Friday, May 29, 2015


I never know how to start posts. I feel like I need to open with a joke or something. Okay, so knock knock. Who's there? Pizza. Pizza who? Pizza poop. I must confess that this is in no way an Original Meghan Joke. Unfortunately. It was told to me, on numerous occasions, by a 5-year-old black boy. The only reason I mentioned he was of African descent is because, let's face it, li'l black kids are the cutest. So are Asian children. WELL, THEY ARE.

Now that I've gotten the introduction to this post out of the way, let me conclude it with a moral. Oh wait, I guess I need to fill this in with something. There's always a middle, isn't there? There is. Knock knock. Who's there? Hippie Meg. Hippie Meg who? Hippie Meg is slooooowly returning. I may be moving like a glacier towards a "better version" of me, but at least I'm moving. And thanks to climate change, I am melting at an alarming rate. Point is, my icy heart is becoming a compassionate one once again. Sorta. Like I said, it's a slow process.

I am embarrassed to admit this, but the biggest hurdle I have to overcome is exercising too much. I know for a lot of folks that seems like the lamest hurdle. And to many it doesn't even seem like a hurdle. Exercise is good for you, yeah? Yeah, sure. But when you do it as a means to escape any and all negative emotions, no matter how small, the benefits begin to dwindle. And then when running becomes a punishment, a way to purge, it definitely does not fall on the beneficial side. And then there's the whole I-can't-miss-a-day-even-though-I-sprained-a-muscle-in-my-back thing. "Oh, looks like you had an apple. Better run an extra 3 miles to make up for it." "It's so so so heartbreakingly beautiful outside, but too bad. You have to run on this ecologically unfriendly conveyor belt in an ecologically unfriendly building surrounded by assholes and jarring noises. YOU HAVE TO. I am your inner critic and I am a dictator and I am the REAL asshole here!"

So this needs to stop.

I am stubborn, to put it mildly. And if I am able to follow these strict rules day in and day out, then I have it in me to break these rules and survive -- no, thrive. Instead of demanding perfection from myself, what if I demand kindness? Specifically kindness to myself. Eventually I won't have to demand anything from anyone and can instead be a blissed out melted iceberg who steals crass knock knock jokes from enchanting ethnic children. I can do this! I can I can I can.

Moral of the story/post: I can.

I am hopeful. I hope that I am hopeful. I hope that I don't become discouraged when my hope is hidden away somewhere. It will return, it always does. I am a warrior with a world of possibilities waiting for me.

Knock knock.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015


Tuesdays are notoriously weird, right? I guess today hasn't been weird. It has just been sad. Please don't blame it on the weather. I'll explain later.

Stoic after stepping in some dog shit, I decided showering might be a good idea. It was approaching 5:30pm. Most people take showers well before the evening news. Well, I ain't most people, buster.

I turned the radio on, washed away the grime of the day, and then proceeded to cry when KRCL played "Under My Thumb" by the Stones. God. That song. Every time.

And I see and read about all of my failed romances successfully existing in foreign countries. They lead catalog worthy lives. Always smiling, always parasailing, always wearing the right shade of blue with the right fit of jeans. Casual, yet classy. How do they do it? How do they pool together their pennies to create such a fantasy life? And why is my life spent showering at dinner and crying naked?

It would do me a world of good to quit comparing. It would do me a world of good to fix and eat and enjoy a sandwich. It would do me a world of good to let go and let god. Kidding. Although I am open to the idea of prayer. But just the idea.

I am open to almost no one these days. It becomes a colossal challenge to place yourself bare in front of another person only to have them tell you it's just the rain that's making you sad. It's just the weather.

But it's not the rain. It's not the shower. The tears didn't come until after when I was drying off. And the tears came before as well. Precipitation does not deplete one's brain of serotonin. Precipitation just makes the dog shit easier to clean off of your old shoe.

And now alone I will sit outside where I am comfortable and become too comfortable once again with Sylvia Plath. I started diving into her journals. We all know I can't swim, but that won't stop me from going to the deep end of her pool. I am both delighted and terrified to think that it may be my pool as well. You are a deep well, Sylvia, and I have quietly brought my bucket. I don't care about the rain above; it's what's beneath that counts.

