flashlight

I hope I'm not finished with my hippie phase. I hope it wasn't a phase. I hope I settle into being a weirdo earth mother goddess tye dyed let it all hang loose groovy daughter of the forest wild eyed freak flag waving womyn. I do! I do hope that I can ditch other parts of myself, the parts that leave me scowling, frail, and in no way a flyer of freak flags. And to ditch them, I must first make friends with them, ask them what they need, thank them for letting me know that something in my life is/was off and that certain needs were going unmet, let them know that they are destructive, and then quietly and peacefully retire them. I won't avoid those other sides of me because they will just flare up at the most inappropriate times, demanding to know why I have ignored their hisses and demands. In other, simpler words, there are dark parts of us that need a little light. The light does not feed them or give them any kind of power. It gives you power, it gives them less control. I am a professional at not facing what causes me fear, so by examining the dark corners and allowing the junk to be cast into the beam of my metaphorical flashlight is by far the most radical thing I can personally do. Also, it should be noted that metaphorical flashlights are almost as awesome as symbolical headlamps and allegorical lanterns.

And now I just need to do these things. I can discuss the ways in which to do them, I can freely give advice to whomever is there to accept it, and I can type type type about it over and over and over again on my blog, but if I don't actually take action and begin the process to heal myself, then... so? So what. I don't want my life to be one giant "so what." I want my life to be open, not closed. I want the heart to be open, not a wound. I want my life to be a source of healing, a constant drinking from all sorts of metaphorical/symbolical/allegorical wells. In order for these wounds to heal, however, it needs some air to breathe. The bandages need to be taken off. It is time to retrain my brain, to trust in the body and the heart and the process. There has always been a fullness inside of me; I no longer need to be empty.

antsy

I would put more thought into this post if I didn't have to go to work in 28 minutes. There is a desire to in my fingers, since my fingers have a mind of their own and even their own name. Some fingers even have a 9-5 job in order to support their growing family, a family who lives in a pleasant finger suburb. Sure, it looks pleasant on the outside, but inside the small community, a darkness is beginning to creep into the streets and up into the trees. It's a darkness that clashes with the purity of the white picket fences and the manicured lawns. The darkness is a weed, growing out of control and killing what was once beautiful and fragrant. Just kidding. What the hell am I typing? Again, don't ask me. Ask my fingers.

Sooo I just want to type right now. Allow me to have this one indulgence. I promise I have something more "put together" in the works. But I don't want to rush it. There is a pleasure I receive from seeing a post published. Like, it makes me feel as if I have done something with my day. I am a truly productive person! Sure, I may not contribute to any kind of society, but at least I am, uh... I am. I am I am? I am I am the great Sam I am? Green eggs and ham? Green Megs and Han. Meghan. Meggham. Scrambled Megs.

You know what? I miss human connection. I miss sitting on a roof at 2 in the morning having a conversation with another person about something deeply philosophical and profound, something I've never done before. Okay, I did it a few times, probably, but I'm sure it wasn't at 2 in the morning and we were most likely discussing our favorite Saved by the Bell episodes (which are all of them). So maybe I want to talk with humans again, face-to-face. And I want to not sit on a roof, because that's dangerous, but sit in a park or a cafe with great windows and at least decent coffee and chat about whatever pops into our head (roofs! books! religion! that time Zack literally put ants down Slater's Hammer pants!). And although I don't usually like to be touched, sometimes it would be groovy to be hugged by a dreamy person. Hugged for a good, awkward 47 seconds or more.

I guess it's time to step out from behind this protective screen. Maybe I can occasionally show my face in public! Maybe I can make an effort to make it to social events or to make (and keep) plans with friends. Maybe I can recognize that I already am making an effort and to give myself credit for whatever progress I make, no matter how small it may seem. Maybe maybe maybe. Maybe it's time right now, however, to go to work and to stop kids from throwing spaghetti at other kids. Hey, as long as they don't dump any ants down any pants, all will be well.

swing

ice ice ice ice all i do is chew on ice and send out bad vibes to strangers who drive diesel trucks and honk at me and breathe with their mouth open and think nothing because thoughts are for losers and hey what's that a deer let's shoot it.

