bluebird from Cinderella and at first a cat (Cheshire?), but then the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. I swear. Interestingly enough, I saw the smallest (not likely, but at the moment), cutest (debatable), lightest grayest (sure, if I say so) bunny on my way up here. It hid from me, I should have followed it. Or maybe it raced (and beat) me up here.

Oh little bunny, what blessings have you offered?

I dedicated today to gentleness, specifically gentleness to myself. I struggle to feel okay with "just" focusing on myself, which is another reason I need to focus on myself. Gentleness breeds gentleness and bunnies breed constantly.

And what is my lineage? I'm not sure. My automatic response is, "Oh, probably Zen." But today I claimed my lineage to be the lineage of poets.

Allen Ginsberg, you are on my mind.

Emily, I recall the dream where you whispered to me.

Rumi, you romantic, ancient son-of-a-bitch (excuse me).

I asked for their blessings, for the blessing of inspiration and maybe something else.

Where is my hat? On the chair behind me. No hat in the Stupa-- I can respect that. So that means no pocket watch for you, bunny.

You will meditate indefinitely.

And so I keep writing without time or a cover for my head. Let's expand, like space, like mind. Oh, there's the mysterious bluebird. I keep mentioning the disappearing rabbit, but this bluebird stays hidden in the open.

Observant flight, static.

The bluebird's enneagram number is probably a five. Of course, a five (me) always sees the five in everyone else. Bluebird, care for some tea for exactly one hour? Then back to our castles, back to you acting like a clothespin for the ungrateful Cinder.

Her mopping could be her meditation, her scrubbing her savior (read that how you will).

Will today's cursive be full of the abstract? Or will the sun at noon crack like the hard boiled egg I should have had at breakfast?

Exactly.

a post about nickelback

I will not let the fact that it is 1:08am stop me from enjoying a snack. I am going to enjoy my sesame tamari organic rice cakes with sunflower seed butter and blackberries and almond milk, damnit! And you, Ed, cannot stop me! And yes, I do realize how uninteresting my middle-of-the-night-snack sounds, but it tastes so interesting! It tastes like sweetened cardboard and milk gone weird! My heaven.

please don't delete again... crossing fingers...

Well, damnit.

I just typed an incredibly long post and of course it got deleted.

Why am I in such a constant state of agitation this week? Last week I was full of equanimity. I finally felt good. At peace. Kind. Patient. Yadda yadda yadda. I was treating myself well. I was treating other people well. I didn't get upset in traffic. I could shop at a mall without getting distraught. I thought, "Yeah, this meditation thing has sure turned me into a new woman!" Buddha Meg.

Then this week happened. Nothing in particular happened, but my mood sure did a 180. That is math talk for "my mood is the opposite as what it was before." I get frustrated. I become easily upset by virtually nothing and then say things that are hurtful. It doesn't even feel like I am being "me," whoever that is. I feel out of control, frankly. But then again, I felt a bit "out of control" and not like myself during my week of equanimity, too. I felt a bit... fake. And almost a little too peaceful, if that is possible. But at least it was better than feeling like I want to key someone's car and punch a brick wall.

So what's the explanation for this sudden change? Could it be caffeine? Yeah, I think that contributes greatly to everything, actually. Maybe it was my Wendover trip that threw me off balance? Uh, could it be close to my time of the month? Well, no, so don't throw out the "oh, she's just PMSing" shiz. Was I (and am I still?) attached to that feeling of imperturbability that the moment it wasn't quite there I freaked out? Ai yi yi. I dunno. For now, I will seriously lay off of the caffeine and stay away from any brick walls.

there's no "me" in "hate." but there is "me" in "omelette."

Three highlights from my Colorado trip
1. spending time with my father
2. reconnecting with myself through writing
3. making a vow to work towards self-acceptance and self-love

I continue to see my father regularly and I write in my journal at least once a day, but have I kept my vow to honor and care for myself? Yes and no. But mostly yes. I still slip up, but I am starting to recognize when I slip up. I am starting to see the many, many times when I doubt myself, feel unnecessary guilt, or apologize for virtually nothing. I am beginning to see how my own self loathing affects the lives of those around me. The hard part is to not get down on myself for getting down on myself. Does that make sense? For example, I will feel guilty for feeling guilty. I will tell myself, "You are such a failure at self-love! I can't believe you can't even love yourself. You can't do anything right, can you?" Okay, so it's not always that dramatic, but close. Just ask Jack. He's had to put up with a lot of the crap I give myself. No, not "put up with," but rather "actively try to stop." I can tell he, along with others close to me, cares deeply about my happiness and well-being. And, well, damnit, so should I. Enough of being my own worst enemy and time to start being my own best friend. Yes, this sounds a tad self-helpy, but what's the big deal with that? Frankly, we can't help anyone else until we help ourselves. And am I going to help myself right now to a rice cake with almond butter spread on top? Eff yeah, man. Love you. And me.

next time they'll open the trunk to find a rattlesnake and a can of whoop ass

Some hoodlums who apparently love an outdated way to listen to music broke into my car sometime yesterday (or this morning???) and stole three CD cases from my trunk. It sucks, yes, but the CDs weren't really worth much. Of course, there are the handful of CDs that were mixes given to me by other people that I really hate to see gone, but overall it could have been worse. The thing I disliked the most is the creepy feeling of someone in my car, snooping around, and taking what's not theirs. That violated feeling, you know? But dearheart Jack cheered me up with a new CD wallet and a bajillion blank CDs. And a pack of gum. Take THAT, juvenile delinquent who is now listening to a bunch of scratched mixes I made four years ago! Hope you like a shit ton of Rilo Kiley.