Tuesdays are a little weird, though. I blame it on the weather because why not, why not.

Sunday, May 24, 2015


My favorite favorite favorite day of the week. If I was slightly less clever (or more clever?), I would say, "Sunday? More like FUNday!" But it's not that I find Sunday particularly fun. I find it holy in my own little ways. It is quiet, it is contemplative, it is a relief. And I guess those three things can be fun, right? They aren't inflatable bounce house fun, but what really is?

I sounded so hopeless in my last post. And I was. I still have these crashing waves of hopelessness that knock me out more often than not. I struggle to make it through a single day -- I create pointless rituals and goals to propel me throughout the day. I don't know why I am so astronomically hard on myself. Does this neurotic behavior simply come with being human? But we all know I am more cat than human. So what's the deal?

I believe a part of the "problem" is that I am more or less directionless. Having a purpose is so important for my emotional well-being. I am not sure where to begin to find that purpose. I think I have it on occasion, but then it fades away quickly and I am left, yet again, wandering.

Self-reflection. I realize this is a good place to start. I feel as though all I do is self-reflect. Sometimes I think I think too much. Sometimes I think taking a break from thinking would be the best thing I could do. I also think getting rid of the "I" would be advantageous. I I I. I start one too many sentences with "I." I did it again! I can't help it! It is really challenging to not talk of oneself on a personal blog. I don't know. I know. I am not sure if I don't know or if I know.

I will begin small. I will begin by cutting myself some slack. That actually isn't "small." That is a huge leap forward. Once I quit beating myself up for the most minuscule offenses, perhaps I can start seeing everything more clearly and with more hope in my heart. Let's hope so.

Treat yourself with love right now as well. We won't get anywhere good if we aren't good to the person we are with 24/7.

Thursday, May 21, 2015


I need to take a trip down to a jungle to take a trip IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. I need my doors of perception cleansed. I need to change my perspective, my attitude, my outlook, my path, etc. I wonder why everyone is an asshole and then I briefly pause to consider, "Maybe I'm the asshole?" I just might be.

I want to be kinder. I used to be so kind. I just feel mean now. Mean, robotic, and so sad. There are moments when I am hit with a whole bunch of hope, though. There are sunny periods that lift me out of my fog. But they are just moments, periods. It feels as if depression is the norm and that everything else is just a passing phase.

I don't know where to start. I guess wanting to be kinder is a good start. But where do I go from here? It's not enough to want something; I might actually have to put in some elbow grease here.

I wish I could sleep. I wish I didn't wake up multiple times a night to attend to cold sweats and my bladder. I wish I didn't dream of tragedies and exclusions. There is hardly rest throughout my day. How can I rest when I put all of my energy into avoidance?

I will write something happier tonight. I don't want to unnecessarily worry anyone. Then again, maybe I shouldn't always try to gloss over things to please others. Hmm. That's a thought.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015


Pity party over here in my neck of the woods. Except I hate parties, so it's not exactly a party. And I don't live in the woods, I live in a condo with pink carpeting across the street from a church and down the street from another church. Oh, and there's a Baskin-Robbins close by as well. I'll have two scoops of the mint chocolate church, please. And who do I have to crucify around here to get some sprinkles?

Anyway, it's probably this weather that's making me feel lethargic and blue. NOT. Psych. Psych/not/not not psych. I love this rainy, stormy weather. I guess it still can make me somewhat melodramatic. But I am pretty sure I know what is making me feel crummy. It's a secret. It's a secret because I feel shame. I don't want to confess to the world right now. It's times like these that I wish I was Catholic. I would go to confessional, like, 24/7. Can you go to confessional 24/7? You probably can't, huh? A priest has got to eat and sleep. I wish I could become a priest. No sex, just communion wafers. And I look good in black and white. That's all I ever wear anyway. Oh, guess I could become a nun? But I want to be a priest, dammit. Who do I have to crucify around here to get to be a priest?