What an odd way to begin a blog post. But then again, what do you expect from me? You expect this. You expect the frantic, run-on sentences. You expect the sudden, rough transitions. You expect to be worried for my sanity by the end of the first paragraph. But then sometimes I write some fairly decent, polished things. Things? Go grab me a dictionary. Or a thesaurus or a vocabulary builder book or whatever. And while you are doing that, would you mind refilling my cup with ice? Thank you! I owe you!

And here is a transition: I feel as though I owe so many people so many things for no definite reason. Have I been this way my entire life? It sure seems like it. Looking through this thesaurus you so kindly handed to me, the feeling of constantly being in the debt of others is also known as "people pleasing syndrome" and "perfectionism" and "chronically coming up short you dumb idiot baby why can't you do anything right everyone is better than you come on just try a little harder." Man. How exhausting. Time to start living the antonyms, amirite?

After the above paragraph, I took a break. I went on a walk and read my book while I walked like a crazy person. A crazy, literary person. A crazy, literary person who just so happens to not be quite as crazy when she is outside. Outside anywhere. Even if it's on a metal picnic table with ketchup stains outside of a Wienerschnitzel off of State Street in Family City, USA. Even if it's there. Point is, I can't have walls and a roof. I mean, obviously I can. In fact, I kind of need some literal walls and an actual roof. Not emotional walls, I guess. That's what people say -- Don't have emotional walls! (Do people say this? Often?) But don't emotional walls protect us from invading armies? Anyway, I'm no military expert. Armies shmarmies. Walls smalls. Biggie Smalls. Small Wonder. It's no wonder I stay up until 3am -- my mind won't stop running away from me, up into the trees, swinging from branch to branch in search of a bunch of bananas or at least a burrito. My body waits patiently on the sidelines for the monkey mind to wipe itself out so it can finally fall into an interrupted sleep for the remaining hours of the night. I dream of carnivals. Have I mentioned this before? Well, I do. And they are always abandoned.

My walk helped. Immensely. Sitting in the sun on the deck also helped. I tried to write by hand, but the pen felt too slow for the monkey. I went to the store and cured my depression by purchasing wasabi and ginger hummus. It's a thing. And it's a holy thing. Then I dressed up like a 12-year-old boy who loves hip hop and went on a short, brisk walk around the block. (Around the 'hood!) I couldn't stop staring at what I like to call "Jesus Clouds." (Jesus, clouds!) They were magnificent and glorious and almost as holy as the wasabi and ginger hummus. I am back now, inside, cold. As much as I desire the act of chewing on pebble ice, I will put that craving out of my mind and dive into a cup of fennel tea instead. (The sentence you just read might have been the most exciting sentence ever constructed in the English language.) I am tired and my left hand is numb. I don't want to think about why it is suddenly numb. I would rather read ghost stories and let the fennel do whatever it does.

And now I wait. I wait while the monkey begins to swing and I think about trying to bribe it with some Sleepytime tea. But monkeys don't want tea. Monkeys only want me to let them have complete control over the keyboard. Type away, monkey mind. The world is your banana.

token

I deserve a gold medal or at least a pat on the back by a man (or a woman or a genderqueer) wearing a gold medal for successfully going to a MALL on a SATURDAY and not having a TOTAL meltdown. You know, the kind of meltdown that results in me screaming into an overpriced and oversized sweater in a ridiculously narrow dressing room with bad mirrors and bad lighting and a bad lock on the door that doesn't lock or locks too well, which means either some bozo walks in on me half-naked and sobbing or I am trapped and have to decide whether I awkwardly ask the clerk who isn't there for assistance in escaping the confines of the torture chamber or I awkwardly crawl under the door and shuffle off to the sales rack to gain some sort of composure so I can interact with the cashier and buy, like, a hat or something. And will I ever wear the hat? Probably once at some forgettable concert where I will feel like a generic hipster fraud for wearing such a goofy hat I impulsively purchased after a total meltdown inside of a dressing room inside of a store inside of a mall inside of a city full of folks who don't have such fragile emotional lives. In other words, yeah, I'll wear the hat, but that doesn't mean I'm going to like it.

Deep breath.