barely an introduction

I am back from Colorado and had an amazing time. Since early Monday morning (June 7), I have been miserably sick. I am actually sitting up now and am somewhat motivated to do things (such as blog, color mandalas, and try to suppress a tidal wave of anxiety headed my way), but I still need to take it easy. I am not sure what ails me. Maybe the flu? A mix of food poisoning and dehydration? Bieber Fever? Anyway, you didn't come here to be bored with mopey sickness talk. You came here to hear all about my Buddhist retreat adventures, right?! Yeah! But maybe that will have to wait. I am startin' to feel all queasy and woozy again. A bath, not a blog, should cure (or at least curb) these feelings.

i'm okay

I will be in Colorado for the next seven days trying to find my (peace of) mind.

LOVE you.

and then there were some

I will never

eat dog
make light of celebrity deaths
trust men
feel like my extended family accepts or even likes me
be okay with my weight
read that book or that book or that book or...
not be tempted
leave college

I will

zone out
get coffee with you
sleep
attempt good cheer sporadically
remain hollow
grow my hair as long as my spiral staircase

regarding friends

I've been thinking a bit lately about past and present friends of mine. How we've lost touch, how we've kept it touch, how one of my friends once touched my eyeball, etc. Basically, there has been a lot of touching (not in that way, pervs). So here are a few lists, mostly for my own record.

Friends I Will Probably Stay In Contact With For The Rest Of My Life

Christopher Allman
Laura Eastin
Ashley "Gigi" Munns
Joscef Castor
Robert Steffen
Whitney Mower
Jennifer Reynolds

Friends I Will Probably Unfortunately Not See Or Talk To Very Often In The Future (And Currently Don't) For One Reason Or Another (But Not Because Of Bad Feelings)

Jeffrey Owens
David Moore

Friends I Regret Losing (Not That They Are Lost For Good, But, Well, You Know)

Soren Siebach
Karl Jorgensen
Matthew Gifford
Davey Ornegri
Ashleigh Brummer

Uninteresting post. It is very incomplete. I've unintentionally left people off of these lists. I suddenly need to go to the grocery store, though, so this will have to continue l8r. Or maybe not.

hate or appreciate, i'm just happy things are no longer fuzzy blobs

I have recently purchased some prescription glasses. I bought them quickly. Probably too quickly. They may be a little/lot too hipstery. Buuut... they allow me to see sans contacts so I will keep them. I hope you don't hate them, but you can if you want. Here I am wearing the glasses:

Here I am wearing them and acting like a zombie (which I actually did do a few times last night while getting used to the way everything appears to be in a fish bowl; fish bowl=zombie, I guess):

a non-depressing post, at last

I feel really, really great right now. It could be the swig of triple strength triple size Rockstar I just had, but I definitely think it's more than just that. I think it's me realizing (finally) (again) how much I am loved and "admired" by those I love and admire. I don't know why I put "admired" in quotes. Maybe I can't completely accept that someone(s) admire me in any way or shape (or form! never forget form!). So here is a jumbled, scattered, slightly nonconcrete list of things that are currently making me just so blithe (using the word "blithe" is evidence of a college degree... more on that in a minute):

*And that minute is now. Remember (or not) how I purposely failed a class this semester and then planned on retaking it in the fall? That is the only class I need for graduation, which kinda sucked that I didn't pass it the first time around, but eh. Buuut... today I got my f**king diploma on my doorstep. Apparently I have already graduated CUM LAUDE. Huh? I really really really think (and pretty much know) that the school made a mistake. Can they take back my degree, though? Yeah, I'm sure they can. So I will probably still retake the class in the fall. But who knows? I may actually be DONE with UVU. Whaaa??? Maybe they just wanna get rid of me. I've been there long enough. Eff you, literary theory. I need to buy a frame.

*My dad loves my poetry. It makes me happy. He has also said that I have opened his eyes to a new way of thinking (with my Buddhism). He is very interested in Buddhism because of me. This is beyond my comprehension. Very cool.

*My sister was so sweet today for going with me to the doctor's, waiting foooorever, and helping me to not faint and/or throw up when I was done. What a sweetheart.

*Speaking of sweethearts, I love my mom. She has such a wonderful innocence to her, yet she can tell the dirtiest jokes. She constantly surprises and delights me.

*Hi, Jack. I adore you.

*I have had many great friends throughout the years. Friends who are incredibly wise, hilarious, and wonderfully talented. They and the conversations I have had with them are priceless. For everything else there's Mastercard.

