Friday, December 28, 2012


People talk about making lifestyle changes first before medication. And usually I would agree with them wholeheartedly. But what happens when the depression wipes out any and all concentration, motivation, and desire? A cup of coffee and some pep pills can only flow through my bloodstream for so long until they wear off and I'm left an anxious pile of passivity. In other words, forcing myself to get up and take those first steps to becoming productive is next to impossible. I wish more people would sympathize with and understand this. Instead, I feel as if I come across as "weak" and "lazy" for turning to prescription drugs. "They aren't a crutch, Meghan, they are a last resort." No, that's where you are wrong and insensitive. They are a crutch and they are not a last resort.

That being said, I am still conflicted. I spent a good decade of my life on antidepressants and am still dissecting those years. Were they years that were lived in a haze or would I have been in a haze without my medication? There is virtually no way to know since the way it happened is the only way I know. Perhaps the one thing that nags at me the most is that I took these pills during my formative years. My late teens/early twenties was spent medicated, a period of time when I was also trying to develop an identity and "come into my own." Did the medication interfere with that development? Am I left standing at the doorway to my thirties still unsure of who I am?

Maybe this is why I continue to write on my blog and in my journal. I write to uncover and discover. I write to meet myself. Hello, Meghan. Who are you?

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

return to sender

I wonder if he realizes what a labyrinth he is. I actually wonder this. I sit in my mother's house next to the window that looks out to a church I abandoned years ago and wonder. His purity is unmarked; I wish he knew that.

The snow continues to fall, covering up the tracks we left on the path earlier this year.

(I will leave this in a nearly empty wine bottle. Look for it or else it will look for you.)


I am deeply appreciative of the comments and concern I received from my last post. I do not want anyone to think that I disregarded what they said; I just don't quite know how to respond.

I want to get help, but with limited income I do not know where to turn. I don't want to put all of that emotional baggage on any of my family members/friends. That's what therapists are for, right? Maybe one of you can hurry and become a licensed psychologist and then give me your service for a very discounted price. "Give me your service"? More like GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER. More like I WALKED IN THE GUTTER FOR AT LEAST 40 MINUTES TODAY, BUT HAD NO IDEA IT WAS EVEN THE GUTTER BECAUSE EVERYTHING WAS COVERED IN A BLANKET OF SNOW AND A SHEET OF ICE AND A TWIN BED OF DESPERATION. Wait.

But seriously, wait for me. I will come around. I am worth the wait, good things come to those who wait, a mind is a terrible thing to wait (?), the body is willing but the heart is waiting, waiting for the storm to pass while passed out in the gutter.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

same old story

I wish I could remember who I used to be.

I used to chew, swallow, and enjoy meals. I would let everything digest and do what what it needed to do (you know, give me nutrients and energy and such). I allowed. I rejoiced. I did not even think to write blog posts about it. (Back then we had no blogs! We were Internet-free! Imagine that!) The act of consuming did not consume my thoughts. Or at least I think that's how it used to be. Like I said, I can barely remember.

I wish to be blunt about this and not abstract: My eating disorder is ruining my life. I promise I am not being melodramatic. It has ravaged my health and my heart and has left me surrounded with obsessions, not friendships. I push away people and potentially life-channging opportunities in order to make time for my eating disorder and everything that comes with it. It takes up all of my mental, physical, and emotional energy. I have none left.

I don't know where to go from here.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012


What if I'm still slightly in love with you (and you and you)? You (and you and you) have moved on and have found embraces elsewhere. Or maybe you haven't moved on. Maybe your thoughts and words are not focused on moving, but rather staying with the stagnant and watching with wondering eyes. Your attention to what others move past unaware is why I still cling to you or the idea of you or the idea of the idea of you and you are a labyrinth. Did you already know this? You are simultaneously a meditation and a maze into madness. Keep your eye on the edges and ledges that passively surround you; who knows what will fall?

I am quietly feeling the shape of your bones from thousands of miles away.

Monday, December 10, 2012

on the body

If you are a fan of quietly crying into your pillow right before you fall asleep, then you should definitely read Jeanette Winterson's Written on the Body at bedtime. It will do the trick. I know from very recent personal experience. (Really though, that book is a language lover's wet dream. I thank Megan for reigniting my Winterson obsession.)

Let it be known that this post does not have any kind of structure! Just thoughts! All of my posts are just thoughts! We are just thoughts and forgotten punchlines and Baberaham Lincolns! I'm trying to pass time, that's all.

Maybe most of you did not know this, but my dream of dreams is to pursue art. Visual arts. Painting. I do not tell many people that I paint. Why is that? Because I have never felt authentic. It doesn't feel like something I "do"; rather, it is something I am. It is an extension of my psyche more than a physical act. Isn't that the purest form of authenticity? So why do I still feel like a fraud?

Where do I go when the snow inside of me starts to melt? I am used to bundling up, but now it's time for the unraveling before I suffocate and drown.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

feeding my inner sylvia

I dread the routine, but I also crave it like a drug.

I am addicted to tastes and rhythms and attention. I am addicted to the tangible and physical and the transitory and metaphysical. I am obsessed with connection and disconnection simultaneously. I hate the messiness of life, but I will defend that same messiness until the day I die.

And death? Maybe that's the universal phobia and pheromone. We are repelled and attracted to death, caught up in cycles.

I feel detached. A large part of me -- or maybe just small fragments that create empty space -- is left in the past, perhaps five or so years ago. Maybe seven, maybe six. Point is, I am separated and floating between and through things, events, places, and people without touching, without absorbing.

I have mastered the art of being the observer. It is a luxurious and deeply lonely position to be in.

My lifeline has become various screens through which I can filter and control. It is a sterile landscape inside my mind, a world devoid of loyal fingerprints. (Fingerprints will always single out and identify another being, simply due to the one-of-a-kind crevices and valleys and ridges of the skin.)

I want to be held just so I can practice arching my back and escaping the grasp.

Someone imitating a zen master once told me that freedom is found in the restraint.

Restraint from what? I'd rather have a solitary moon in the vast pool-of-a-sky than a trapped bulb under a shade.

Saturday, December 8, 2012


I miss myself.

But the HILARIOUS thing is that I am not quite sure I've ever known myself. How can I miss someone I've never met?

The shortened days and this old winter coat I seem to be living in offer a sort of protection from everything I do not wish to confront. It is easier than I imagined it would be to live within the imagination. It's a labyrinth inside my mind (minus the muppets and David Bowie) (add in a couple of black holes).

Confessions have become easier and less scandalous to me. I will tell you anything, just ask. I will still bury my head in the sand, sure, but only because I like the way the waves feel.

Beauty lies just beyond our grasp.

Friday, December 7, 2012

butterflies in my coffee

And then suddenly it's, like, BOOM -- coffee. Coffee and Mountain Dew, man. Good effing morning. I'm still a tired mother effer, but at least I am a buzzed mother effer. I will take buzzed over black any day. Black coffee, that is, not black the race. I sometimes wish I was black.

Everyone!!! I do not clearly remember writing the above paragraph! I fuzzily remember it, but not clearly. I remember once calling a past love of mine "Fuzz Face." It was endearing.

Speaking of love... No, let's not. I spoke too soon about it in my last post and I may have not been entirely honest. I was not honest with myself. There are probably a select few who make my stomach butterflies come alive (gross?). And it's awful! It is awful because, duh, who wants to get into a relationship? I will be bold right now and say that all relationships end up in sadness or jealousy or misunderstandings or uncomfortable comfort. Okay, maybe I stirred in some pessimism with my coffee-n-mountain-dew this morning... Or maybe I am just JADED. God. Have I really turned into one of those unbearable people? Perhaps.

There probably is not a "solution" to this "problem." And "why" do I "keep" "using" so "many" quotation "marks"? Because they are there to use. I don't need to always explain my choices.

I will take a cue from an episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show (that I may have never seen) and begin the process of learning to love myself in order to one day fully love another person selflessly. How do I go about this? I can start by taking myself out for a decent cup of coffee. This instant coffee shit is shit.

Monday, December 3, 2012

seventy-four seconds too long

I cancel plans.

I postpone.

Sometimes I even make up excuses, although most of the time I try to be as honest as possible.

I guess it's just that I have an enjoyable time entertaining myself alone in my room. I can either be doing that or I can be forcing small talk in a crowded cafe sipping on coffee I can't afford. I choose the former.

That sounds harsh. Maybe I am exhausted from work? Maybe I am grumpy because I have that dreaded winter cold sneaking into my throat and ears? And there's even the possibility that maybe I am simply tired of searching for outside sources to complete whatever I think is lacking. (Note to self: Nothing is lacking. Nothing is everything, everything is nothing. Also: Go eat a sandwich.)

Here's what I do (and do not) want to say (rather, type) (enough with the parentheses) (you are becoming a caricature of yourself, sweet Meg): I do not like any particular person romantically. Well, I have tiny crushes here and there that last anywhere from 74 seconds to a fortnight. But very, very, very rarely do they go beyond the two week mark. Yes, I build you up in my mind. We all do that with one another. Yes, I plan our entire life together and imagine kids and dogs and vacations to forests and the Eastern states. Yes, we lie in the same bed and you brush your teeth while I take a shower. We stand in line together at the grocery store. We argue over the price of something we'll inevitably forget about once we get into the car. And you'll drive. And I'll wish you would have opened the door for me, but I'll be silent about it. Let's watch that documentary tonight, you suggest. I comply. Someday we'll grow old and ugly and rest our bodies next to each other in a city cemetery. And then the two weeks (or minute and fourteen seconds) are up and I am back on OkCupid searching for another fix.

Now what I really want to say is I'm sorry.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

invisible lines define

How is it that I can be so sure of something one day and then quite literally overnight I am left feeling lost and confused?

If I was a super hero, my super power would be invisibility. I'd be invisible and watch others without getting involved. I wish to observe. I want to soak in a person and their vulnerabilities, but from a distance. This, I have come to find out, is impossible. There is no way to experience another being without surrendering.

But maybe right now I don't want to surrender. Maybe it's okay for me to stay inside my fortress. I can change my mind countless times; I would just rather, for right now, do it alone.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

say (grilled) cheese (sandwich)

Today my love of photography bloomed! Bloomberg! Michael! That John Travolta movie! A cow's favorite pastime is going to the moo-vies! Pastime is not spelled how it should be spelled! Train of thought! Train tracks. Trax. Every single day.