Hello! Right now I am spying on my weirdo neighbors in their backyard constructing what appears to be some kind of stove. They tend to have a lot of jovial dinners complete with laughter, languages I can't understand, and some kind of loin. Pork? Beef? Oh, and microphones. No, they don't grill microphones, but they use microphones (multiple microphones? no, probably just one.) to talk to the dinner guests. Are they making toasts? Are they sharing their favorite memories of grandma? Are they reciting love sonnets and dirty limericks? Again, I do not speak their language, so I have no clue. But they sound happy and there is usually applause after words are spoken, so I'm guessing all is well. But all of this is also annoying as crap to the neighbors who have to hear/smell/see everything at the dinner while they are trying to watch reruns alone on their couch with a half-frozen burrito waiting patiently on a paper plate. So yeah, keep it down over there, highly-social-speech-giving-stove-constructing neighbors.

Right now I am also chewing on ice! Typical! Tipper! Tipper Gore! Gorilla! Guerrilla! Guerrilla Girls! Feminism. Forever. Amen. Awoman. Awomyn. Alright alright alright.

I walked by a beggar today and wanted to give him a few bucks. This time I honestly had no bucks or doll hairs or scrilla or whatever. Just parking tokens, which I guess I could have given to him because who knows? Maybe that token would have saved his life by stopping a bullet or transforming into a genie who grants him three wishes. I had to pass him and just say hello and how are you and I looked down at my blue sneakers, shyly and a bit ashamed. I never know what to do or how to act or what to say in those situations/all situations. I guess the first thing I can do in any instance is to just be kind? Right? Like, be compassionate and patient and wish someone well. And listen! Listening is so so so achingly important. I do wish, however, that I had the kind of cash to just freely give to lots of people, whether friend or stranger or strange friend. Maybe the parking tokens I still have in my wallet actually will transform into a genie and grant me three wishes. I guess I'd have my first wish be: gimme lots of money (but without the danger and drama that can come along with it -- that isn't a second wish, though, that is included in the first wish, okay?) so I can buy lunch and a round of drinks for everyone in the world. And so I can build hospitals and schools and art centers and research labs that will be used in finding cures for all that ails. And river cruises. I would go on so many river cruises. Second wish? Well, wait a second. I don't quite know. I'm beginning to feel stupid for saying I'd wish for a lot of cash. Selfish? But I'm giving a lot of that cash away, yes? I don't know, man. Guilt and self-doubt stops me from even accepting wishes. No thanks, genie. Go back in your bottle/parking token. I'll just keep living life penniless and wishless.

Well, this post blows. Kidding, it's okay. It's just not what I intended for it to be. What was my intention? Maybe it was to have more linear thoughts, to discuss the power of simplicity/now/love, to tell you about my new 10-year-old BFF (I will tell you about her soon!!!). Maybe I should stop typing "maybe" and start typing out a list of all the cool things I can do for other people who really are penniless and hopeless and drowning in a society that expects them to be everything they cannot currently be. Maybe I can give them some relief, some tiny token of hope, some kind of hip hip hooray into a microphone at a dinner to tell them that they are worth it and they can make it and they can feast on the food I've cooked for them, for me, for us to share. Kumbaya! This is my wish.

clear

It feels really good to type! I wish I had a ton of thoughts, though! Because then I'd have something to type! Who am I kidding? I have too many thoughts all of the time. There doesn't seem to be any connection from one thought to another -- is that called Monkey Mind? Hopping from branch to branch? Do monkeys hop? Ahhhh! Too many questions and exclamations and "ands" and constant critiquing! What if my name was Quing. Quing Wiemer, PhD. Here are some more of my thoughts:

I want to read a scary, stupid book about a carnival. Ever since I was a bud in my mother's stomach (do babies live in the stomach? they don't, do they? whatever!), I've had recurring dreams about carnivals. Scary carnivals! I'm interested in what reading about scary carnivals would do to my psyche. I want to psych out my psyche. I want to walk into the fun house of my mind and see my subconscious reflected in a mirror, distorted and tall. I want to shrink down to the size of a thimble and walk through a miniature door into a world full of empty rooms with clean desks and blank papers. I will sit down at every desk and write with a pencil four times my size! Then 7:00 will roll around and I will have to decide whether it's AM or PM and whether to eat dinner for breakfast or breakfast for dinner. I'll take my time deciding because time will not exist. I will have no watch, but the sounds of a large ticking clock with be constantly overhead. Where is that clock? And can I smash it so it shuts up? I have menus to plan and meals to cook. I can't concentrate with the nonexistent seconds tick tick ticking. Let's go smash some clocks, shall we?