Other than feeling bad for myself, things seem to be going okay in my neck of the condo with pink carpeting. Well, kinda. Things are so so. I feel stuck, which is normal. Maybe I purposely stay stuck because it is normal, because it is familiar. And it's safe. If I don't try, I don't fail. If I don't fail, I protect my ego. If I protect my ego, I will never reach enlightenment. And who would want supreme insight? I just want two scoops of ice cream and some damn sprinkles.

I don't quite know how to wrap up this post. Am I supposed to say something uplifting and hopeful? I guess I could. I can scour the Internet for some inspirational quote and pretty image and pretend all is THUMBS UP again. But that sounds like a lot of effort and it would require a lot of energy I am not entirely sure I have at the moment. So instead I will leave you with this nun joke and a picture of creepy babies in canoes.

What do you call a nun in a wheelchair? Virgin Mobile.

Monday, May 18, 2015


My morning walks have been superb these past few days. Blame it on the weather, blame it on a different route. Blame it on me ignoring my phone and actually paying attention. Whatever has shifted has been a welcome shift. I immensely look forward to the hour (a whole hour!) in the AM when I can wander around side streets and sidestep the cracks and ants that litter my path.

Except it's not "my" path. I am still a foreigner here, an odd duck in a land of duck hunters. I like to imagine, though. I like to imagine when I am walking by houses with struggling flowerbeds and sleepy windows that this -- this home here -- is my home. This is where I come to each early evening, weary feet and hungry bones, and hang up my hat. And I literally hang up a hat because in my story I am some kind of an official, someone who is respected and honorable. Maybe I am a park ranger. That seems like the obvious choice. Or maybe, by an odd twist of fate, I am the police chief. I don't make arrests, however. I give out medals and sashes and pins and ribbons to citizens who rescue the dying honeybee I saw crawling on the path that is not my own. I reward those who forget themselves.

I don't think I have ever forgotten myself. In fact, I cling tightly, desperately to myself. I don't know if I have anything else to cling to but myself. No, I take that back. I have my walks, I have my adopted paths, I have my fantasies, and, perhaps most importantly, I have my hopes that one day these paths, these dreams, these struggling flowerbeds and sleepy windows will be home. My home.

Saturday, May 16, 2015


I want to go back to grade school. I want to go back so I can learn the following:

*A language, preferably French or Swedish or NAVAJO.
*An instrument, preferably something NOT NERDY.
*Directions. I really think I either missed the day when we learned how to read a map or else my elementary school just sucked.
*How to floss properly. I believe I now know how to do this, but it sure took me decades to figure it out.

I want to go back to junior high (NOT) so I can do the following:

*Not have my first kiss by the lockers with everyone around chanting, "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
*Eat way more junk food. Enjoy it while you can, Meggie.
*Skip class a few times and smoke a cig under the bleachers. You have a get out of jail free card for virtually anything in junior high. Might as well use it.
*Make better friends -- and keep them.

I want to go back to high school (pssssh, no way) so I can, like, be more involved. You know, join clubs and run for office and just be really obnoxiously involved ONLY so I can get into a cool college and have scholarships and have a much brighter, more lucrative future. I also wish I had been PROM QUEEN only so I could give a speech exactly like Cady Heron's in Mean Girls.

I live in the past. I know I know I know. But I might live in the future more? I keep creating these grand schemes and plans for my life, but the missing piece is that I never quite follow through with anything. I either let self-doubt stop me or I rapidly grow bored and move on to the next person/place/thing. Bad habits, all of them. I'm not going to lecture you/me on staying in the present moment because, like, we get it. Time for me to walk my walk, though.

Speaking of walks, should I take a quick walk in the damn rain while I can? Damn rain. I love the damn rain. And I love my damn walks. I may make grandiose plans for my life, but when it comes down to it all I really want is the space and time to take my damn walks in peace. They mean so much to me.

I still need to know where the North Star is in the sky. I'll keep searching and eventually find it. There are just some things you have to learn on your own.