As I was about to say before my train of thoughts got derailed, I have a sudden intense (in tents! camping! ping pong! fun game!) interest in photography. I think much of it has to do with sitting on a train for forty minutes a day and daydreaming out the window. Sure, I bring books with me to read, but I 100% of the time end up looking out the window, entranced by shapes and patterns and the empty spaces. And sometimes I take pictures.

My favorite photographers of the moment are two of my dearest friends -- Megan and my father. They both view the world in, for lack of a better word, abstract ways. They notice things I don't notice and I am grateful and delighted when they point these things out to me, whether directly or through their photos. I hope they never stop shooting. (Just Shoot Me! Television! Teletubbies! Remember the purple one that held a purse? I once purchased a fake Louis Vuitton purse! Shhh! Don't tell anyone! I'm hungry!)

So what I'm trying to say is that maybe I'll ask Santa Buddha Jesus for a nice camera this Christmas. I haven't been great this year, but I've been good enough.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Tad and T. rex

I have been such a grumpysaurus lately. And I promise you that there is absolutely no better word to use than "grumpysaurus." Okay, there are probably a dozen times a million better words to use. And I promise you that there is such a thing as a dozen times a million. The answer is 12,000,000, goofballs. ("I'll take 12 million goofballs, sir. No, I don't need them gift wrapped today, but thanks for asking.")

Back to the grumpy dinosaur: Why the scowl, Ms. Meghan? You got me. Can I use the excuse that it's simply "that time of the month"? Nope. Nope, I cannot because I haven't had that time-of-the-month for several, several months. Goddammit, I'm not only grumpy, I'm also a Debbie Downer. Okay, dinosaurs. Concentrate. Maybe it's that time of the year? You know, when life hands you 12,000,000 holidays (well, 2) in the span of just a few weeks? The older I get, the harder holidays become. Is it because being an adult means consistent existential crises? Reevaluating everything and everyone in ones life? Being piss poor and alone and sexually frustrated? Sure, sure, sure. That sounds about right (except for the sexually frustrated part, at least for me -- ONLY because I'm fairly asexual these days (no, seriously) and don't care (really)).

This holiday season might be a tad rougher for me. ("Tad Rougher" sounds like a porn name.) Nothing incredibly terrible has happened, knock on wood. ("Knock on Wood" sounds like a porn flick staring Tad Rougher.) It's just those damn transitions. ("Did anyone here order a pizza?" asks Tad Rougher, who is also the pool boy.) Moving back and forth between my new home in Salt Lake and my old home in Orem, while always missing my childhood home in Pleasant Grove and searching for a permanent home (where that is, I'll never know) is emotionally exhausting. The various marriages and divorces also add to the feelings of confusion, groundlessness, and loss.

Now here comes the paragraph where I talk about how, despite all the rough patches, I am blessed-beyond-belief. And I am, I know I am. But I don't have it in me to type up that paragraph just yet. I'm too busy fighting my own personal T. rexes.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

baby baby baby oh baby

When my future child toddles up to me and says, "Mama! Mooshi mooshi! I want to be a hipster when I grow up!" I'll respond, "No fucking way, baby." Why? Because being a hipster, especially a hipster involved in the local music scene in a small Utah town crawling with chauvinistic folk, sucks. Oh lord/Thom Yorke, I just fell into a classic hipster trap, didn't I? The Self-Loathing Hipster©. It's not that I hate myself (but wait! I do! but not all of the time, only most of the time!); I just dislike much of what I was surrounded by in my early 20s. (Side note: Please help me with my punctuation. I am so lost when parenthetical statements get involved.)

Far too frequently I put myself in situations that pacified me. The males thought they had a right to my time and my attention while the females were in vocal admiration, but silent competition. My body was a shell, my brain fuzzy, my words seemingly unnecessary. And for whatever reasons, I put up with all of it. Maybe I was too tired, maybe I didn't care, maybe I was too tired to care.

This helplessness was not always prominent. There were periods of loveliness and connection and compassion. The helplessness, however, was a loyal thread that ran through those formative years, always there to soothe and suffocate. I do not know who I am without it.

And so, future sweet babe o' mine, I will try my damndest to keep you out of skinny jeans and floppy beanies for as long as possible.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

knees and responsibilities

I wonder sometimes how and why and for what reason I ended up where I've ended up. Why was I so compelled to move to Salt Lake? And why did I stay here when everything was bleak and nearly unbearable? I quit two jobs after the first day and then later on I couldn't even get a job. I started slipping away into my bad habits and patterns and people and then suddenly I inherit a knee injury and a huge responsibility. The responsibility, of course, being the one-on-one aide to a child with severe emotional issues. These two events forced me out of my rut and thank god that they did. But it's too early to tell if this particular job is why I have ended up here. Besides, do I even believe in that kind of fate? "Things happen for a reason." Maybe not. "People are in your life for a reason." Maybe not. So who knows? I am going to be completely optimistic here for a minute, but I believe I can be a positive person in this child's life. I believe, ahem, that I can make a difference. If nothing else, I want to be someone that will listen. I am not sure many people really listen closely to this student. And that's a bit of a tragedy. There are other days, of course, that I'll just want to (and will) say, "Oh, fuck it." I'm prepared for those days. I'm always prepared for those days.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

the sun also sets

See. I told you I hate nights. Wait, did I tell you I hate nights? I actually love love love them once I collapse into bed and open a book. Why? I know that there's nothing more I can do except get semi-lost in whichever book I am halfheartedly reading at the time. But then I fall asleep after about seven minutes (IN HEAVEN!!!) (JK!!!) and dream of abandoned amusement parks. Interrupted sleep, always.

Why can't it be 10PM yet? Then I would feel more "justified" collapsing into bed. Oh, what the hell. I don't need any justification! Justify THIS! (Justify what exactly, Meghan?) (I don't know, don't ask me.) But then I'll fall asleep way too early and then be wide awake by 4AM and drink a Rockstar just because and then feel awesome and like I am going to take on the world and I'll write another blog post and I'll reblog some stupid pictures on Tumblr and I'll watch clips from The View on YouTube and then it will be 5:02AM and I'll be, like, "Oh shit." Point is, I might need a cat more than I realized.

Or a Xanax? A cat and a Xanax. A cat named Xander and a generic Xanax named Cool It Cool Cat. Yeah. Those are the only two things I need. And a dumb book.

the ego also rises

I love being on a "steadier" schedule. Steady for me means that I go to bed before midnight and wake up before 8AM. I am a morning person through-and-through. I crave the sunrise and the quiet that comes before everyone starts busying themselves with this and that, distracting themselves until nightfall when all of their regularly scheduled programs arrive on their screen and oh wait, that's also a distraction. Hey, even this blog is a distraction. So it goes.

The thoughts I have in the morning, however, can be just as moody and disturbing as the thoughts I have at night. There is usually more optimism and hope that follows the morning thoughts, though, but still. So, for almost no one's reading pleasure, here are some of those morning thoughts...

Facebook, you bastard/bitch. (Wait! Before I begin, let me say that I am beginning to hate that the words "bastard" and "bitch" seem to only be used in negative contexts. Let's reclaim those words, people! Let's never put anyone or anything down ever again! We're all just trying to be happy! But I digress.) I cannot help but get online, log on, read various comments/status updates, and then somehow have my ego bruised by what he or she did or did not say. For example, a gal pal is coming into town for Christmas and tagged about 20 people in a note saying something along the lines of, "Let's hang out!" And the bruised ego comes from the fact that she did not tag me. Yeah yeah yeah, boo hoo hoo who cares. But apparently I care. I begin thinking all kinds of things, such as, "I thought we were better friends." "She probably hates me." "Why does she hate me?" "I guarantee it's because I am too sappy and 'woo woo.' I probably annoy her." "She's really smart and funny and I bet she and all of my so-called 'friends' and all of my exes sit around and do mean impersonations of me. They may have even gone so far as to create a voodoo doll of me. This really sucks." And so on. Having an ego is sure a lot of fun! And we all have one, too, so we can all have fun together! Dammit.

Anyway, that's one of my thoughts this morning. I guess that is more than one thought. Perhaps you could say it's just a shitload of paranoia I have stirred in with my morning coffee. (Note to no one: It's a Rockstar today, not coffee.) (Gross.) How do I stop these wonky thoughts from driving me bonkers? I've got many options: Stay offline. Block certain people. Let go of the stories I create in my mind. Be kinder than I think I should be to both myself and others when I feel the urge to indulge in petty and destructive behavior. Catch the thoughts before they erode my happiness. How do I catch them? Through training? Meditating? Contemplating? Navigating? Ing! Ing! ING! Catch 'em all! Was that a Pokemon line or something? I barely missed the Pokemon craze growing up. Should I give Pokemon a chance? Should I poke a man? No. No, I do not want to poke a man hint hint.

Damn these beautiful mornings and my brain that will never, ever allow me to rest.

JOB!!! whoa.

Well, the impossible happened: I am employed.

I work at charter school in West Valley City called Alianza Academy. The director of the school has a nose ring. A few of my employees have gauges. I saw Salinger's Nine Stories on the bookshelf. The academic dean recommended that I read Anne Carson's Nox. THEY HAVE A COFFEE MAKER. Yep, I feel much more at home in this environment than I ever did in my years working for public schools. Thank Santa Buddha God.

I am an aide for one particular student who has special needs. I do not know much about him yet except that his favorite color is green and that he is a semi-professional hula hooper. I suspect I will get to know quite a bit more about him as time goes by, seeing as I will be spending at least 30 hours a week one-on-one with someone. That's a lot of hours, folks. I don't even want to spend that much time with a romantic partner. And then the old question must now be asked: Who's going to learn more in this situation?

Monday, November 12, 2012

salted peanuts part two

More questions and answers headed your way! It's never too late to back out now! I warned you!

QUESTION NUMBER FOUR: What are you most grateful for in life?

relationships (with family, with friends, with strangers), water, open spaces, the desert, the mountains, the beach, food, forgiveness, vulnerability, compassion, quiet, solitude, creatures, rocks, the sky, books, words, music, gentleness, honesty, walks, conversation, connection.

QUESTION NUMBER FIVE: What are the most important things to you in life?

Living (and also consistently questioning) my own personal truth is vitally important. Learning to care for and trust oneself and others is also important. What else is important? Well, compassion.

QUESTION NUMBER SIX: How would you describe yourself?

A neurotic seeker and observer whose heart is in the right place... Most of the time.