And so these are some of my thoughts. I would keep writing and maybe I should and maybe I shouldn't and who's to say except for me? You may not be reading this anymore. You may have started to read this post expecting to gain some beautiful insight into the nature of human existence, but instead you read, "I was a bud in my mother's stomach" and you were, like, "no thanks, I'm outta here." Then maybe you exited and entered BuzzFeed and found yourself reflected in a particular Disney princess or in a city in the world where you are supposed to live. Thanks for reading what you could stomach, however. We can only take so much before we are full. But let me get back to my empty rooms and comically large writing utensil. Is it writing utensil or writing instrument? Is it a fork or a tuba? Think about this and get back to me at your leisure. I love you.

bloom

In high school I got into the habit of writing two poems each night in small journals I purchased from Barnes and Noble. The covers of the journals featured something embroidered or beaded, usually flowers. What I wrote was in no way remarkable. The words inside were more like weeds than the wisteria on the outside. But inside my head I was on to something. I was a budding poet about to bloom. I just needed some slight guidance -- and maybe a windowsill and some water with a few hours of sunshine each day. It would only be a matter of time before I became the poet laureate, right? Right. Or at least one of those rare creatures known as "a poet who actually makes a living off of being a poet." I used to dream of being an Academy Award winning actress until one afternoon I realized that was an outrageous dream that bordered on delusional. It would be better if I changed my dream to something more realistic and practical. How sweetly naive I was to think that the life of a poet was in any way realistic or practical. Why do we believe being sensible is on par with sainthood? I can write about how we should embrace our fantastical notions and wild mind and walk those unpaved paths... But do I embrace my own confusion? Not very well. I can't seem to give myself a break or to break out of the box that has always been too small for me. I know I do this -- I know I keep myself trapped -- so the question is: How do I free myself? Or maybe a better question would be: Why am I afraid to free myself?

Is there something that holds you back? Do you know what holds you back? And why aren't you going after whatever it is that wakes up your soul? If we stay scrunched up inside the box with too little oxygen and far too much fear, we are going to miss out on all of the almost-unbelievable colors outside. The shapes, the depth, the shades, the dense forest of magical oddities -- they will all cease to exist without the help of our senses. The wondrous world needs us just as much as we need her. May we work the rest of our days to open, open, open and bloom.

bump

My hands are still cold from my morning walk. I am chewing ice while I type this, which might not make much sense, but I am chewing them with my teeth, not my fingers. That made sense, right? I am stuck in the predicament of having both nothing and everything to write about. Will you fix that last sentence for me? I know it ended in "about" and I know that's a no no, or at least I think it's a no no. I think about a lot of things I know nothing about. There I go again! About about about. Thank the Buddha above I don't say "aboot" like a damn Canadian. Like, what's that aboot?

I can tell you that I finished reading War and Peace yesterday. It was an experience. I do love Tolstoy with most of my heart. I appreciate that he made the chapters short. Pierre! Natasha! And the rest of you! I'll miss you all! I can tell you that I read a handful of books while I was reading the epic masterpiece. I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which annoyed me, and The Hours, which broke my heart in all the right ways. I can tell you that I've started reading The Golden Notebook. Apparently it is one of Mr. Barack's favorite books and so far I am enjoying it very much. I will now have something to discuss with the Prez if (WHEN) I get invited to a dinner at the White House. I bet Michelle's organic heirloom carrots are going to taste wonderful with those organic rosemary potatoes. Fist bumps all around.

