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.)