More. Later. Now? LUNCH.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

sunday thoughts part 1

I have only wanted this once before in my life, maybe for the wrong reasons, but I find myself wanting this again: Children. I mean, definitely not right away. I can't even keep a cactus alive. Eventually, however, I would like to be a mother. (Please know: I may change my mind. I've been known to change my mind a few times.)

I made new friends last night. It felt and still feels great. I am proud of myself, even if I made some stupid decisions last night as well. Meg! People aren't as scary as you keep telling yourself! Sometimes they are TERRIFYING, though. Watch out for the terrifying folk, but overall trust others more.

Winter is a paradise. I hole up inside like a little bear and read read read like a little bear who has the ability to read the written word. Smart bear. Or should I say "beary smart bear"? I should. And I did.

Is Lagoon still open? Who wants to go? Just kidding (but not really). I should save my money for my psychedelic Disneyland trip. Not kidding. At all (but kind of).

There is hope yet just around the corner. I feel everything in my life shifting. I am glad I did not give up.

Saturday, November 10, 2012

salt peanuts

Have you ever felt like taking a wild guess? I am about to give you the opportunity to take the wildest guess of all time (or at least in the past 200 years). Guess which Meghan is really super extremely disgustingly hard on herself? You li'l mothereffer... You are a pro at these wild guesses. Good job.

In an attempt to not freak out on myself, I think I need to first know myself. But then again, learning more about me may give me more reason to freak out on me and oh my this coffee is way too strong today. Contrary to popular belief and wild guesses, I'm not so sure coffee/caffeine makes me a "better writer." My caffeinated mind tends to be even more all-over-the-place than my regular mind, which leads me to believe that I have two separate minds -- a caffeinated one and a regular one. I cannot focus! I need some Focusin! You know, the ADD medicine Bart Simpson was on in that one episode where Bart Simpson took ADD medicine? Yeah, great episode.

I found a goofy blog that is all self-helpy and other bullshit like that. Okay, it's not (entirely) bullshit. They have a post titled "101 Important Questions To Ask Yourself." And I was, like, "Bring it on." I won't answer all 101, heavens no, but I will attempt to answer 7. Do you care to read? This is more for me than it is for you, but then again we are all interconnected and Buddha and ohm and I am you and you are me and we are all walruses and walruses are elephants and the giant elephant in the room is that, yes, we did elect a black president. Joking. I love Obama. And black people. And black coffee.


Oh, fuck you, Question Number One.

QUESTION NUMBER TWO: What are you passionate about?

I am going to ignore your improper grammar because frankly I don't really care. Okay, my passions: A list: Here we go: Get ready: You've stopped reading: I can tell: I am passionate about... Nature, relationships with others, Buddhism, spirituality, body image issues, literature, writing, nature, feminism, gay rights, nature, gay nature, nature is gay, food.

QUESTION NUMBER THREE: What are the achievements you are most proud of?

I guess graduating from college was pretty shit rad. I am also proud of being published multiple times, forgiving and asking for forgiveness, reading great works, being the lead in a few plays, running my own marathons, asking for help.

Okay, I'll only answer three questions this time. Slowly I'll answer seven and then ever so slowly shall I answer 101. Or 102! I always push myself.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

stay tuned

Drinking whiskey and deciding to blog at 12:27 in the morning is usually not the smartest idea, but there are worst decisions to be made, correct? Correct.

Still. I shouldn't have said that I am still in love with him. To be entirely honest (as opposed to partially honest, which I am most of the time), I am not even sure who "he" is. I believe that I am in love with various ideas and paths and possible lifestyles. I want this life or that life. I want whatever carrot is dangling in front of me just because it is there, slightly out of reach. I want because wanting fuels me, temporarily, and helps me to get out of my IKEA bed in the morning. And so it is rather easy to attach the source of my happiness and longing onto another person when in fact they are just there to fill in that gaping hole called "emptiness." Huh. "Gaping hole." Perhaps that was not the best way to phrase it. Well, sir/ma'm, no turning back now! There is no backspace on the keyboard of life, and yes, we have no bananas.

Do not get me wrong; I still desperately care for, in my own bizarre ways, those whom I have loved. I just do not believe anymore that they are "what's missing." What's been missing is honesty. Honesty with myself, honesty with others about myself. I am beginning to fully comprehend this and starting to come to terms with a particular truth I simply cannot deny any longer. And as terrifying as this truth may be, it is also incredibly exciting and such a damn relief. I feel like I am coming home.

Monday, November 5, 2012


I like old blues music more than I like most people. And I like people. I like observing people, not actually interacting with them. But anyway, blues. Yeah. It hits the spot everytime.

I don't care about purses. I don't care about shoes. I care about words and eye contact and glass bottles.

I am still in love with him.

He has no idea. But I hope that he hopes that it is him.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012


I hated puzzles growing up. Well, that's not true. I hated most puzzles. There was one puzzle that I enjoyed, but it was only because it was 50 pieces and featured Barbie or trolls or kittens or (wishful thinking) all three. Any other puzzle, however, was torture. Why? Maybe my brain just didn't work that way. Maybe I was easily frustrated and too much of a perfectionist to deal with mismatched pieces and missing corners. Whatever it was, I steered clear of puzzles and focused my energies elsewhere (such as searching for fairies in my backyard and putting on plays about prom in my garage).

And now here I am, 28 and suddenly super into puzzles. Okay, not actual puzzles. (Maybe I should be, though? I mean, I wouldn't mind spending hours alone putting together a giant picture of a lighthouse. Do all puzzles feature lighthouses? I'm a puzzle novice, forgive me.) I am starting to piece together people, experiences, and moments from my past in order to figure out my present. Questions--one major question in particular--have been occupying my entire mind for months now. Well, questions always occupy my mind. They occupy the minds of every human ever. Hmmm. What I'm trying to say is difficult because I am purposely being vague and vagueness leads to confusion. So. Where does this leave me? Oh right, putting pieces together.

It has been a fascinating and fearsome process. Taking an honest look at oneself is just asking for shit to hit the fan. All kinds of kooky issues and memories surface, ones that you either tried to actively drown or just passively forgot about out in the depths begin to wash up on the shore of your psyche. Watch out! Or rather, just watch. I need to remind myself often to just watch. I get swept away by disgust or desire, which leads me away from myself and into, simply put, suffering. Sometimes all I need to do let things happen as they will and observe without judgement.

It's time to come home.

It's time to stop turning my back on the lamp that is aching to guide me to where I need to go... Wherever that may be. The puzzle inside of me--that broken lighthouse--is patiently waiting for me to begin to fill in the gaps and create connections. Will I be okay with what is missing and mismatched? Maybe. Maybe there is no "missing" or "mismatched." Maybe the imperfections are perfections (and the perfections are imperfections). But I guess I'll have to just wait, watch, and see.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

let's get snuggie

Let's get real serious for a moment. Just kidding. I'm always so serious in my head that the only way I cannot be serious is through various social media sites and blogs. Are blogs considered social media sites? Listen, you social media experts, don't make fun of me in your head for not knowing the answer to this possibly really stupid question. I already make fun of me enough in my own head and don't need other people to do it for me. And no, perhaps I'm not making a lick of sense right now, but just imagine how much more sense I wouldn't be making if I had just licked a toad in the jungles of South America. I'd be talking and seeing all sorts of crazy shit. Now THAT'S what I call getting serious.

But let's switch gears. (Why do I keep saying "let's"? It's not as if this blog is a group effort OH BUT IT IS. I write, you read, I ramble, sometimes you leave comments--it's as if "her fog and pearls" is some sort of complex watch battery with each part working together to create time out of nothing, for time does not exist except within the confines of the simple mind. Well, let's get out of our simple minds and into a giant Snuggie because damn, girl, it be cold outside and damn, girl, you look fine as hell in fleece.)

Oh yeah, so switching gears. Hmmm. I don't even know how to drive a manual, so I can't really successfully switch gears. Maybe I can just automatically dive right in and say that I am a... I am a... uh... NOPE. Not today. Today is just ice cream. Ice cream and avocados and salsa and handfuls of cereal. That is what today will be for me. If I'm feeling reckless, today might also involve pizza and online shopping for a backpack and a beanie.

Okay, moving on to last night's debate and my convoluted thoughts on what both men had to say...

JK!!! Time for a Snuggie ice cream date with myself!

Monday, October 22, 2012

ribbons and potions and chinos (oh my)

Costco, you create the weirdest little potions and then sell them in weird little two ounce bottles and I'm not talking about weird little lysergic acid diethylamide; rather, I'm talking about 5-hour energy shots that aren't called "5-Hour Energy Shots" because apparently that's a brand and Russell Brand is dating WHO?!

Who or whom? Whom cares. Folks, the above paragraph is basically a parody of my writing. I know. Except there were no parenthetical statements! And that is a Meghan Classic. Is "Meghan Classic" a brand? Well, it will be. It will one day be a company that sells chinos and loafers and blue and white striped beach towels that you can take with you on your summer vacation to the Hamptons. Yes, order yours now through Oh yeah, and it will be a non-profit company. PSYCH. It will be all-for-profit. Prophets stand on the corner, not behind the pulpit.

Something is in the air. Summer was very strange and lonely and hot as hell. Fall and winter is going to be full of creation and invention and something else I can't mention because... Well, just because. I hate being vague! But I love it. I hate contradicting myself! But I love it. Keeps people guessing. I hate guesses, I love knowing. I hate knowing, I love un-learning. I actually do hate "-ing" words most of the time, although you'd never be able to guess. Why would you even try to guess in the first place? Here's a first place ribbon for being a guesser. There. Is that what you want? Some kind of ribbon?

Ribbon? But I hardly know him!

Tuesday, October 16, 2012


I woke up, naturally, at 7:20am. Whaaa?! I know. Meditated, ate breakfast, drank tea, and then drove my sweet self to the Tibetan Buddhist temple less than two miles away. I, along with five teenagers and one older man, sat in the temple and chanted and recited and sat and listened and maybe even slightly bowed a few times. I loved it. The lama was kind and helpful and generous. He even asked me when I first arrived if I was a teacher. My ego was successfully stroked! (I've got to keep that ego in check.)

Tibetan Buddhism, to me, is both beautiful and baffling, calming and cluttered. Dualism! That tricky bastard.

So when I first arrive--I have arrived. Ahhh... I feel a peace, an excitement, a drive to claim this as my home... Essentially to grasp on to an identity, a path.

By the end of the service, I am drowsy and have to pee. And how wonderful is that? It's genuinely wonderful--to go from a semi-fantasy world of projection and attachment to this world, here and now, this world that is full of droopy eyelids and incredibly small bladders.