I can tell you a lot of things. I am an open book! But not an actual book. I am a human. A human girl. I identify as a female, yes, but at the same time I often forget that I am a girl. I don't think that I am a boy, I just think I am a person, sexless and ready to go on some sweeping adventure with a cast of characters, such as wizards and elves and fairies and lords and witches and a tiny goblin or talking dog who acts as the comic relief and also wise sage. That tiny goblin/talking dog has a big role to play! So here I am in my own life, wearing a cape and carrying a sword for protection while I wander off into the woods to find something important. That something (spoiler alert!) ends up being myself. I find myself in the woods! And this Self is neither male or female, goblin or dog. This Self is a solid shadow, a sort of blank canvas with a conscious stream of... Of being? Of experience? Of thought? Maybe just a conscious stream of water. All streams lead to the ocean. The sequel to this popular series of Self adventures will take place on the ocean, naturally. On a pirate ship, of course. The Self was forced to walk the plank, unfortunately. Or rather, fortunately. Very fortunately. Once the Self has drowned, the real treasure can be found.

And that concludes my stream-of-consciousness post. I have to get ready to go work for minimum wage in a smelly elementary school cafeteria. No organic White House veggies are served there, but if I'm lucky I will get to fist bump some first graders. I might as well dream big.

weave

I spend a lot of my energy trying to distract myself. We all probably do, right? I mean, that's why we have various devices that begin with the letter I, wide screens and pipe dreams, drugs and dogma and credit cards and drastic haircuts. And more often than we care to admit, that's why we enter relationships. We enter to exit a reality that doesn't sit well inside. Well, this isn't a post to tell you that I've begun dating someone. Hahaha, don't be ridiculous. And this isn't really a post to tell you that I just impulsively purchased a home theater system and a Ferrari and smoked salmon from Alaska. This post won't tell you anything you didn't already know ("yeah yeah yeah, distractions are not a permanent fix and you gotta live in the present moment, man, and ugh! society! and ugh! turn on tune in drop out!"). Basically, you can stop reading right now. I don't want you to, though, because I think you are a lovely, beautiful, incredibly intelligent creature and I enjoy your online company. Please. Sit. Stay. Let's have tea.

Ultimately these posts are for me and maybe -- MAYBE -- my grandchildren. Not that I'll have human grandchildren, but I may have dog grandchildren... Which poses a very confusing question. Does this mean I must marry a dog? Might as well! Dog marriage will be legal within a matter of months (weeks? days? minutes?) because, well, the whole gay marriage thing. Psych! Psych you so hard in the mind. Your mind has been psyched and may never return. Say goodbye to your mind and hello to a lifetime of psyched out psycho experiences of psychedelic proportions. Anyway, dogs: yes. Children: no. Gay marriage: always yes. Tacos or hot dogs: your choice. Beyonce's baby bangs: undecided.

Okay, so maybe these posts aren't just for me or my future granddogchildren. I know this is a public blog, so I know at least one other person (or dog?) will read whatever brain hairball appears on the screen. I hack up these words and have no idea why I decide to publish them for whomever. But I do. And I hope that someone will be able to weed through the mess that is this blog (and anything else I write for other eyes to see) and obtain some kind of gem that will comfort them, even if only for a moment. Cue majestic harp music. Not that I believe my writing to be profound or, frankly, even readable most of the time, but if I am to be honest, all I hope to do with anything I create is to create a connection with some soul out there. I want us to feel that bond and realize that we can relate to one another on many different levels and in many different ways. Yo, we ain't so different, you hear? And know that I am here. And I hear. And I will listen whenever you wish me to and we can hold hands across the web and finally exhale and say, "We've got this, baby doll. We've got each other."

horizon

On my morning walk around the park, I fell into a black hole and ended up in Tokyo. This is not true. But it IS true in another universe. In this universe, however, I did not fall. Instead I slightly tripped over the curb and almost stepped on a dead bird. The weather made up for these incidents, though. It was overcast, but not cold. Just crisp like a dead bird on a sidewalk in Tokyo. Crisp air, cloudy sky, and apparently the sprinklers in the park had been on all night because everything was moist. Ewww, sorry! I said moist! Everything was dewy. Uh, everything was... saturated. Aqueous. Damp. Slippery. Okay, wet. Everything was wet.

As I was aimlessly wandering around and trying to shake the bizarre dreams from my head that I seem to have on a nightly basis, I couldn't help but imagine I was in the Northwest. I imagine being in the Northwest more than is probably healthy because all it tends to do is make me crave crave crave and then suffer suffer suffer. But whatever. There's something so right about that environment for my soul. A rainy, light jacket day is basically a Xanax for me. Maybe I should chase after this groovy feeling? Maybe I should pack up my bags and hitchhike/drive my little white 2004 Ford Focus out to a place under the clouds and by the sea where I can be comfortably introverted and pale.