I could and should say more, but I want to answer some questions now on Formspring. Ask me anonymous or non-anonymous questions on Formspring, please! And have a sexy/studious night.

cliffs and cocktails

Oh van Gogh
let me be at eternity's gate with you
and open your brain
call you insane
evolve over the centuries
our expectancies
stigmatized
walking up to the peak
and then into the field
it won't happen here
but soon I'll exhume you
open your temporal lobe
watch it transform
into golden wheat

burdens far beyond the intransitive

My dad has been recommending a book to me for some time now. I found it the other day at a used bookstore and started reading it last night. It is one of the best books I have ever read. Granted, I haven't finished it yet, but even if the rest of the book is complete crap, it will still be one of my favorites. And I read a lot of books. AND I am pretty picky when it comes to claiming a book is a favorite. Are you ready to find out what this book is? I bet you are shaking with excitement. I bet you are barely breathing because you can't stand the suspense. Well, shake no more and start breathing again-- the book is Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried. It is about the Vietnam War and the people involved in the war. It gave me a new perspective on what it was like for the soldiers (my dad being one of those soldiers) and what they had to carry with them during and well after the war. Everyone has their own stories, their own pebbles, their own childhood dreams, their own tunnels. The Things They Carried does not romanticize or hide anything; it lays everything out and leaves me in tears. It's worth your time, so please pick it up.

Go ahead.

binding

So I am back from my first camping trip of the year.

I thought that it would be a trip that provide me with "signs" which would subsequently open my eyes to everything I have been blind to--to the things that matter, to the paths I should take, to the people I should hang on to and let go.

But instead it was overshadowed by incredibly intense, vivid, and dark dreams. If I was smarter, I would look at these dreams as the sign. OR if I was wiser, I would realize that it is pointless to rely on or look for signs. That there are no need for signs. But I can't let go of my mystical Mormon upbringing. Hell, I will still sometimes utter certain prayers/phrases when I am terrified. By the power of Jesus Christ...

Religious blog post will be postponed for later, no worries.

Anyway, I think my caffeine buzz is dying. I no longer have interest in writing, just sleeping. What was I trying to "get at" in this post? Should I confess? Do I tell the details of my delusion? Will it even matter? I had good feelings about her this morning, while still resting in the haze of the unconscious mind. I thought we might be friends. I thought we would be those two with that too-crazy-to-believe-past that would, in an odd way, solidify our closeness. I thought it might be nice.

And then the desert air (biting at nearly 6000 feet) slapped me awake and I sighed with the realization that, no, that's not what either of us want. But do we need it? Hell if I know. We are all so peculiar, particular, private; we paint our tragedies perfectly without ever knowing where our mediums came from. The emptiness of the desert can only be captured an infinite number of ways, you know.

Dear Me and You,

"Negative thoughts and emotions undermine the very causes of peace and happiness. In fact, when we think properly, it is totally illogical to seek happiness if we do nothing to restrain angry, spiteful, and malicious thoughts and emotions." --the Dalai Lama

Dear Beauty Myth,

I will not allow you to make me feel guilty for having a bowl of generic Cheerios at one in the A.M.
You're not welcome,
Meghan

soon i will be buying loads and loads of (pizza) dough with dough (aka money)

Following my old friend ("old" as in "friends for a long time," although I suppose to someone around the age of six, he is "old" as in "elderly") Christopher's advice, I just signed up for food stamps. Now I have to go in for an interview sometime soon. It was "hella" easy to apply, but I just hope I answered all of the questions correctly. I was not sure of some of the answers, so I just took a guess. But sometimes guesses get one sent to the slammer. I sure hope I don't get sent to the dog house. It would sure put a damper on my summer.

Hey, government-- I am an honest chick! Don't have me arrested! Arrest the real criminals! You know, like those who get all touchy feely!

things to do this summer

*bake and cook and eat what I bake and cook
*prevent osteoporosis
*run a marathon
*read a lot a lot a lot
*make zines
*make collages
*camp like crazy
*learn and do yoga
*paint our apartment
*meditate regularly
*become more compassionate
*learn to love myself

someday we'll meet beyond the time and the bars

My Senior Seminar class sure went out with a bang. Literally. We lit fireworks in the LA building and someone threw a roman candle through my eye. Oh, this didn't really happen. But Senior Seminar DID go out with a bang--a FIGURATIVE bang.

There's nothing like other people's successes to help highlight all of your failures.

People are moving on. Going to grad schools here, there, and abroad. Everyone looks pretty and chirpily builds up get-togethers I am not invited to and secrets I am not in on. And then there's that kid who is completely clueless and he brings up her name with such torturous enthusiasm. Do I know her? Yes, in fact, I DO know her. Imagine that. Small world.

And I guess that's the thing--it is a small world. We may take off with such momentum in a moment's time, each of us in different directions. But we'll all end up back together again in the end, in the ground, the world heavily sighing at the limited space.

feminine frosting

I don't think these cupcakes are embarrassing or funny or even necessarily erotic.

I just think they are really beautiful.

So... anyone willing to bake me vegan vagina cupcakes for my birthday?

wearing your false mask of independence and strength

I understand that vagueness does not equal excitingness, but this post needs to be vague. So it will be boring to some of you, but possibly not to those of you who are very aware of this and that.

So here are the thises and thats.

I have a friend of a friend who knows this one person who is incredibly manipulative and borderline (if not full blown) psychotic. Granted, I do not personally know this person that is a friend of a friend, but from this person's actions and words, I am confident enough to say that this person is all of these things (and more).

Why has this person been on my mind for the past half hour? I do not know. I think this person might be like that pink elephant-- "Don't think of a pink elephant!" And then that's all you can think about. One little mention or reminder of this person and then suddenly they are on my mind. But it doesn't last too long. Nor does it keep me up at night. And instead of being slightly nervous and afraid of this person, I am beginning to feel incredibly angry and annoyed.

I want to get to the point where I feel compassion and perhaps a bit of sympathy.