But there's still a restlessness. There's still a longing for a consistent spiritual practice, one that I can dive into and dig deep. Maybe I'll always be a searcher. I think all of us are always searching, some just recognize it more than others--and some also have hang-ups about being a "chronic searcher." Am I speaking of myself? I just might be, which is interesting. It's interesting because I have always thought of myself as a proud "Not All Who Wander Are Lost" pin-wearing member, something with which I completely agree... just for other people and not for myself.

Why so much pressure on myself to find a permanent path? I know there's no such thing. It might boil down to my desire for stability. So be it.

So maybe I just find a path and stick with it? No spiritual traditions (aka religions) are "perfect," solely (pun?) because they are the creation of man, and man is fallible.

What I am trying to say is that I cannot expect to be in a blissed out state 24/7--probably not even for five minutes. There might be a 30 second window in any given day when one can feel "blissed out," but that's about it--and it's usually due to a perfectly ripe avocado or the sudden kick of caffeine when it enters the bloodstream. But then that's it.

Life resumes and the mundane dominates. This is fine, this is not worth trying to change. Enlightenment arises from the everyday activities that have become so "normal" that they are almost invisible, forgettable. Yet if we pay attention, if we lean in, we can begin to see the beginning-less universe in each tiny detail, in each seemingly insignificant event.

And this is our spiritual path: To notice the miracle in the moment.

Let the heart, mind, body, and soul wander. The wonders of the heavens are just waiting to be stumbled upon.


Well well well.

I know. It's been almost four months. FOUR. I have never been that disconnected from my writing for that long.

Or from myself. I'm feeling rusty.

Lighthearted side note: The word "rusty" reminds me of that recurring character on Full House named, well, Rusty. His mom was dating Danny. She worked at a dry cleaners or something. He was a trickster. "Trickster" reminds me of "coyote," which reminds me of how much I ache for the open, barren landscape of the desert. I consider the desert the hip bone to my body and lately my hips have been hurting. WHICH REMINDS ME of that one Full House episode when DJ (Donna Jo) develops an eating disorder (not recurring, oddly enough) and collapses at the gym while cycling like a maniac. Ya gotta eat that sandwich and not just feed it to Comet when no one's looking, Deej!

So I'm back. Are you still there?

Thursday, June 28, 2012

port of entry

So here I am, fine readers, a Girl of the City. Yes, a true urbanite (who does not know how to spell "urbanite" or if "urbanite" is even a real word). I am what some may call "the new mayor of the Great Salty Apple in the Sky." Those people would be wrong, however, because I am not the mayor (yet) and the Apple is not in the Sky, it is comfortably floating in the Lake.

But let's get down to business. How has the transition been so far to Salt Lake City? It's hard to say because any and all transitions are traumatic events for me, even when the change is ultimately a positive, healthy one. You already know this about me, though. Yeah, I'm neurotic! And sure, I may have a little thing called "crippling anxiety"! So be it! Sobe. A Sobe drink from a gas station would taste so damn good right now in this million degree weather. I have no car to drive to a gas station, but I COULD walk to City Creek's food court and buy a fountain drink and go sit by the fountain bra-less and get arrested for having SEXY breasts (by "sexy" I mean "tragically small" and yes, they arrest people based solely on cup size, I googled it and I am also a liar) and fugg it. (I say "fugg" for the sake of my mom, although I DO talk about my sexy breasts - which is worse, mom? Me swearing or talking openly about my private parts? I will only fucking censor one of those two fucking things.)

Anyway, the CITY. Yeah! I feel just like Whitney Port in the spin-off of Lauren Conrad and Co.'s poignant drama The Hills, which was a poignant spin-off of a poignant documentary poignantly called Laguna Beach, which makes me want to poignantly puke in my mouth. So I'm Whitney Port (but actually just Meghan Wiemer), figuring out how to make it in the big (medium-sized) city. I'm completely overwhelmed! Where do I begin? Who do I meet? How do I meet? When and why and can I please get a bottle of Sailor Jerry to calm my nerves on these high seas, matey? I'm joking, mama! But to everyone else, I am dead serious. Let's sit on my balcony sippin' spiced rum and forget all about the resume and cover letter I need to create and the rent I need to pay and the groceries I need to buy and the freeway I need to drive on (I never do! Terrifying!) and the people I need to avoid (just the toxic ones) and the rum I shouldn't be drinking (wanna be healthier, much healthier) and the Kombucha I should be drinking (mushroom tea or whatever the fugg it is is healthy, right?) and let's just forget all of those things for today, okay?

Please, join me. I'll be waiting. And in the meantime, please also tell me what in the hell I'm supposed to do while I wait. Fine, library it is.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

fortnights and patience and implications

Has it really been ten days since I've written a post? Ten days (just four days shy of a fortnight, FYI!!!) goes by quicker than quick (and "quick" is pretty damn quick) (and enough with the parenthetical remarks, Meg!) (and exclamation marks!). I have been rather finicky with my writing lately. And perhaps a little lazy. And also distracted by the Big Move 2012, which is happening in mere days (11 days short of a fortnight, LOLZ).

So scary.

Let me remind myself, however, that any kind of move implies change and change is scary for anyone. Even if it's a good change. And I believe this will be, overall, a healthy change. Healthy implies good! There are so many implications in our lives, right? So many implications and changes and parentheses. And fortnights. Hopefully there are many, many, many fortnights in our lives.

Have patience with me during this move, Meghan. Yep, talking to myself. And you, too, but mostly to myself. Trust in yourself and in the universe and in the trees above and the ground below. You are stronger than you think you are. Create a resume. Get lost on walks. Visit graveyards and gardens and abandoned places. Close your eyes at a decent time, but make sure your eyes are open and curious early and throughout the day. You'll be okay.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

cobras, nazis, russia, orem, anxiety

Meg's Life, Recently: A Look into the Recent Life of Meg: A Tale as Old as Time: Father Time: Is Time Really a Father?: A Look into Paternity Tests: Tests: Are they Racist?: Yes: A Look into a Positive Answer: Answers: Are There Even Any Questions? No.

Did I not capitalize those words correctly? I know a handful of you out there are correcting every little mistake I make and that's okay, if that's what you genuinely like to do. As for me? I like to drink a little Russian drink (wink wink) and listen to rap music when I am angry, which was last night. I was so angry at Orem's Summer Fest! Mostly I was just terrified. I live right next to the park that is home to the carnival and the fireworks and the booths and the strollers and the kids and the teens and the adults and the loud crowds crazy patriot saint angel of the heavenly cosmos hey! look at me, ma! i'm kerouac burn burn burn through the sky to explode into a fiery fuck why they fuck is "fiery" spelled so fucked up. Firey, people. FIREY.

But yeah. Summer Fest. What a bummer.

Thank the heavenly cosmos that Summer Fest is finished, though! I'm free to stop having panic attacks! I was trapped in panic for awhile, but now that the crowd has dispersed and my doctor has prescribed me Klonopin, I can reign king again! I'm actually a female, so I guess that would make me a queen. Ace in the hole! Queen up the sleeve. King cobra down the pants.

I'm sober.

Sometimes I think about how German I am and freak out because what if that means I would have been a Nazi had I lived in Germany during WWII? What if my ancestors are Nazis? I feel like there's a coldness to me and a mean streak in my blood and maybe I'm wrong and maybe I'm actually the next Dalai Lama (he said it could be a woman!) and who's to say someone like the Dalai Lama couldn't become a Nazi? We're all "imperfect" humans. And did I really just call the Dalai Lama a potential Nazi? I guess so. Am I going to get weird people reading my blog now? You know, those weirdos who google "Dalai Lama Nazi Summer Fest Cobra"? I guess I should have capitalized "google." Give me a brrrrreak!

I googled "hip hop clothing" last night because I thought I might want to go through another hip hop phase.

I probably won't go through another hip hop phase, but that doesn't mean I'm not about to say something ignorant and possibly racist and hey look I used double negatives. So here's what I wanted to say: Maybe I was a little bit drunk the other night and maybe I was a little bit logged into OkCupid (I was!) and okay, so maybe I did an advanced search for ONLY black and Hispanic men and maaaybe I was day(night?)dreaming of being in an interracial relationship because I am actually pretty attracted to black and Hispanic men.

That wasn't ignorant or racist. But that's not what I was going to say. But I don't want to say/write/type/act it out in a one-act play anymore.

Well, this has been strange.

Monday, June 4, 2012

forever and ever

Guess which Meghan Wiemer is all panicky panicky about moving?

You are such a good guesser!

I know that in the end, things will be fine. I know that moving is always stressful for anyone no matter what. What is it that makes it stressful? Is it simply the having to clean and organize and do boring shit like that? Or is it more of a psychological thing? Having to say goodbye ("I've never been good with goodbyes!" says everyone ever forever), leaving a comfortable environment, dealing with the fear of the unknown ("Everything could go wrong forever and ever!" says everyone who has ever lived), rummaging through your possessions and realizing you have way more than anyone could ever want forever and that you are the prime example of why our planet is going down the drain because of the junk you have amassed and the junk you are throwing away and the junk that you hold on to despite it being junk but hey come on man it's sentimental junk.

So what is it?

Maybe it's just that I'm an INFP (or so I've been told). That's weirdo psychology talk and basically it just means I am a weirdo with a lot of psychological issues. I think waaay too much. I neglect anything and everything forever unless it's something I care about a ton (and I have to care about it a ton or else I don't care about it at all). So the things I don't care about, I forget about. The things I do care about (a ton), I become obsessed with and it basically ruins my life because obsessions usually, if not always, lead to the ultimate mental breakdown. Living in my world/brain is a constant party 24/7! It's like Pride Fest in my head minus the confetti, sadly, and the loving relationships, obviously.

What was I even saying ever? Forever I will always wonder what the dickens I was talking about in this here blog post. "This here" is super hicky sounding, is it not?

I don't know how to move. I don't know how to pack. I don't know how to say goodbye to and get rid of stuff. Help? How do I do this without passing out from stress? Suggestions?

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

the social medias

Come to find out, I have absolutely no idea how to handle/manage/deal with social media.

As many, if not all, of you know, I fancy the Facebook and the Twitter and the adding on of unnecessary articles. (THE!) But as some, if not a fair amount, of you know, these little known sites have caused little problems here and there in my everyday life; namely, they take up way too much fucking time and I feel like I have to keep up with this "online persona" and that feeling gives me great distress and oh yeah, I have a whole fucking awesome library that I've completely neglected because I am too busy reblogging funny photos from the 90s and drunkenly confessing everything in under 140 characters and liking more and more status updates from people I know less and less and ultimately driving myself perfectly insane in this perfect un-reality I've created.