Then again, I am chronically suffering from a symptom known as The Grass is Always Greener on the Other Side. And, technically, the grass IS greener in the Northwest. Or rather, the moss. I run away to places I imagine to be one way only to find out that they are not. I continually fall into these black holes in my mind, expecting to end up in a location my soul knows through and through. Instead I end up in foreign lands where I wander the streets looking for something to eat. I order what I think is a grilled cheese and end up with a dead bird on my plate. No, not a dead bird. A galaxy. I end up with a galaxy on my plate and soon I am eating everything, including the black hole which was my only way back to the place where I started.

Whoa. Mind blown.

And I have no clue where I'm going with this. I guess this is just another post where I talk vaguely about an unmet need, where I try to dig deeper into why I want something but instead I wander off into outer space and Asian markets. There are black holes everywhere, folks, and maybe the trick is to stop avoiding them, to stop apologizing for your curiosity, to stop viewing your falls as mistakes. Sometimes it takes a fall to finally see where your feet meet the sky. What's up and what's down? Ultimately that's up to you to decide.

give me a catnap or some catnip, preferably both

So apparently that whole "lack of sleep turns you into an asshat" thing wasn't just a myth, an urban legand, a scary story parents told their ill-behaved children so that they would finally fall asleep at 8pm -- just in time for the parents to settle down in front of a screen with their half-frozen mashed potatoes and watch a situation comedy and not talk. In other words, sleep seems to be important. Nine out of ten doctors would recommend sleep. Who is this lone doc who pooh-poohs the naturally recurring state characterized by altered consciousness? A fool, that's who. A fool with a PhD and bad handwriting and even badder advice. Badder is a word? It is? I mean, I know baddest is a word because it's printed on a bumper sticker on my car: "Baddest Bitch in the 'hood!" Don't drive while drowsy, by the way. That's bad.

I've been drowsy since the day I was born. That is entirely false. In fact, I was a little Mexican jumping bean as a child, although I was clearly not Hispanic. I was, and still am, as white as they come. And they come pretty white these days! Just look at Taylor Swift. I cannot for the life of me imagine a whiter girl than she. Except for me. Shake it off or whatever. My song would be "Sleep It Off" and it would be a lullaby and it would work. It would put everyone with insomnia to sleep for 100 years until a charming prince/princess came along and exclaimed, "For the love of bad bitches everywhere, wake up! Have you not heard your phone alarm going off for the past 36,524 days?! Well, everyone else in the kingdom has. And by the way, you've missed a lot of stuff while you were off in dreamworld. I don't want to tell you too much, but let's just say Florida no longer exists and humans now have lizard tongues."

From the freakout I had earlier about who knows what to the meltdown I had just now over I have no idea, it's time to realize that all of the signs point to GET MORE SLEEP. I know, I know. Now to make an effort to get that vital shut-eye. But I don't have the energy to make an effort! This is half of a joke, folks. Which, if you are even slightly competent in math, means that I am half serious. Half joke plus half non-joke equals a whole... a whole lotta something. A whole lotta yadda yadda yadda. Whole. Complete. One. One of these days I'll learn that naps exist for a reason. In the meantime, I will probably continue to be a yawning asshat with good intentions and bat bitch bumper stickers and dreams of being an Anglo-Saxon jumping bean once again.

watch

I am still struggling with the first sentence. No, not even the first sentence -- I wish it was that easy. I am mostly struggling with the entire piece. The entire piece of what? Exactly. I don't know. I don't know if I even have ideas anymore. Does creativity start to fade when you blow out the candles on your 30th birthday cake? I didn't blow out candles, so who can say? Oh wait, I did blow out candles. Did I make a wish? I'm sure that I did. I'll take any opportunity to make wishes. My wishes are never indulgent. My wishes are always anxieties, pleadings, more of a prayer than an inwardly expressed desire for something frivolous and fun. I don't do frivolous and fun. I didn't even eat a slice of my birthday cake.