Friday, May 15, 2015

after all

People said really, really nice and encouraging things to me on Facebook about a week ago and it took me until this morning to actually read them. Why? Did I not think I deserved those nice words? Did I feel like a fraud? Was I embarrassed for being so open and vulnerable? Yes to all of the above. I am such a crumb bucket to myself. What a shame, too. I have said this before, but if I wasn't myself I would totally love myself. I would be, like, "Who is that rad chick? Man oh man! I want to be her BFF! Or, hell, even date her! Will you marry me, Meg? Please love me!" And I would probably love the other me and we'd run away to a New Mexican ranch and paint, raise horses, photograph found objects against harsh backgrounds, get super into soap making, catch fireflies (are there fireflies in New Mexico?), read forgotten poetry on some kind of a porch, and drink in the stars nightly. If only I wasn't myself.

So what else is new in my very small world? I'll tell you what's old -- I am starting to get the itch to move to the Oregon Coast. Like I said, this is old news. Not new news. I have wanted to reside in the Beaver State since before I was born. Yes, I was up there in Fraggle Rock (because that's the spirit world) planning my Oregon Coast existence. Okay, it could be Portland first and then the Coast. Is "Coast" capitalized? It is, right? Fugg it! Who cares! This is not an English class! This is a poorly constructed blog! Anyway, Portland first so I can meet my soul mate and have a bit of a social life and get all of that hipsterness out of my system before I retire to the coast/Coast. Unless I somehow make a "shit ton" of money then SEE YA I'm moving to Paris. But before all of these things can come together, I must come back to a better spot within and with myself. Basically, I gotta stop being an asswipe to myself and start liking myself a lot. Like, LIKE LIKE. Not just "Meh, I'm okay."

I'm better than okay, okay? I am grand. And I know it seems like I am going through a depressive phase -- maybe I am -- but I do feel hopeful. And I wasn't hopeful at all about two months ago. Hope is a big improvement. Plus, I am eating well! My fingers don't cause me grief! I am reaching out and asking for help, even though it's really difficult most of the time! Quick, give me a beret so I can throw it up in the air like Ms. Mary Tyler Moore and exclaim, "I'm gonna make it after all!" Because I am.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015


Currently struggling with:

*Reading one book at a time
*Finishing a book
*Saving the planet
*Responding to various messages, including smoke signals

Currently not struggling with:

*Watching Fraggle Rock
*Running away

Hi! I am back from the land of the stomach flu. Or food poisoning. Or some such ailment that had me puking and whining and sleeping and eventually eating a box of popsicles all day/night. I feel 93% better this morning, thank the buddha. Thank him! Thank Buddha, but expect him to not say "You are welcome." Expect him to say nothing. He'll just serenely smile and lightly touch the ground or something. Ugh, come on, Gautama. Because there is still 7% of me that is wooey wooey, I decided to stay home from work today. HEY, WHY NOT?! There are episodes of Fraggle Rock which need to be watched and they certainly can't be watched if I am on the clock.

Okay, so here are a few more things WITH WHICH I am struggling... I am having a difficult time being off of Adderall. Well, I am not having a difficult time -- like, my life really has improved since stopping. It has! I am physically healthier, my fingers have stopped aching, I have a better relationship with food, I am not a complete asshole to people (just about 7% of an asshole), I am more creative, etc. So why am I having a difficult time? For starters, it's an addiction. My brain craves it. Second, I struggle with motivation and, yes, focus. I feel like an idiot off of it, but I know that's "normal" to feel that way. And I know it's not entirely true. It has been over a month since I've been off of it and I still feel like I am recovering. I will continue to not take Adderall, but I need to find something healthy to replace it. Buddha? Yeah, actually. That might do the trick. BUDDHA IS A TRICK. A serene, earth-touching trick.

I am beginning to read Walden. I feel like I've already read it since it is so heavily quoted. Like, I've probably read the entire book on various coffee mugs, tote bags, and motivational posters. Thoreau had his faults, duh, but so does everyone. The core of his philosophy is one I can jive with. Jive with? With which I can jive. Jive? Jive. Yeah, jive. I really should have read Walden in my 20s, but I was too busy reading the Beats and pretending like I was a female Kerouac. Oh, sweetie Meg. Sigh.