So I'm going to do what every privileged white American gal does and exclaim, "I'm taking a break! Taking a break from Facebook and Twitter and Tumblr and Instagram and maybe even Blogger! I'm going to rediscover myself and get into yoga and tea and poetry and modern art! And cooking! I'm going to do everything outside, too! In the fresh spring air! On a blanket! In a park! Without shoes!" And maybe I will. For a few days. But I'll be back - and you know what? That's okay. I am a "terrible" Buddhist, but if there's one thing I understand about Buddhist teachings, it's that the middle path is usually not an awful path to travel.

It is about rediscovering not only myself, but about rediscovering balance. I know I have said something pretty much identical to this before, I apologize for being redundant. No! Wait! I need to stop apologizing, too. Let me, oh dear Buddha Santa Christ Child Heavenly Pagan Moon Goddess, relax. Let me feel fearless (but let me also feel and recognize and explore fear). Let me find what inspires me and hold on to it - until it's time to let go. And there is always a time to let go.

Okay, so I still want to write. I do not think I will ever take an intentional break from Blogger. I believe the "confessional" aspects of blogging have been overall healthy for me. Baring myself and allowing myself to be vulnerable for literally the entire world is perversely therapeutic.

I still love you. I still love social media and feel like it is so super damn interesting and outrageously influential around the globe. I don't think we've even realized yet the impact it has had on our language and communication. Point is, I don't hate Facebook, Twitter, and the like. Far from it. I kinda hate, though, that it has caused me to ignore the quieter, slower things in life. It might be idealistic of me to say, but I hope that when I return from my social media sabbatical, I will have a new perspective and respect for myself and others. I also hope I will have written. A lot. By hand. In gorgeous notebooks with silky pens.

Time to stare at a tree without an Instagram filter.

Thursday, May 24, 2012


let's just get this out of the way: i will not be capitalizing my letters very much anymore because i am responsible and eat (a lot) of food at my computer and a crumb has found its sneaky little way underneath my shift key and it makes it hard to press shift and my life is sooo hard and help and i bet kids in africa don't have to deal with crumbs under shift keys because lol they don't have computers or shoes. :( this morning i went to the gas station to fill up on caffeine and i saw the cuuuutest black guy. confession! i am very much attracted to black men! he was with his papa (or uncle? or older friend? or maybe they didn't even know each other, but there was another black man with a cane in the gas station and i just figured, "duh, they're related.") and they bought gatorades and they were clearly not from orem and i am just assuming because they were not white and i don't know why i am saying all of this because why does it matter and why does anything matter? because it just does. anyway, i bet i was not this man's type. at all. i look like a little messy boy in a weird floral print mumu. but that's okay. a girl/li'l boy can have fantasies, can't she/he? i've been doing a lot of assuming so far in this post! good job, me! caffeine doesn't seem to help me write anymore. no liquid does. buuuuummmmmer because i do like my liquids. so maybe i'll just sign off right now. maybe i'll go sit outside. maybe i'll do something "creative" aside from writing. maybe the writing part of my brain needs a gawddamn rest. let me get lost in the jungle of my mind. what does that mean?!

Monday, May 14, 2012


Dear Past Loves,

Stop showing up. Stop showing up when I'm not ready - and more often than not I am not ready, unless I have just brushed and flossed and put on red lipstick then sure, show up. I'll let you know when I am ready. But mostly, I just want you to go. I don't want to see pictures of you in a park with her, even if I met her and even if she was fine and even if you and I are fine and even if parks are wonderful places for all humans of all races and relationships to go to. I don't want to see it.

And as for you, I don't want to see that you have liked someone's status. Oh, our digital age, right? Wish I could quote something appropriate by Jean Baudrillard right now. But why? So I could impress you? Well, yeah. Probably. I tried to impress you all last summer. Maybe we both did. Maybe we both had sore feet and high hopes and quotes waiting to be told. But we both got tired and just kinda... faded like the fireworks we never saw together. So that's okay. It really is. I just don't want to see your name ever again, is that too much to ask?

Many of you are married now. That's great. I mean, not great great, but it is what it is. Basically, I'm not mad at you for being married. Well, at least not the majority of you. I just don't want to know about your marriage every time I have some kind of superficial interaction with you. Is this selfish of me? I'm okay if it is.

I liked you. I really really really liked you. But you caught me at just the wrong time. Couldn't you have given me at least a tiny warning that you were about to come into my life? Then maybe I could have prepared and then maybe I wouldn't have gotten scared and then maybe I wouldn't have completely shut you out, only to later realize that yeaaaah maaaybe I should have held on for a bit longer. Well. That's that. I want to say the same things that I've just told my ex, my fling, and my married things - that I don't want to see your pictures, your name, your current happy life situation - but I can't. And that's what I hate the most; the fog that lingers. I want a clear sky.



Friday, May 11, 2012

go marry a horse

I have a sudden desire to write, but this might not last long, pretty people! So let me hurry and get it out. C'mon, fingers! Move quicker! At least I don't have to write by hand anymore, right? Sheesh, we were so old fashioned as kids. You know, just not-owning-computers-and-riding-around-on-horses-and-marrying-horses-and-ruining-the-sanctity-of-marriage. Yeah, super old fashioned nut jobs with jobs as nut farmers on a factory, not a farm, because farms are old fashioned and we are up to speed now with technology.

Thus why I am typing this.

So what do you wanna talk about? Oh yeah, this isn't really a conversation, is it? I mean, it kind of is if you leave comments and I ever get around to replying to said comments (I'm horrible at remembering to do that, sorrrrry). No one has conversations anymore and it freaks me out. We are all having conversations into mirrors and inside our heads, but never face-to-face. It makes me so sad! And anxious! But then I get a phone call and I freak out. Unless I am tipsy, then I'm all, like, "HEEEEYYYYY!!!!!!!"

Well well well. This post is going nowhere. I could take that last sentence as a jumping off point to say, "And just like this post, I feel like I am also going nowhere." But that's not entirely true, at least not at this moment. I feel like everything was at a standstill/dead end in my life for a good couple of months (maybe even years?), but now everything is happening at once. I am possibly moving in the very near future (fingers crossed) (but not actually crossed because that would make typing unnecessarily difficult), there's a special li'l someone in my special li'l life, I'm starting to sincerely get over this eating disorder business (well, kinda - maybe I'll always be in recovery, but at least it's recovery), I'm not terribly terrified of my future career plans (it'll work out however it's supposed to work out), and my tweets have never been better. That last one is a joke, but not even a joke at all. So serious about my tweets.

Here's a great tweet of mine from last night. Don't judge. Or judge. I can't tell you what to do! The only thing I can tell you to do is to make some soul food and go eat it right now with someone you love while having a conversation. An actual, "in real life" conversation. It can be done!

Anyway, I'm not actually going to copy/paste my tweets into my blog post. Heavens.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

listening to all sorts of shit on pandora right now. oh, and i'm also blogging.

Okay! Time to confess!

I am so nostalgic for the 90s and the 80s and the 70s. And sure, the 60s. And sometimes even the stifling 50s. Will I ever feel nostalgia for the 00s? For the 10s? No one, not even Fake Jesus (as opposed to Real Jesus - he exists! and he's NOT Anglo-Saxon!) knows for sure. "Sure" should really be spelled "shuur," but you couldn't pay me enough to give a shit.

I have this weird rage when it comes to my extended family. I want to love them, but it's hard to do when they don't give a shit about me (even when you pay them!). They are good people, I know that. But they sure have chosen favorites. And that's lame. And I'm tired of holding on to the anger and frustration. In the words of someone who could have been my lover, "It is what it is." He's right. I have to move past it.

For some reason I am not wearing any pants right now.

You know what fungi is Meg Approved™? Bet you can guess! Oh my god. Dave Matthews is the REAL JESUS.

Let's all just save ourselves. No one else can do it for us! Realizations!

Friday, April 27, 2012

currently: a look into what is currently going on in my head: a true story: based on fiction: JK


*I cannot stop listening to Robert Johnson.

*I cannot stop thinking about going to Disneyland.

*I cannot stop looking at recipes and fantasizing about all of the different feasts I will make. Who gives a fudge (mmmm) if they are vegetarian/low-fat/low in carbs?! Not me! I want to experience all foods and become a major foodie. No, really. I really do. Life goal here, folks. That and going to Disneyland while tripping on LSD.

*The wacky spring storm last night might have made a wacky idea pop into my head and it has STUCK. It didn't dry up with the sun like the rain did. What's this idea? Well, it's not actually an idea. It's more of a decision. The decision is that I want to get married. Okay okay okay, maybe. Maybe. I've never really had the desire to get married and now the sudden desire ("desire" might be too strong of a word) may be caused by certain people in my life getting married. Like, "Hey! Wait up! I wanna join/fit in/not be left behind!" So perhaps I should examine this "desire" of mine first before I, you know, start proposing to people. TOO LATE!!! Ohhh Emmm GEEE!!! I've proposed marriage to people! I am such a weirdo!

*Can we always talk about food? I want to talk about food some more, but maybe I should start my own food blog? I want to turn my enemy (food, my body) into my best best best friend. And I'm determined as hell to make this happen. Lock up your cabinets! I'm gonna raid your house and eat all of your cereal! While naked! At Disneyland! Riding around in a giant, spinning teacup! Whoa. I could pour all of the cereal into the teacup and eat it out of the teacup. Oh, hey, I've had two cups of coffee this morning, by the way.

*The transition into one's 30s is rough, man.

*I talked to two important people in my life yesterday (one through text, one on the phone). These people are important to me for various reasons, but one major reason is that we all went through the hardest (and also the best) year ever together. I suppose I won't go into too much detail. I'll just say that it is miraculous that I can call both of them friends; I grew up so much after that year and it taught me that I still have so much more growing up to do. I hope to never be as unkind to anyone as I was to those two (and to myself) during that year. I vow to put kindness at the center of my life's mandala. I've said that before, right? Well, it's worth saying again.

*I want breakfast!!!!!!! So excited to eat breakfast!!!!!! I've said that before, right? Well, it's worth saying again.