I was half joking about creativity disappearing once you hit the 30-year mark. It probably sticks around, but now it's hiding in corners and crawl spaces, being a stubborn, elusive little bitch. Come out come out wherever you are, creativity! I see you! Okay, I don't actually see you because you are transparent, but sometimes the light sneaks in through the attic window and reflects off of your pocket watch and I catch a glimpse of your whereabouts. That's right, creativity carries around a pocket watch. The watch, of course, doesn't tell the actual time -- at least not the time we are accustomed to. It tells it's own time, but it never tells anyone the time. Am I making you angry yet with my bizarre "story" about a ghostly creative spirit in an attic with a watch securely attached to their ghostly lapel? I know I'm already confused and exhausted with this post. Then again, most of my days are spent in a state of confusion and exhaustion. And in a liquid state. I can morph into liquid whenever I need to. I am Alex Mack! Some of you Nickelodeon darlings get what I'm saying! Anyway. Sigh.

The whole world is covered in wrist watches and I've been spending my time searching for that one broken pocket watch. I am going to keep searching, though, because I made a wish. And I made a cake. And I hope that this time around I allow myself to take a bite.

life is like sliced bread: just kidding, it's not: the true story of sandwiches: what is true? what is false?: now a major motion picture

I know it is entirely too early to tell, but today feels much better than yesterday. It's not surprising, though, because like I said in my last post, every other day is good. One crazy-curmudgeon-sour-puss-everyone-is-stupid day followed by a oh-hello-there-seagull-eating-trash-in-the-park-parking-lot-aren't-you-a-beautiful-creature-my-lord-isn't-everyone-and-everything-glorious day.

I guess it's not this drastic all of the time, thank goodness. And maybe it would do me well to stop thinking that every other day will be shit -- that would put a huge dark cloud over my "off days" the second I wake up, which sucks, and it would also screw up my "on days" because I would be dreading what's to come.

Come on, Meg! You are into that Buddhist hippie mindfulness Eckhart Tolle crap, right? Right! So harness the power of now! Live in the now! Now is the time! Now you realize there IS no time! No time except for right now and also dinnertime. I love dinner so so so much. Just me and wasabi sandwiches (it's a thing, I promise) and television. I know, that's not a very "mindful" dinner, but... But I am still a beautiful creature, just like that seagull eating trash in a parking lot! Except I'm eating a bizarre Asian-American culinary creation on the couch.

Are sandwiches American? Does any country claim to be the birthplace of the almighty sandwich? Hold on a sec -- Okay, so apparently there is an Earl of Sandwich? John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich. He didn't invent sandwiches, but according to a totally legit website, the Earl made them popular. And I guess this all took place in England or whatever, but America and England are pretty much the same country, right? I mean, not right, but also right. Like, I am right and I am wrong. I am happy and I am sad. I am on and I am off. But today! Today I am on. Or rather, right NOW, in this moment, the only moment that has every existed, I am on, I am okay, I am proud that the gays can finally marry.

Yeah for gays! Yeah for seagulls! Yeah for earls and sandwiches and deep breaths and ice cubes I can chew and the days that I can choose to be whatever I want them to be. Isn't it a relief? Isn't it a relief to know that we are the puppet masters in our own lives? Yep. It definitely is.

hook

Every other day I feel like a saint. Okay, maybe not a saint, but I at least feel nice. Relatively nice to myself, not not nice to others -- an all-around okay human being. And then the days in between? Well, I become a bit of a beast. I see the world through the eyes of a curmudgeon and I feel like tripping everyone I walk past. No, not tripping them. That would lead to a confrontation. And even in my edgiest moments, I would much rather disappear than engage in a fistfight... Mostly due to the fact that I have noodle arms and probably the worst upper hook this side of the Mississippi. Where is Mississippi, by the way? Is it by one of the Carolinas? Up until right now I had forgotten that South Carolina existed. Oh! And West Virginia! There isn't a North Virginia, correct? Okay, just checking. Quick! Draw me a map on the back of a cocktail napkin while I drink the cocktail you ordered in order to chill the bleep bleep out.