But I don't know about forgiveness. I know we have been told by various men in suits to forgive, forgive, forgive. But I don't think one needs to forgive another. I don't think not forgiving is a sign of weakness or of holding a grudge. I think it's just practical. Sometimes people do things that are unforgivable, but that doesn't mean we still can't show compassion. People suffer and do things to make them happy, whether or not that means hurting other people deeply along the way.

Simple as that.

So yes, I acknowledge that this person has suffered, just like everyone else. And yes, I understand that I need to start addressing certain... things. But I rest easy in the fact that I need not forgive and that I can finally start standing up for myself.

The compassion thing... a work in progress.

I hate to limit the expression of happiness, but...

I am tired of everyone talking about it. Manners, please. Or at least let's be considerate. (A lesson I have yet to learn myself.)

i remember comets all night long

I remember a final I had a few years ago in one of my poetry classes. All we had to do was memorize a poem and recite it in front of the class. Any poem, any length. I chose a poem by Richard Brautigan (of course) and stayed up all night with a friend memorizing it and, like, talkin' 'bout life. It was a fun night (what I can remember of it), but the sleeplessness caused me to freeze in front of the class, even though I knew the poem by heart and by bone and was not nervous. My brain was snoozin'. I was so embarrassed, but I eventually snapped out of it and finished reciting the poem flawlessly... or so I like to think. Anyway, here is the poem. Read it if you can make sense of shapes and can form those shapes into sounds and words and ultimately meaning.

"Comets"

There are comets
that flash through
our mouths wearing
the grace
of oceans and galaxies.

God knows,
we try to do the best
we can.

There are comets
connected to chemicals
that telescope
down our tongues
to burn out against
the air.

I know
we do.

There are comets
that laugh at us
from behind our teeth
wearing the clothes
of fish and birds.

We try.

womyn and myrmaeds

I go through phases, especially at this time in my life. You know, try out the whole Eastern religions thing, wear tye dye, carry around a dog eared copy of Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil, eat tofu, etc. Well, for a year or so, I have been into whatever is placed on the bookshelf at Borders under "Women's Studies."

I'm into women.

Or rather, I'm into what makes us tick. What we've been through, what we currently go through, and what we will face in the future. How we are suppressed, oppressed, and dressed.

I made the theme of last week's V all about "real" beauty. I tried going without makeup for the sake of an article. I questioned females about their outlook on looks. I ended up confused.

I thought I would be "liberated" during the making of this issue. I thought I would welcome my bare eyes. I thought the women I held as role models would live up to my expectations; instead they were just as self-conscious as the rest of us. I thought I knew better.

But we're stuck.

We describe ourselves constantly using negative adjectives. Stupid girl. Ugly nose. Fat thighs.

We subscribe to whatever current trend is out there. And who started this trend? Does this person have some kind of a badge or a degree that makes them "official"? Even if they were official, do we have to listen?

No, we don't. We don't have to place our self worth in a new wardrobe, a perfect hairdo, or whether or not we followed our diet that day.

We can still be good people even if we are wearing a potato sack, sporting oily hair, and eating a donut. In fact, there shouldn't even be an "even." We are good people with burlap dresses, greasy manes, and jelly-filled pastries.

So here I am, sitting at the computer, pumping my fist. But not really. The sad fact is, we are hardly close to believing in our abilities. We can't imagine that underneath all of this unnecessary insecurity lies a strong woman. We will still get hung up, tied down, and spun around. We won't know where or who we are, but we'll try our damndest to find it.

It won't be found in a tube, a package, a smaller dress size, or a shopping mall window.

And as obvious and cliche as this is going to sound, it will truly be found inside. But first we need to step outside.

Best of luck, and I love you.

current realizations

*I can making beeping smoke detectors stop beeping
*Hipsters are stuck up little self-absorbed snots. I always knew this, but am finally starting to really see it.
*My eyes need to breathe.
*The Universe will always balance itself out somehow.
*Everyone needs their toes.
*Middle parts aren't necessarily right for my face.

czech it out

I think I want to add more technology to my life. So I will. I have the blog Her World is Holy to remember what I am thankful for and I have Peace and Junk to remember what inspires me.

And then there's the defunct Her Soy and Beans, which may become un-defunct in the future.

And then there's this blabfest of a sob blog.

high on life, low on morals

Do you ever get really "high on life" and idealistic for a couple of days and then suddenly become hollow and apathetic? This has been happening to me more lately. To be honest, I need something to care about again. I need a cause. Is there something wrong with this? I tend to see other people who get fanatical and radical about political, religious, social, etc. issues and think that they aren't necessarily being "honest with themselves"; that they are taking up their cause(s) in order to mask some unresolved issue within their lives. But I don't know. I think if I start having a hobby or a strong belief in something, it might keep me out of this gloomy gus gloom I've been dwelling in lately.

Or perhaps it just needs to be damn spring already.

bell hooks THIS, punks.

I was watching a rerun of America's Next Top Model yesterday and the girls had to get their photo taken in ball gowns... IN A POOL. And the water in the pool was freezing cold and the girls were shivering and one girl almost got hypothermia and the pictures actually turned out really pretty, despite the cold.

Stay with me.

My life right now is kind of like this particular episode of America's Next Top Model. I'm in a pool, you guys. A metaphorical pool. And this metaphorical pool is full of metaphorical ice cold water. And for a meta moment, I am drowning. We all know I literally can't swim, but I try it anyway. I've been trying to swim in frigid water for awhile now. But I need to stop before I get metaphorical hypothermia/have a very real breakdown. I have limits. I need to realize and accept that fact.