Thursday, April 26, 2012


You'd think I'd be familiar with, you know, technology-n-computers by now, especially since I grew up during the birth of the Internet (exiting the womb! in such a fine, bloody fury! hello, world! plug me in! sign up! log in log off dial up bzzzz!), but I still find myself absolutely clueless and freaked out when little changes occur on sites I frequently use - LIKE BLOGGER. This post pagey thingy is different and I feel like it is messing with my writing style and I don't even have the motivation TO write when I am so confused. I am not confused. I am just on drugs. And that drug is caaaaaffffffeeeeeeiiiiiinnnnneeeee! And Percocet. Kidding about the Percocet, unfortunately, because I obviously need one right this very moment. The heart usually beats INSIDE of the chest, right? You may correct me if I am wrong. I may be wrong. I am often wrong. Wrong or right? Is it wrong to write? Is it right to be wrong about being a writer? Maybe fake it 'till I make it?

Speaking of "faking it 'till I make it," maybe I'll just go crazy and start writing a screenplay/novel. Or both! I let fear stop me. Nothing else stops me from writing except for myself. I never feel emotionally prepared to go down that rabbit hole of writing - and I'm not talking about blog writing or tweeting or other forms of writing I do fairly frequently. I'm talking about the "serious" kinds of writing that I want to do, such as writing poetry or short stories or plays. Let me be completely immodest and annoying right now and say that I know I can write something absolutely amazing, but I don't want to. That is so much pressure. I crumble under pressure...

...but sometimes I thrive. Sometimes pressure gives me a pinpoint focus that in "normal life" I never have. Pressure forces me to get rid of the ground underneath my feet, ground that is usually unnoticed quicksand. When I'm falling down I am at least focused on the falling (aka the present moment). So maybe I just need to fall. But please let me fall with a pen in hand.

Monday, April 16, 2012


Any other late bloomers out there or am I the only one?

I'm probably not the only one; still, it feels lonely over here.

I can say with quite some confidence that I am very unconfident in who I love. I am just beginning to uncover and discover pieces and shades of me that I wasn't aware were there. I do not know how to view this particular period in my life. Is it exciting? Terrifying? Super damn confusing? Beautiful? Maybe it can be all of those things.

But there are moments of panic followed by long stretches of despair. "Real life" sinks in and I wonder if I will always be alone. I am not the easiest person to get close to, I understand. I purposely push people away, people that I can see myself desperately loving. It could be the classic "I push you away so I don't have to get hurt later on" thing, but more so I wonder if I am just a loner. Like, an actual loner - someone who simply functions better alone and finds ultimate peace in solitude.

That being said, I am getting older (no shit) (even though I still get mistaken for a high school student cooooool). I feel kinda "past my prime." Really, folks, it's all downhill from here, at least in the beauty department. I also don't feel like putting in any effort to leave my house... But at the same time, I think I really do want to leave my house! And maybe just find a nice person with whom I can settle down! But I'm not ready to settle! But lord oh lord I don't wanna die alone. That's what we're all trying to say, but can't because we dance around the subject of death. As a lazy Buddhist, however, I am trying to remain open and confront all aspects of life, which include death. I also avoid it, though. I avoid a lot.


I can't force what won't budge. OR CAN I?! Tell me what to do, please. Tell me if I should hunker down and get hitched and have some kids and call it a life. Or tell me to leave and never look back. The extremes: it's all I've ever known.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

warrior, grumbly, (parentheses), and the lion

For you, Blogger, I have broken my caffeine fast. No! You know what? I am not gonna take another sip of this Rockstar. Seriously. I have felt awesome being off of caffeine, so what am I doing drinking this at 9 in the morning? I've had maybe half of it, so that's 60 or so milligrams of the lion (I guess I just called caffeine "the lion"? huh.), which is the equivalent of a Dr. Pepper or something, right? Or Mt. Piss Dew? :( :( :( Oh well, Meggie not gonna get down on herself for succumbing to the lion's temptations.

Here's why I am so Caucasian: I talk endlessly about quitting caffeine; I eat hummus so so so much; I have a blog; the name of my blog comes from a Bob Dylan song; I dream of moving to Vermont and having cats.

Here's why I want to drink more caffeine: I can't leave a can half full (hey! optimist!); I want to finish a couple of books and write a couple of letters; I'm addicted.

Here's why this post is bothering me: it is fuuuuull of grammatical errors. RIGHT?

I'm up to about 81mg now.


There is a zen saying that goes somethin' like this: 80% is perfect.

I'm trying.

I really am trying lately to be happier. I know I should just feel whatever it is that I feel (and believe me, I do), but I can also make a conscious effort to not fly off the handles (metaphorically and, well, literally) (not that I'm ever on a bike, sadly). I can make an effort to stay present, precise, peaceful. I can stop being a grumbly (grumbly! cute word) sourpuss to my family (sorry, family, it's not you, it's me) and start being a warrior. A warrior, you ask? I know that sounds a bit dramatic, but I urge you to read Chögyam Trungpa's book Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior in order to understand what I mean when I say "warrior." I mean, don't read it just for that reason (or do).

Oh goodness. So many parentheses.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012


Did someone once say or sing or write that everything changes, everything remains the same? Because I agree with him/her/it.

I want to write about all of it. About her talking to me, about them running into him, about me thinking about him, about us planning, about lying down on a yoga mat crying with my eyes closed hoping hoping hoping for someone to touch my forehead with gentleness and strength and peppermint oil and telling me that it will all be okay.

And they did.

I will write later. I have too much seeping into my brain (part of it is nostalgia/regret/confusion/delusion and the other part is peppermint oil).

I need to marinate for some time.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

figs and labyrinths

See that girl with the diamond ring? She knows how to shake that thing.

See that girl with the fog and pearls? She knows how to be sooo melodramatic.

Cool! And here I go!

I get very uneasy when I feel like others are "tip-toeing" around me, perhaps because they are worried I will "snap" or be a grouchy doo doo head fucktard. And they are probably right. I need to be less of an asshole. Still, I feel like some may see me as "broken" and that I need to be "handled with care" just because once upon a time some doctor somewhere labeled me as "depressed." The label sticks. The label has kept me perpetually an adolescent. There's an imbalance; the overprotective married to the distant. Where is the balance within myself? Is it there? Can I unearth it?

And there is another thing, closely related to what I just described, that I need to unearth and resurrect. The feminine. For so long I have silenced what is inherent. I have shaved curves into angles and turned softness into hard, factual edges. Intuition fled. My cycle disappeared. I'm outside of a labyrinth, wishing to be inside, but not trusting the moon's glow. My shadows keep tricking me. I keep waiting for someone to point out the sky to me instead of simply looking up (and in) myself.

Loopy. I'm feeling loopy and lopsided and two-dimensional.

He didn't get it. I thought he understood me being away and needing space and I was kind of excited. But I was just a two-dimensional figment. Figs: they connote abundance and initiation. I remember a week after my biopsy, my body's tissue clumped together and escaped. It resembled a fig. My body rejects abundance; my body is waiting to be invited into itself.

This is highly imperfect and unfinished.

Friday, April 6, 2012

poets and stuck in the middle

I'm writing this post in between looking at so many Tumblr pages. Tumblr is more addicting than PCP. Okay, so I've never done PCP (not that I know of!!! could've been slipped into a drink of mine once upon a time! we'll never know for sure! who stopped the rain! creedence clearwater revival did! all of your dads love CCR, don't they?), but I bet if PCP is addictive, it's at least slightly less addictive than Tumblr.

I can't believe that my fingers know automatically where the keys on the keyboard are. Are my fingers god? Is god within my fingers? Does the entire UNIVERSE exist within my pinky finger? How many fingers left until we reach Babylon? God, that does not even make sense. How many cents does it take to reach a dollar? If we're talking about pennies, then 100. One hundred pennies. One hundred penises, floating through (cyber)space. Wanna cyber? I kid. No one cybers anymore, mostly because the hot lap tops that are placed on our laps (aka our GENITALS) have made us sterile and bored. We are more into mirrors than we are into skin-on-skin.

That last paragraph. Uh oh.

Poetry will always always always win my heart. If you know and appreciate poetry - like, you live it, feel it, let it seep into your fragile bones - I will fall hopelessly in love with you.

I already have! I have sorta kinda maybe fallen in love with a certain poet. I can't tell you who it is! Not yet. But I need to work my magic in order for this southern charm to bite my hook.

I'm goddamn tired. Goddamned or goddamn? God doesn't mind if we say "goddamn." Language is such a "dangerous weapon." Want me to explain that? Then buy me a drink and force force FORCE me to leave my room and I will explain it.

In the meantime, I don't know why I came here tonight.

doo doo and Jane Austen

Okay, who hacked into my blog last night and posted that cuckoo loopy freaked up piece of shoot? (Did you see how I censored myself? Shoot instead of shit! Criminy instead of fuck! Doo Doo Head instead of Fucktard!)

I feel like I'm living in a world surrounded by people who are living in a Jane Austen novel, but my own life is like a cynical Bukowski poem or perhaps a Brautigan novel. You know, full of cigarettes, whiskey, and an Asian women obsession. Actually, I don't smoke. When Joe Joe went outside yesterday for a smoke smoke, he asked me if I wanted a cig cig and I said yes, but only to put behind my ear while I read horoscopes aloud to whomever would listen.

My horoscope basically told me everything in my life is just dandy right now. Five stars!

Criminy, Gemini! Things sure don't feel so dandy at the moment. I ain't livin' in Austen's world, okay? And yeah, ham on rye does sound good right now. Minus the ham part. Rye bread, though? I believe I ate it every single day I was in Death Valley. Rye toast, omelette (does it make you mad I spell it all French-like? if so, why are you so angry? is there something bigger bothering you that you aren't confronting and instead you take out your frustration on the way I spell a particular breakfast food? i am truly sorry. capitalization? yeah, it's a bit erratic. are you angry that it's so erratic?), hashbrowns, and coffee. And stolen bottles of Tabasco.

I find myself wanting to copy/paste tweets into my blog posts for those of you who do not have a Twitter account because DAMMIT, some of my tweets have been so funny lately, especially when they get a little help from the Sailor. IFYOUKNOWWHATIMEAN.

Wow. That was pretty self-absorbed of me to say, right? But I need to start being more self-absorbed, right? Well, maybe "self-absorbed" isn't the right word (words? hyphenated word?). Basically, I just need to stop treating myself like shit. That would be a good first step.

Another good step? Eating. Always eat, Meg! Food is a friend and so fucking awesome. Whoops. I mean, food is a friend and so doo doo head awesome.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

such a long, easy ride


Warning! Warning to all of you lonely web surfers out there! This will be the weirdest post just (never eat soggy waffles) west of the Mississippi. Mississississississi-pee-pee-eye.