Okay, time for breakfast. Maybe. Can my stomach handle a regular breakfast? It may be a breakfast of popsicles, pudding, and Pepto. Hey, at least I'm eating.

Now do yourself a favor and watch the first episode of Fraggle Rock. I dare you to not be 93% blown away by how deep and philosophical it is. It is so deep, you guys. And girls. And guy-girls. <3 <3 <3

Monday, May 11, 2015

pinochle and soup

I am trying out this new thing where I just eat whatever whenever without thinking about it too much. I mean, I still way overthink it, but I try to eat whatever I am craving and then be done with it. Not sit there and panic. Not immediately try to "get rid" of whatever I consumed. I am trying to occupy my thoughts with other, non-food related things, such as art projects I want to do, hairstyles I want to have, places I want to visit. Oh, and I am also trying to branch out and, you know, HELP SOCIETY. I spend far too much time concerned about me me me and it has to stop. So sign me up at the soup kitchen! Give me a shovel and some seeds and I'll start planting trees! Does your grandmother in the nursing home need someone to come by and visit? I will gladly play pinochle with her. And no, it's not spelled "peeknuckle." My point is, I am trying. Ugh, I am trying so hard. Do I try to not try so hard? Or is the metaphorical blood, sweat, and tears appropriate? I guess the sweat and tears are not metaphorical. I sweat in the morning when I am on my walk outside because I overdress and then forget that the sun is warm. And tears? Psssh. I wear my damn heart on my sleeve, people. My literal heart on my metaphorical sleeve.

Let's see, what else is new with me these days? Well, there's one thing that is kinda new, but it's a secret. I have a lot of secrets, yet I will tell you almost anything if you just ask. Ask away! Go away! Come back! Stay awhile. But don't get too comfortable. "Not getting too comfortable" might also be a new thing I'm trying out these days. It is too easy to fall into the trap of routine. A lot of routines are A-OK and probably good for us psychologically, but there are other routines that are mind numbing and creativity killers. No more numbing, no more killing, no more trying to soothe myself 24/7. Maybe I can soothe and delude myself 23/7, but give me that hour of discomfort and SHEER TERROR so that I can be awake for at least a part of my life.

Awake! I am starting to wake up. I think it's high time I had some breakfast. I am not going to think too much about breakfast, though! I am simply going to eat it and enjoy it and think about how many people and events went into the production of my breakfast (and give thanks!) and then brush my teeth and brush up on my pinochle/peeknuckle skills. Your grandma is waiting for me! Life is waiting for me. It's about time I went after it.

Saturday, May 9, 2015


If smoking wasn't atrociously bad, I would definitely smoke a cigarette in a long filter every morning while I typed away on my pretentious vintage typewriter. I would then tip toe across the bare room and begin splashing paint on the brick wall in a fit of something, whether it be rage or pure, unadulterated joy. I would be alone. Oh how I would be alone. I would have the blank space and the open day to continue my long filtered ramblings and my paint splattered thoughts. My life would look too messy in a frame.

But this isn't my life. And smoking is bad. And there are constant interruptions and brushes with reality. I fight so hard to create and keep this bubble for myself. It always pops. It always proves to be too fragile to last. The space outside of my space gets me down and so I keep looking down. I know I speak highly of looking up, but I often dismiss my own advice. If I stop fighting, maybe the ground wouldn't be my only option. If I stop fighting, maybe I can start noticing the shadows on the sidewalk. Connecting the pieces, I attribute the shadows to the sun. And then I can't help but look up and give thanks.

Less fighting, fewer filters, more non-bubbles. I will pop that bubble with the cigarette I'll never smoke and inhale what's beyond the brick wall. I assume it's oxygen. I assume it's better over there.

I hope I'm right.

Friday, May 8, 2015


People/places/things I forget are/were real and not mythical:

*George Washington

Imagine Jurassic Park but instead of dinosaurs the scientists bring back presidents. Lincoln wandering around the jungle hunting down George W. Oh hold on a sec. Is this Presidential Edition of Jurassic Park for living or dead presidents? Both? Let's say both. I'm terrible at making decisions and I also wish to include everyone.