And it helps that I have support in getting out of the water. It really helps.

There comes a point when I need to be okay with any decision that I feel is right even if I have no support, but for now this support is my life saver.

Speaking of Life Savers, do you think models allow themselves to eat Life Savers? Probably. They probably survive on coffee, cigarettes, Life Savers, and eight balls.

Speaking of eight balls, anyone wanna go to Ozz sometime? You know, that pool hall down in Provo. They now serve disgusting looking food.

Speaking of food, it's an issue.

Speaking of issues, I'm proud of this week's issue of The V.

Speaking of Vs, every woman should get hers checked out every year.

Speaking of years, where have they all gone?

don't let this man open this closet!

A true statement I just stated to Jack: "If I wasn't me, I would love me. But since I am me, I hate me."

Today Jack and I went to the mall. Weird, right? Yeah. Well, it was actually "hella" fun. Until it was just hell, which was towards the end of our shopping excursion when we found ourselves trapped in the closet with R. Kelly. Kidding. We found ourselves trapped in Hot Topic surrounded by Robert Pattinson's mug on shirts and 13-year-old kids going through multiple identity crises. But overall the mall was all it's cracked up to be-- aWeSoMe! And full of shit! And we actually bought some of that shit! Here is something that I purchased today with my hardly hard earned money:

My new hat doesn't look exactly like this, but close. I did not pull an Ashton. It is not a trucker hat. I love my new hat. I am going to create a Facebook page dedicated to my hat. I am also going to post a Myspace bulletin proclaiming my love for the hat (and my indifference towards the Chicago Cubs). I won't actually post a Myspace bulletin. That was just a casual joke, not really meant for laughs, but meant more for nostalgia's sake. I sincerely miss the old Myspace.

I also miss my mind. It's been gone for awhile now. It's disappearance might make me fail a class. And I might be okay with that. We'll see. But as for now, I will forget all of that and fall into the blissful abyss of sleep.

GO CUBS!!!

hungry hungry hippo and stimulated stimulated meg; also, hungry meg

Best song to listen to when mad and/or need empowerment: Yeah Yeah Yeah's "Black Tongue"

Best book to wallow in for awhile: duh, The Bell Jar

Best worst reaction to troubling news: screaming into a pillow and throwing my cell phone and emailing terrible words put together to form terrible sentences

Best idea: pudding snacks

Best worst idea: Rockstar energy drink

Best way to forgive and forget: you tell me

pleased as punch (punch stab stab)

Here's how the majority of my posts sound: "The weight of the world is pressing down on me. I am going to beat around the bush for a paragraph. I will sound like a cheap imitation of Sylvia Plath now. Here is a picture of a cat wearing a sailor hat. I love you guys."

Yeah. So here's another one of those posts. When you've found your niche, you stick with it.

I grew up with "no guile." Or so my mom says. I always secretly liked that about me. I am truly a nice person. I promise. But lately I have just felt hatred towards a particular person. For those of you "in the know," you probably have a pretty good idea as to whom I am talking about. Whom? Who? Whom cares. Anyway, I know there are meditations out there that could help me get over this hatred and into some kind of a compassionate mindset. But I don't care. I can't "go there" yet. I don't want to wallow in this hatred... Right? I shouldn't give this person the satisfaction of knowing how much they affect me. (I've been using a lot of contractions in this post. Oh god. I hate the word "contractions" for reasons not mentioned, but related to this person. Forget it.)

Okay, so forget it already, Meghan. But the funny thing is, I haven't even begun to know it yet. Sure, my mind thinks I know (note: most confusing sentence so far), but I probably don't. Does it want to know? Does it want to know that her eyes are his eyes? Does it want to know how often and when? Does it want to know the crummy details? Does it want to tell itself it's all okay and that it should be an adult and that it should be and should not be and should always be? I can't remember a time when I have called her a "she" and not an "it." It never happened. What if?

So I will smile for you. I will wear goofy glasses and press my nose to your ear and talk about the things that make you laugh. I will do everything I normally do, even more normally than usual. Normal normal normal. It's me, I'm happy I'm agreeable I'm tickled pink I can't complain.

My blog would prove otherwise, you might say.

But these aren't complaints. They are pleas. They are dead ends. They are masks waiting for some kind of expression.

Help me forget.

the anniversary of black holes

I took a two hour test today. It wasn't that bad. I think. Who knows. Nobody, not even God knows. In the entire universe, no one knows how I did on the test. I think my test just fell into a black hole.

Something poetic must be written about the significance of yesterday. I will title this poetic piece "The Anniversary" and I will write it upon a bathroom wall with blood, draw a bath, and relax. Just kidding. But I probably should write something about the one year anniversary of the highest high and the lowest low. Why does low seem to outweigh high? I don't know. Not even a black hole knows.

Hey, rain. Today you are okay. You are even welcomed.

Here is a picture of God walking into a black hole, otherwise known as "God's garage" or "God's garage of the future."

Could Terry be the next Dalai Lama? Or the next Dalai Wizard?

I was so nervous about my Buddhism midterm today. To be honest, I only started studying for it last night (and the studying wasn't very much), so I had every reason to be nervous. I thought to myself, "If you don't do well on this, you can never return to Buddhism because Buddhism doesn't want a failure." I know. Nutso. But (surprisingly) I did well on the final. It might have just been luck, though. I got "easy" questions, such as "What is karma?" and something about artificial insemination. I could tell you what the "answers" are, but I am really anxious to start reading...