The fuck.

Good god, I'm listening to James Taylor for some reason. Sweeeeeet buddha god, he is boring. We know you've seen fire and rain, Tay Tay, and we know it's because you were in a mental institution, but guess what? Lulu is singing about sucking on ding dongs and I think that's probably more legit.

Okay, let me start this ENTIRE POST over. So, I've brought you here tonight to talk about something really important. I can't even begin to guess what it is that I am about to type. Please! Don't stop reading! This is of the utmost importance!


Tuesday, April 3, 2012

death valley part 1

Spontaneous fragments from my week in Death Valley:

*I purchased small turquoise earrings so that I would feel "prettier." I have worn them once and may never wear them again. Okay, I'll probably wear them again. Still, earrings are not my thing. Painting my nails, also not my thing. Neither are shopping sprees, girly talk about boys (HA!), pedicures, teeth whitening, hairspray, shaving, or floral design. Nothing against them, they just mean nothing to me.

*I "stole" these ADORABLE mini bottles of Tabasco from the continental breakfast at one of the hotels. In fact, I "stole" a lot of breakfast items (that's why I always bring my big purse to buffets!) and even went back to the breakfast twice in one morning so I could steal more. I have so many oranges and packets of peanut butter!

*I fell asleep on a sand dune and on these goofy (in a completely sacred and beautiful way) looking rocks. I also fell asleep each night before midnight and had insanely poetic, slightly sexual, always foggy dreams every single night. So lucky! But where have the dreams gone? Where have all the cowboys gone? Good question, Paula Cole.

*Speaking of cowboys, we went to a cowboy museum in a small California town. It was dreamy. The Hollywood version of the Wild West is wildly inaccurate, but also slightly romantic (aside from all the let's-kill-the-Indians-and-take-their-land-and-let's-also-treat-women-like-meat stuff). I got to see this super decked out convertible that was used in the critically acclaimed film Twins. Why it was in a cowboy museum, I'll never know (unless I google it!).

*I kept running into these Oregonian lesbians on the trip and they kept seducing me with their braless, Subaru Outback, makeup-less lives. I know, I know. I know what exactly? I know that I don't know.

But I do know that I am hungry (of course), so I will go eat. Of course. And of course I will write more about Death Valley in the near-ish future. Stay tuned, little kitties.

Sunday, April 1, 2012


She drinks her stolen soda out of a straw so as to not stain her teeth.

She doesn't really care about her teeth, actually. There was just a straw nearby. And so she thought, "That looks fun."

Straws and soda were just one (two?) way(s) to fill up some time (as if time was a large, empty box just sitting there smack dab in the middle of your mind, ready to not be so empty anymore). Stolen soda, though? Yeah. Just, you know, refilling when refills were not allowed or sneaking a can from her grandma's fridge in the garage. Little things like that. Nothing lightning's-gonna-strike you worthy. She figured she was just balancing out the universe a bit, seeing as she had been the victim once or twice in the past for this and that.

Sometimes she wondered what her father would think of her current crush. She wondered if all daughters sometimes thought about that, at least a little. She sometimes wanted to date someone just so her father would know that she was capable of having an adult relationship. But would dating someone in order to prove a point really be proving that point? Now she was confused. Confusion: According to her unfinished OkCupid profile, it was one of the things she couldn't live without.

Somewhere along the way, she began boldly claiming that she wants to be alone. Recently she started to suspect that her claim was simply a good old fashioned defense mechanism. If I can convince others that I enjoy being alone, maybe I can convince myself! Hey. Worth a shot. She took a sip of her ginger ale and was delighted to find out that the straw was a bendy straw. It's the small pleasures in life.

Somehow someone slipped into her life, even after her meticulous construction of walls and shields. This person drew her beautiful mountain scenes on her paper coffee cup. This person wrote her a heartfelt letter about roots and the desert and owls. This person pointed out Venus in the sky and told her what she already knew. She pretended she didn't know. She pretended she didn't know what was about to happen. She pretended to ignore that empty box that was quickly being filled with a future.

So she slipped away. She withdrew and withheld. She had seen the beauty of them, which bordered the eventual breakup. It was the same storyline that everyone that ever existed experienced and she was bored with it. Not with the person; not with them. She was bored of the box being filled with inevitable pain. She preferred the absolute meaninglessness of bendy straws and stolen sodas.

She still felt sorry. She bought little turquoise earrings to make her feel better, to make her feel pretty. She wondered why she had purchased the earrings and stolen the soda, seeing as the earrings were far more expensive than the soda. Perhaps certain things were worth paying for. Perhaps there was a cost for beauty.

Her dad would have thought the world of him.

Saturday, March 31, 2012


Not caffeinated. Really tired, actually. And a grump grump. What if I said I was a gramp gramp? Like a grandpa. Like I was an old man trapped in a young lady's body? And I had multiple grandchildren that adoringly referred to me as "gramp gramp"? Like that would be freaked up. Like I am censoring this for conference weekend. What if I said I was censoring this for my gramp gramp? And it turns out I was my OWN gramp gramp? According to the multiverse thing that I don't understand, this is a reality on some planet somewhere.

The planet. Hey, planet - remember when I wanted to save you back in the day? Remember how I wanted to save the animals, too? I wanted to save myself from ill health and emotional imbalance as well (thus proper diet, exercise, meditation, early to bed early to rise, etc.). I wanted to do a lot of saving back in the day. That feels like eons ago (not that I necessarily know what an eon even feels like). I feel sadly apathetic these days. Oh no! Hipster cliche that I thought I'd never succumb to is coming true! Oh lordy lord. I just don't find much interesting or worth pursuing these days. And sure, it's kind of fun in a Margot Tenenbaum way for maybe a second, but it soon gets WTGTBE (way too gloomy to be enjoyable). How do I shake myself awake?

I had a nice week. I was in the desert, the mountains, by a salt water lake. I was in multiple motels and dingy diners. I was in the mythland of America. Mythland? I'll explain what I mean later. I will explain all of this later. Or maybe I won't! Because I am sooo apathetic. But I truly am. I feel sad. There. THERE! I said it. Sad and stuck. Her fog and pearls? Her sad and stuck.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

white girl

Almost everything I've been thinking, saying, and doing lately could be hashtagged as a "white girl problem." I am really really really too focused on myself and on the little things that don't matter, such as, "Ohhhh these hair extensions are the WORST." "I drink tooooo much caffeine! Ugh! It's the worst!" "I can't decide where to go for brunch. Decisions are the worst!" And so it's like, really? Really, Meg?

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

palate cleanser part 2

That "Fish Eye" post? Yeah, I know.

Well, I need another palate cleanser. Cleanse that palate, survey! Okay, Meg! I will!

11. Favorite Soda?
I used to be such a good girl and never, ever, ever drink soda, like, not in a million years for a million dollars/doll hairs would I ever drink soda. Extreme? Maybe. But I'm a runner! And scared! No soda for this girl. Then I became addicted to caffeine and also realized that fizzy drinks are fun to drink. So favorite soda? Dr. Pepper, probs. But I'm seriously trying to stop drinking soda! I want to be healthy again. When I'm healthy, I'm nicer. And being nice is kind of nice. In fact, it's really nice. Sorry if I've been a brat to you lately. :(

12. What type of shirt are you wearing?

13. If you could only use one form of transportation:
walking... or HOLODECK. (Holodeck is a form of transportation, yes?)

14. Most recent movie you have watched in theatres?
Was it seriously Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance? Oh crap. It WAS. But before that it was Harold and Maude! See! I'm still hip! (But I guess it's also hip to like bad movies with Nic Cage, right? I just out-hipped myself! Is that possible? Yes!)

15. Name an actor/actress/singer you have had the hots for:
I will always and forever have the hots for Lulu Reed. Actor? Psssh. Actresses? Honestly, Ellen Page. And Kristen Stewart! Kind of! Weird, I know! Oh, and Michelle Williams melts my heart. She is incredibly adorable.

16. Whats your favorite kind of cake?
ice cream caaaaake!!! and german chocolate!!! and boston cream pie!!! (boston cream pie is a cake, right?) (but seriously, i won't allow myself to have cake.) (but that's gonna change, okay?) (will you help me?) (cry for help.)

17. What did you have for dinner last night?

18. Look to your left, what do you see?
four cat pictures and a rockstar energy drink (that explains everything)

19. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
if i'm feeling ambitious

20. Favorite toy as a child?
I would NEVER pick favorites. I didn't want to hurt my toys' feelings. Buuut... Between you and I, my favorites were the puppet my mom made (named Chloe) and my American Girl Doll Molly.

21. Do you buy your own groceries?
Yep. Sometimes my mama and sis sis and pops will be kind enough to pick me up a few things. They are way more generous and selfless than I and I have a lot to learn from them. Lovely people they are.

22. Do you think people talk about you behind your back?
Of course! People are human! Humans talk!

Monday, March 19, 2012


New post? How about NEW HAIR?

fish eye

The best time to post. I can't say why, but many of you who follow me on a certain Twitter-ish website (aka TWITTER) know why. OH man. Seeing the world through the eye of a fish. It is what it is.

Do fish lay eggs? Yes, yes they do. Do we eat those eggs that they lay? Yes, yes we do. Why do we do such things? It's not like the fish eggs will fight off death and hand us immortality on a velvet pillow placed upon a golden plate placed upon THE golden plates. It's not like the eggs will do that. If the fish eggs did that, I would eat them often. But they don't. So there's no need to ingest and digest.

This is not a joke.

Let's stop eating each other. I mean, certain eating is okay (YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN), but the eating away at each other's hearts and souls and tissue and muscle is going too far. We should be taking care of one another, cradling each other in the crook of our arm instead of being the crook that steals hearts and holds them ransom.

Remember Mel Gibson in "Ransom"? GIVE ME BACK MY SON! Mel G. yelled with such fiery passion.

Fiery? Weird way to spell it, English Language. You are a bag full of shit, English Language! No, not really. Now I'm getting unnecessarily aggressive.

What was I going to write tonight? I wanted to write about how my heart broke a teeny tiny bit tonight while standing the sidewalk. Cracks in the sidewalk. Don't break your mother's back. Also, don't break your own back because that will lead to nothing but constant pain and something possibly really fucked up (aka PARALYSIS).

That's what I was going to write about, though. I miss him. But I also miss her. And him and her and me and me and me and her and her and them and us and all of us that were sitting together, singing without knowing that the future would never allow this to happen again.