Where was I? Oh right. Grumpy Pants Meg. Sour Puss Wiems. Totally Awful Attitude and Geographically Impaired Lady. JK, I ain't no lady, not even when I'm wearing a skirt. Or a dress. Or a neon sign around my neck that reads "LADY." Not even then. Anyway, I need to find ways to counteract my crappy mood on those days when I am not a pseudo-saint. Meditation? Okay, sure. Mantras? Why not. Muscle relaxers? If only.

But seriously, the world doesn't need anymore bad vibes. I don't want to be the non-lady, fake saint who contributes to the blahs that seems to be everywhere these days. Maybe I can begin by smiling more and scowling less -- unless it's at a strange man because those dudes get the wrong idea. I need my Bitch Face for them. But for everyone else, I promise to be more pleasant. I promise to be more compassionate. And I promise to never swing my arm at you unless it is to give you a high five and wish you all the peace and happiness in the world.

fragment

The problem I come across with writing blog posts... Or writing letters... Or writing reviews/essays/short stories/poems/wills/customer complaints/customer compliments/grocery lists is that I do not know how to begin.

I don't know how to start off the piece with a killer first line. Some prolific writer wrote in some book somewhere that the perfect first sentence may be the 187th sentence you write. Or something like that. So I guess that means we keep writing and writing and writing and editing and revising and rewriting and finally -- ahhhh. There we go. There's the sentence on the page/screen/sidewalk and it is perfection.

No, not perfection. Please don't get caught in the perfection trap (again), Meg. Besides, if the first sentence is perfect, then is it all downhill from there? Unless you make yourself crazy by making every sentence that follows just as perfect... But don't do that. Maybe don't think so much about it?

Maybe what I need to do is try a zen-like approach to writing, which means I don't write and instead sit on a black cushion for 12 hours a day getting hit on my back with a bamboo stick. Okay, no. It means that I write when I write, I chop wood when I chop wood.

Most likely I won't be chopping wood anytime soon, although the days are getting brisker. But I will be writing, and a very important step in the process of writing is to, well, actually write.

I think about writing, I stress out from thinking about writing, I distract myself from the stress of writing by not writing and instead I busy myself by chopping wood and/or taking important quizzes on BuzzFeed to find out which Disney Princess I am. And this needs to stop.

There are so many lumberjacks out there that can do a better job at wood chopping than I. So let me let them chop the wood while I write about the ax separating the fibers along the grain. And sure, there are also countless writers out there who can construct a better first sentence than I can, but even imperfect logs burn and create a fire that can warm an army.

I'm on my mark. Now it's time to go.

harvest

I worry I am becoming less creative the older I get. I worry that I begin too many statements and questions and commands with the word "I." I used to worry that I used the word "and" in excess, but I don't worry too much about that anymore. I worry that one day I will realize that I've never tasted all of the fruit in the world and I will be crushed beyond belief. All it is is a part of a flowering plant, the means by which these plants disseminate seeds. And it also happens to be the subject of still life paintings. The apple was the one thing Eve could not resist. Is it still life when you are cast out from your home due to an all-too-human surrender? You surrender to what some may consider sin; you consider the flesh divine.

There I go on another tangent. Maybe my entire life has been a tangent? I am not sure I exactly understand the definition of "tangent," though. I guess a lot of my writing is mere stream-of-consciousness. That style can be exhausting for not only the reader, but for the writer as well. Sometimes I want to dam up that stream, you know? Not that much electricity would be generated from my stream. I am not sure I exactly understand how dams work. Or streams. Streams lead to oceans, correct? And do fish swim against or with the current? Currently I don't care. If I don't care, why do I keep asking questions? There I go again.

And again I've written another blog post that doesn't quite say much (while at the same time saying so much!!! right?!?! like, read between the lines, man!!! or woman! female followers, hello! i appreciate you!). I am not sure I exactly understand how to use the mighty parenthesis. But why do I feel the constant need to be exact? Maybe living in the exact, in the precise, in the supposedly "all-knowing" is all crap. It's a delusion, it's a destination that will never be reached, it's the apple at the top of the tree that upon closer inspection is actually not an apple at all. It's the moon. It was an optical illusion and now you can't trust your eyes, your mind, or the moon. There is no creativity to be found when you are too busy doubting the mess. Sometimes inaccuracy offers us the fruit of its labors. It's up to us to step outside and take a bite.