...Terry Pratchett. I am 24 pages into The Color of Magic and, uh, I'm actually really enjoying it. Who would have guessed I would like a cheesy humorous fantasy novel? Not that I need to justify it, but I will just say that it is a total escape and, well, despite my Buddhist inclination towards seeing reality, escapism is refreshing sometimes. Besides, even fantasy is reality in Buddhism. Or at least according to my questionable scribbled class notes.

Baking banana bread right now and it feels so good.

Oh, and smells good, too. And will hopefully taste num num as well.

I'll save a slice or two for you.

moderation no more

I make muffins at 1:08am just so I can lick out the bowl.

I should be celebrating 12 months, but instead I am mourning 7 and fearing 5.

Did you know I don't like the number 5 for some reason? When I was younger and more of a "savant," I used to associate the number 5 with Hawkeye Pierce from MASH. I don't hate Hawkeye, though. In fact, I find him kind of sexy.

Although I currently own at least four copies of The Bell Jar, I bought yet another copy tonight. One of those days/years, you know? The new copy's font is a little bothersome. It looks like it belongs in a chick lit, not in a novel about a depressive chick.

My html skills go only so far.

I lack compassion lately. For everything and everyone, especially myself. I am apathetic. For example, I used to care about saving the planet or whatevs, but right now I have about three unnecessary lights on and tonight I threw away cardboard that could have totally been recycled. Oh, and trash? I rarely pick it up anymore. Sorry, Iron Eyes Cody.

this is probably a bit... i dunno-- MUCH-- but i want these kids

boner city

An idea for a poem is brewing in my head. It has to do with plums and cauterization.

But not boners. At least I don't think so.

sitting in an elephant tree

The past few days:

*Thank you, Diane di Prima.
*I just got a coffee for a refill price and it TOTALLY WASN'T A REFILL. I should have been honest. But do honest people ever get coffee refill prices? Not a chance in hell!
*Speaking of chances in hell, to many people, this wouldn't have lasted-- not a chance in hell. But it has. So far. Does it continue? Heaven only knows.
*But I think I know.
*I just don't want to admit it.
*"You say I choose sadness, that it never once has chosen me. Maybe you're right."
*I'm scared.
*It's an emotion I feel often.
*Such a pretty day.
*Not a sentence.

calories killories can'tstandories goawayories oreos

My eating disorder is starting to creep back into my life. Not like it ever really left or anything, but I find myself lately wanting to exercise to excess and feeling guilty if I only get in an hour of exercise a day. I keep snacking, even when not hungry and then feel guilty about it. I forget what constitutes as a "real meal" and feel guilty if I eat less than four hours after my last "meal." I write strict meal plans and then feel guilty if I stray even a tiny bit from the meal plans. And yes, I do feel fat in these jeans.

Another red flag is that I would rather exercise when I feel like I have eaten too much than do pretty much anything else in the world. Hang out with friends? Not if I had an extra popsicle after dinner. Get some very important homework done? Only if I ate 1500 calories that day and went to the gym. Relax and read a book? Hey, I can read a book on the elliptical.

I am not going to offer some kind of solution to these problems in this post. Because I don't know what the solution is. I just wanna be normal. (But these obsessions could be the "norm," right? Scary.)

old diary entry, now new blog post. imagine that. don't imagine it too much, though.

Somebody distantly related wrote us tonight.

Our blood reaching out, connected. What is blood anyway and how can we claim it as our own? Our family used to eat at a restaurant called "The Claim Jumper."

Oh! Slipped my mind.

Eye of the needle, threadbare.

Threadbare-- long word for something so diminishing. Wants to hold on a little bit longer?

What are the things I am holding on to?

Want to sleep so I can wake up and eat faster (do we eat at the same time if we sleep or if we don't sleep?).

We all sleep alone.

I've started a HAPPY blog

and you can find it at herworldisholy.blogspot.com.

Cheers.

knees and chains... Nietzsche?

Personal statements. What a joke.

How do I sum up my entire college experience (eight years! let's try and make it ten!) in a two page, double spaced paper? Here's how: I fill it with weird jokes about sitting behind potted plants and use phrases such as "metaphorical potassium." Yeah, this statement is about as personal as it gets (what?).

Enough about personal shmersonal statements... Let's talk about the past! No, let's not. Let's bury the past instead! No, let's not. Then what the hell do we do with the past? Leave it in the past? I do not know, honeys. Honies? Honeys. I do not know. Is the past really a "dead end" like you say it is? Or is it just that scab on your knee that you really shouldn't pick at because then it will never heal, but you can't stop picking at it because it's, well, there (and you must admit that you kind of like the pain)?

Is this what the past is? A scab on my knee? But the past was so bad that I think it left me without a knee. Yeah, it wasn't an oops-I-scraped-my-knee incident. Oh no-- it was most definitely an oops-my-entire-knee-just-exploded-and-now-I-have-this-gaping-hole-where-my-knee-used-to-be incident. And how do you recover from something so painful (and unexplainable) as an exploding knee?

Maybe you don't. Maybe you accept that you won't. Maybe you don't move on, but move in a different direction with the past tied to your leg. Maybe you run around trees and bushes and mountains, trying to tangle up the past so that it eventually snaps and releases you from its strings. You'll forget about the strings, most likely, but you'll always have your phantom knee.