So, yes, give me back my son/sun.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

palate cleanser

1.You have 10 dollars and need to buy snacks at a gas station:
Only ten bucks? Gas station prices are way too high, so this Alexander Hamilton ain't gonna go too far, but here goes... I would buy a Clif Bar, banana, maybe string cheese (depending on whether or not I'm vegan at the moment), almonds, maaaybe a Spike (depending on whether or not I'm at 7-Eleven/feeling like I wanna douche-out), and perhaps some veggies if I'm feeling crazy. Gas station vegetables? De-lightful and super fresh!

2. If you were reincarnated as a sea creature, what would you want to be?
Sea horse, obviously.

3. Who's your favorite redhead?
Is Whitney Mower still redheaded? Cuz I'd choose that womyn.

4. What do you order when you're at IHOP?
HA! Great/stupid question. I TOTALLY JUST WENT TO IHOP. And goddamnit, it was expensive. I was so upset by how terrible, yet expensive as fuck, my food was. The company was good, though, so there's that. And I got four free saltines to stuff into my purse. Oh, I ordered the fish dinner. Yeah, THAT'S gonna be delicious, Meg.

5. Last book you read?
Non-fiction: The Tao of Philosophy by Alan Watts
Fiction: Cathedral by Raymond Carver

6. Describe your mood.
One part awake-ish, two parts confused, sprinkle with anxious (always sprinkle with anxious! sprinkle anxiety over everything forever and ever and always amen!)

7. Describe the last time you were injured?
On Friday I totally sliced open my finger cutting down a box at work. I cut myself with that box cutter like it's going out of style. HEY! Did you know box cutter cuts are in style? Well, they are. But not for long! Better start cutting your fingers with them before it becomes super unhip. Never be unhip! Hip 4 lyfe!

8. Of all your friends, who would you want to be stuck in a well with?
This is such a great question! And unlike the IHOP question, this is just great, not great slash stupid. I'd be stuck in a well with my fattest friend. Gotta eat sometime, right? GROSS NO. I would be stuck in a well with Laura or Chris. Or Laurachris (the result of my science experiment - two BFFs in one!).

9. Rock concert or symphony?
I've been there done that with the rock concerts, so bring on the symphony. But I just know that when I'm at the symphony, I'd be jonesing for a rock concert. Never satisfied with where I am, am I?! Let's go with rock concert. Let's just go with it. Lez just go with it.

10. What is the wallpaper of your cell phone?
I don't want to end on this question! This is booooring! Okay, I'm going to change the wallpaper on my phone right now so that I have a more exciting answer than just "cobblestone." Okay! I did it! I went through with it and changed the wallpaper on my cell phone! Big step! Biggest step of my life! No longer confused/conflicted/condemned to a life of confusing and conflicted life decisions!

Thanks for reading this survey. Never go to IHOP. Unless drunk and/or desiring to waste $16. Below is the wallpaper on my cell phone. It's purrfect and purr-dictable.


I don't know how to put this poetically (well, maybe I do, but I don't want to bother trying) - I am confused.

I am confused, a little frustrated, nervous, hesitant, confused, and also a bit confused.

And the hardest part for me right now is that I can't quite put the confusion into words. It's a mix of not wanting to tell and not knowing what to say.

I wish I was ten years younger and figuring all of this out. I feel like I wouldn't be so hesitant. I believe the hesitancy is what makes all of this much more difficult.

But I am still unsure. At least I have a few people I can talk to that have been where I am currently, although each situation/person is unique.


I need to caffeinate myself and fill out a dumb li'l survey to cleanse my palate.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

breasts and hell and motorcycles and science

I have many ideal days - here's one of them:

A fucking hilarious person and I are sitting in an empty room, both of us with laptops and the Internet. We sit across from each other and write a one-act play on Google doc. We drink a lot of coffee.

Another ideal day: I am stuck in an empty room, but by "empty room" I mean a room that is full of books. Books on feminism, Buddhism, nature-ism, Ism-isms, and education. Oh, and science. I have to read all of the books before I am allowed to leave, piss, or sleep. I drink a lot of coffee (which means I better read quickly because coffee = piss piss).

Piss piss? Really, Meg?

It's 11:34! Which is "hell" upside down! A past lover once pointed this out to me! We had a weird summertime romance that didn't end so well! But I think we're still on good terms! I mean, we never ever talk and I don't know if he even exists anymore, but it is what it is! We once ate at Sweet Tomatoes with my father! That was a weird day! HELLO!

I went running last night at 1am and didn't get to sleep until 3:30am or so. By the way, 3:30 upside down is OEE. So anyway, my dad showed up this morning at 9am and I was like, "Whaaa?!" I got ready in a jiffy ("Choosy Moms Choose Jif" is really funny and confusing and PROFOUND when one is trippin' balls) and then we went to Barnes and Noble, where most of what I was looking for was not there. Thanks for hating anything to do with women and the environment, local B&N! Wait, what's the point in telling you all of this? Maybe that I am really tired? I'm tired of talking about how I'm tired. I wish I could talk more about architecture or motorcycles or something. I'll do some research and get back to you on those two topics, promise.

I break promises. I'm not going to research architecture or motorcycles, at least not right away. I am going to eat breakfast and take off my bra right away, though. Why do I even bother wearing a bra? First of all, UNCOMFORTABLE. Second, BURN BRAS!!! Third, my breasts are super small.


Thursday, March 15, 2012


Three hours, 180 minutes, quite a lot of milliseconds... A lot can happen in that time. This sounds like an awful first sentence to an awful adventure/crime novel that some awful person decided to write, fully believing they would instantly become the next John Grisham. Now I feel bad for calling this person I just made up "awful." I am way too nice. But I am also way too mean sometimes. And I happen to be way too confusing, too! Too too too. Three three three. I drank some tea tea tea and now I'm getting carried away way way -

- there's gotta be a way to write about today. There was something so quietly profound about the seemingly insignificant events. Sitting next to a fake bear in a park and then later looking at a possibly real (couldn't decide!) bear in a window (while earlier discussing bearing our testimonies). The little details of him soften me and catch me off guard. He handed me an even number of seeds from the tree to throw up in the air on the count of three (three three). He listens. He's terribly wonderful. He's patient. I am unbearable, perhaps. I have to be. It's not easy for me to bare who I am - And I am just starting to figure out who this "Meg" person is. Apparently, she's someone who can't stop talking about bears.

Oh, but there was so much more about today that will slip through and pass by. Walking down Center Street, which holds so much nostalgia, felt like a graveyard. The people I used to love, the people I used to be, the people I have left, all buried under the invisible concrete of forgetting. Buried or BEAR-ied? Sorry.

And the pet store. I couldn't even form or listen to a sentence in that place. I was in awe. I can't believe these colors and patterns and creatures and limbs exist in nature. Who needs 3D glasses and a tub of artificially flavored popcorn when you've got science in front of you all the damn time?

I miss you.

I don't know who you are. I don't know if I'll ever know who you are.

We are going to be okay. Who we are and who we are not is okay and will be okay, up until the day we die on our 100th birthday, blowing out the candles, our hearts bursting wide open.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

the dawn of creation

I have been feeling waves of nausea for the past few days, so last night I said (in my head), "Screw you, stomach! I am going to bed at 9pm and you are going to heal yourself through sleep!" And I think it worked. Problem is, when you fall asleep at 9pm, you are wide awake at 4am. Actually, this is not a problem. I like it. This would be my schedule forever and ever if I had any kind of say in my life. But since I have absolutely no free will, this schedule is merely a rare occurrence. Here is a boring list of what I have done so far this early ass morning:

4:15am: Okay okay okay, I'm awake.
4:30am: Smoke reefer. JOKE. Get into car and drive to Maverick to buy eggs and Rockstars. Classy!
5:00am: Light some incense that smells like an old English grandmother and meditate. (I "cheated" during my meditation and totally closed my eyes, like, a million times! And I'm totally cool with it! Take that, Buddha!)
5:30am: Open up Rockstar, start drinking it, start tweeting, start blogging, start twitching. Oh yes, and start listening to sitar music! Amen! Amen, brother Buddha in heaven trippin' on acid with Jesus and the dinosaurs! Amen! Amen! Amen! Rockstar just kicked in!
6:00am: "6:00" looks cooler when you replace the zeroes with lowercase Os. Proof: 6:oo.
Right now: Breakfast? Hmmm. Tumblr? Yeah! Breakfast AND Tumblr? Good lord.

Monday, March 12, 2012



"On my mind"? What, exactly, does that mean? Is something literally placed on top of my mind? Don't even ask me where I believe my mind is located. Fine, ask. Here's my answer: I have no clue. It could be a tiny pilot behind my eyes. It could be a speck of nothing inside of my left toe. It could be hidden in a box labeled "mind" buried somewhere in a vacant field. I just googled "vacant field" and apparently it is a band. I bet they suck. Kidding, who knows. But seriously, so many bands suck. You know what else sucks? Waking up with food poisoning! Okay, it might not be food poisoning, but it's close.

Teach! I'm going to finally go through with it. I swear. I am going to work towards getting certified and then if I end up teaching, I end up teaching. If not, I will at least have something to fall back on. I can't not teach - it has been on my mind consistently for almost a decade. Oh dear lord. I started college an entire decade ago. Oh my god god god. I am having a mini-meltdown right now. I am so so so old. What the hell have I been doing with my life these past ten years? Oh, that's right - just blossoming. Kidding, kidding. But not kidding. I am a late bloomer. I believe I went through all of my high school phases while in college. Now that I'm nearing 30, I am ready to enter my 20s! Here's to responsibility and careers and retirement plans and paid vacations and khaki pants from Eddie Bauer!

Earlier I spelled "pilot" about seven different ways until I remembered how to spell it correctly. Piolet. Piolit. Pilit. And so forth. Super sad, really. Feel superior! I am sometimes an idiot.

If you are beautiful, you terrify me.

I watched a Russian film last night called Shadows in Paradise. It was so good! It reminded me of every relationship I have ever had! Go watch it!

Speaking of relationships... Nah. Never mind. Don't wanna go there right now. I am so confused! All the time! Entering my 20s! Time for experimentation! (This coffee has turned against me suddenly. Who decides coffee and nausea go together? An idiot, that's who! But an idiot who has a good heart and means well and is just trying her best and started college a decade ago. That kind of an idiot.)

Maybe I should try to eat something. And sit outside. And read. And take a Valium. Thanks for being so beautiful and terrifying!