And you'll smile outwardly, saying it's okay.

I love Jack. I just want everyone to know. He is my jackpot.

Damn. I mean, darn. I forgot what I was going to blog about. But I am going to continue typing in hopes I remember. Something will come out of this, right? Hmmm.

I didn't know Dave Iba was going to be a dentist. Dr. Iba: The Movie: Based on the book written by Dr. Iba: A Memoir.

I will just copy/paste my Facebook status right now: There's something beautiful and refreshing about normalcy.

Typical Meghan behavior is to change my mind, my style, my life plan, and everything else constantly. Stability is sought, but rarely found.

(Side note: It's weird when people pronounce "associates" as "assoshiates.")

Normalcy. It's time for me to embrace it. I don't have to save the planet. I don't have to live up to an unrealistic ideal. Basically, I don't have to hold my breath.

Cooking breakfast in my underwear on a Sunday morning with the sun shining through a slightly grimy window is the kind of holy holy holy I want want want.

And I can have have have it.

I might even make some tea and wear a bracelet.

(Imagine Dr. Iba extracting your molars.)

analyze this

Someone I love "diagnosed" me with something last night, which, after reading the symptoms, makes me wonder what this person actually knows about me. It doesn't seem like they know anything about me, but they do. So who knows who? Who knows.

But seriously, I was an empathetic child who could definitely pick up on social cues and read body language. I wasn't late learning to use a fork. I could understand sarcasm. I never used the word "beckon" over the word "call." And if I had any "unusual facial expressions," it was because I was goofing off and not because I had/still have a syndrome.

Really.

But I still stand by my own self diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder. For the most part. Again-- who knows? I have decided I am done with self diagnosing and labeling and pinpointing. Ready for a fairly cheesy line? Okay, here it is: I am not a disorder or a syndrome; I am Meghan. In fact, I am not even Meghan. I am flesh and bones and a karmic stream.

And this karmic stream wants to try out happiness for awhile. Just try it out. I don't even have to be happy yet. I can pretend because pretending is better than waking up with puffy eyes... unless by "puffy eyes" I mean "a million dollars," then it is definitely better to wake up with a million dollars.

feel free to tell me exactly what i should do with my life

Dear Life Plan,
Will you quit changing so drastically on me? You are so wishy washy at times. I think we need to start seeing other people. Wait, that doesn't make sense! You know what else doesn't make sense? The fact that I am again entertaining the idea of becoming an elementary school teacher.

I know.
Yours Doubtfully,
Meghan, I think

and this is what wakes me up

walking the golden backroads, a young girl reached her hands into a puddle and showed me the mud on her palms. barely able to contain her pure pleasure, she radiated and spoke to me with intoxication. i could not understand, so i just said "hello" and "messy hands." i loved her then as i love my previous, tender self. the moment was raw, the moment was holy, the moment captured eternity (next to the dragonflies).

i hate you, don't leave me, and etc.

I must begin this post with a clarification: Although I am a college girl who likes the movie Girl, Interrupted and books such as The Bell Jar, I am not basing my following feelings on trying to live up to some melodramatic cliche of "depressed white girl poet in her twenties." Or maybe I am? I can say with surety that many times I do not know who it is that inhabits my body. But I feel fairly certain about the (bold) claim I am about to make...

I have Borderline Personality Disorder.

Right? I mean, there is a danger (and an odd sort of satisfaction) in self-diagnosing. We could be using the supposed disease as an excuse for behavior. We could be biased, not being able to see things from an outside perspective. We could be wrong.

Yet I feel so right about this diagnosis. And who says a paid professional has to be the one to label me? Okay okay okay-- I have issues with labeling in the first place. But sometimes things need a label in order to be understood and worked with in this world. I know myself better than most people know me, and by labeling myself as someone with BPD, I feel... Less lonely. Less misunderstood. There is actually a name for this personal instability. More importantly, there are solutions.

Granted, I am not sure what the "solutions" are yet. I am guessing they are the same solutions that are given to every other mental illness-- therapy and pills. And fresh air, exercise, fruits and veggies, yadda yadda yadda. Okay, fine. I accept. All I am missing is the therapy. Oh, and the money for therapy. But maybe I'll figure all of that out later. For now, I just want to read more about BPD, discuss it with others, write, think, meditate, stop myself from doing anything too impulsive, write, and maintain healthy relationships with those people in my life.

And honestly, I will probably buy Borderline Personality Disorder for Dummies tonight at, appropriately enough, Borders.

Deep breath.

i suppose being ingnored is better than being slapped in the face with a slice of raw bacon

Isn't it common courtesy to acknowledge someone's girlfriend if you are hugging and talking to their boyfriend?

Yeah, just remember that the next time, anonymous girl.

perplexed; an eclipse

a blender brought out the beast in me today.
sounds funny.
but it's not.
it's scary.
the real world doesn't scare me.
it's me that scares me.
and apostrophes.
and catastrophes.
but not trophies.
if i could get a trophy,
any trophy in the entire universe,
it would be
"the universe's nicest person."
i would graciously and modestly accept,
then turn around, melt it down,
trade the gold in for cash,
and give the money to endangered species,
or kids with nothing on their mind
but rain for water, for survival.
i'm not going to win that trophy
anytime soon.
or ever.
so i throw my shoes off instead
and walk to the border
with my sailor
hand in heavy hand.
(the tide pulled the moon down
and it landed in my lap.
i'm landlocked, dear moon,
and you will never see your reflection
again.)

move along, nothing to read, just keep on moving

I am writing this to write. To try and jump start my brain. JUMP is an incredibly odd word. Jump. juMp. JUmP. jUmP. Is that even a real word? Is there such a thing as "real words"? All of this is arbitrary. ("Jump" no longer looks strange to me. Just a regular word, nothin' special, nothin' to see or read here, folks.)

My plan for today was to get super silly stimulated and write a paper for my theory class. HA. The first part happened, but the latter is pretty much a failure. So far. It's just an incredibly difficult class for me with an insane amount of writing that makes my mind and nerves and sense of self worth shake. And the caffeine doesn't help with the shaking, surprise surprise.

Speaking of sarcastic surprises, who knew that stimulants = eating disorder for me? Huh. I never knew that. OH WAIT. Yes, I did. Sarcasm. I forgot how to use it. Now I am more confused than when I started. What do these words mean? Exactly. No one knows. Or they do know. Or it doesn't matter? Jabberwocky?

Hey, real world. You scare me.

hormonal

I appreciate you. I really do. I love you, in fact. Thank you for thinking of me.

They say your enemies are your best teachers. Patience. And they are right. Go ahead and knock me down. You deserve an entire apple tree for what you've given to me.

Eff those people who get, like, 15 blog comments in two hours or less. Eff them straight to... MY HEART. What does that even mean? It's sloppy writing, that's what it means.

Quantum theory. You knock me out.

You know what else knocks me out? Tylenol PM. It knocks me out so hard that it's kind of scary. Right after I take it, I begin to have trouble breathing. WHAT?!? I am serious. I get scared. Is sudden sleep worth it? Count sheep instead, Meg.

Oh yeah. I almost forgot. Remember how three adults got punished unfairly/"made an example of" today because of very meaningful tattoos? That suxxxxxxxxxx. That sucks my metaphorical balls.

Ewww.

i know i am "not my past," but...

past boyfriends had this to say about me... it's a tad discouraging...

"i know you are feeling distant and detached, and that makes me want to call you more, and text you more, and email you more, and just be around you more. which i feel is pushing you away more, which makes me want to interact with you even more because i like you so much. all this is frustrating and I really don't want to bug you in any way. if you need space or distance will you tell me?"

"i think you recall that one of the biggest problems early in our relationship, or at least as i saw it, was communication."

"i have always thought you very smart, and that has been part of the frustration. i knew there was so much more than i was getting access to. i think you will recall me having said that at times before when getting frustrated. so i am sorry if i misrepresented you in that way. because, although you are inaccessible in many ways, i have always found you to be smart."

"i SO called it! you ARE alone thinking sad thoughts! no! meg!"

"i am scared that you don’t like me as much as before! and that makes me want to cry all day."

sorry.

I

I need to quit wasting energy on the situation.

I need to stop starting every sentence with "I."

I need to start thinking of others.

I will drive to New Mexico and sit in the desert.

I am a good person.

I will rediscover.

I am not my past.

Or my future.

I am my now.

I will be honest.

I will hurt everyone no matter what.

I can help somebody.

I should help myself.

I will be okay because I want to be okay.

I will stop accidentally deleting my posts and having to rewrite them again, poorly.

Thank you, and may you find your own peace.

the boss is coming over for dinner! fix him some curry!

When I grow up I am going to write a curry cookbook called Sometimes I Get Curried Away with Curry. And the foreward will be written by Ann Curry. Or Richard Gere.

science vs. romance

I read what I dreaded tonight and was, surprisingly, not as affected as I thought I would be.

I had to leave the room, though. I thought I would break down. I went into the bathroom, locked the door, turned on the fan, and sat (fully clothed) in the bathtub. I forced a few tears.

Then I stopped and sat, lethargic, looking at the hair in the drain.

I have, as they say, become quite comfortably numb.

This is good in the short term. It allows me to have a night sans puffy eyes. In the long term, however, this could be bad news. I don't know, though. Maybe it's not this way. Maybe I am just naturally getting over things. And what am I getting over exactly? The answer could either be a relief or a heartbreak. I don't know the answer yet.

And right now I am going to live my life being okay with not knowing the answers, not knowing the outcomes. August wasn't the beginning of my unanswered questions. Rather, it brought my questions to the forefront of my mind. But these kinds of questions take time to marinade. The future is undecided and that's just the way it has always been.

And if she looks like you, then she looks like you. It's science.

(The numbness is my friend at this point and solitude seems more and more inviting. Do I let these feelings continue or do I try and put a stop to them? Again, I'm okay with not knowing at this point. But I do know the answer to at least one question. Do I deserve to be happy? Yes, I do. So I will be.)

tonight

Enya makes me both so happy and so sad. Geeeeez, man.

I really want everyone to know I ain't doin' this whole vegan thing for trendy reasons. I have felt so passionate about animal rights since I was a young girl. I was a vegetarian for a long time and I toyed around with veganism in the past. I have never been "perfect" during these times, but it's about time I let other people and myself know how serious I am about this. I believe in something, so I should stick with it.

In other news, I purchased a marvelous backpack today at DI for two marvelous dollars. Here is a picture:

I don't care if everyone in the world hates my backpack. I love it and that's all that matters. I also love you.