Let's adopt clouds.

Where is the frying pan? I need some eggs this morning. Sorry to gross out all of my vegan followers. I kid. I don't have any vegan followers. OR DO I?! Reveal yourselves. Oh wait! I can think of at least one vegan follower! And I like her so much. Like, LIKE LIKE.

How about we stop for one g-damn second and wash our g-damn sheets? I'll tell you why. Because I always forget to put the sheets in the dryer and then I go to sleep with wet sheets and cold feet.

When does the sun hang the highest in the sky? Is it around 3:33pm or something? That's when I feel my most awfulest. MOST AWFULEST. Lately those crummy feelings have been happening later, though. Around 5:33pm. It's curious that this is the case because 333 is my favorite number and 5+3+3=11 and 11 is just two loners coming together to create an unstoppable duo! A power couple! A dream team of sorts.

Who wants to buy me a plane ticket? To anywhere. Anywhere that doesn't have to fly over the Bermuda Triangle or a field of sheep. I don't want to scare the sheep, I just want to eat them with a side of fried eggs JOKING that wouldn't taste really great.

Good morning! Keep your feet warm and moving. Research some presidents. Learn some trivia you can use to impress strangers at a future cocktail party. Seek out cocktail parties with which you can fill your calendar. Keep a calendar. Keep track of the times you do and do not step on sidewalk cracks. Crack open that egg and fry up some excitement into your life. FIST PUMP.

Thursday, May 7, 2015


Preface: I am about to sound stupid. OKAY SO -- There is this bird that is driving me bonkers. It's somewhere in the backyard and every morning, without fail, it squawks for a good couple of hours. And it is constant. There is no pause. It is just "squawk! squawk! squawk!" And look, I know that nature sounds are therapeutic and kinda my current "thing." I listen to humpback whales on compact disc, for hell's sake! But this bird is so terribly distracting that I had to close the window and put in earplugs. I think I may have even told the bird to "get a life." Okay, I didn't tell the bird that, but I got close.

I feel like I can't write with earplugs in. Like it is suffocating my brain or something. My brain can't breathe, thus it can't think, thus it can't write. But maybe that has been my problem all along -- I think too much and it gets in the way of my writing. Drop the thoughts and the words will come. Build a baseball field of non-thoughts and the ghost of Shoeless Joe Jackson will bless you with endless material for short stories and one-act plays and movie scripts made for Kevin Costner.

Okay, I took out one of my earplugs to see if the sadistic bird was still doin' his thing. I assume the bird is male because males are great at annoying the crap out of me. Kidddddding but not really. Having only one earplug in is an odd sensation. It makes my head feel uneven. But at least my brain can take a few breaths. What if I had the world "BREATHE" tattooed on my knuckles? Just on one hand. That would mean I'd have to have two extra fingers or be a complete idiot when it comes to spelling.

I didn't mean to write all about birds and brains and the brains of birds and knuckle tattoos this morning. Then again, I didn't mean to write at all. I meant to make breakfast. I meant to make coffee! It's probably best I didn't make coffee, but it's a shame I haven't made breakfast yet. I will, though. I will make it with a bit of fear in my heart, which is the norm. Everything is just the norm, day in and day out. Wake up, walk outside, get annoyed at neighbors (WORKING ON DEVELOPING COMPASSION, I SWEAR), get annoyed at bird, get annoyed at brain, get annoyed at inability to write, get annoyed at the necessity of and desire for breakfast, get annoyed that I get annoyed, get annoyed that I get annoyed at getting annoyed, noy, noy, noy.

I just took out the other earplug. Now my head is balanced, but my emotions are still out of whack. Maybe a slice of dry toast will straighten things out. Maybe I should add more to the toast while I subtract some annoyances. Maybe I should just taste the toast and the emotions and see what I think. Pay attention for once. I might be surprised.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

morning (5/6/15)

On my walk this morning I was reminded of the following:

*How I used to write fiction.
I wrote a short story a few months ago, pretty much out of nowhere, and I was damn proud of it at the time. Laura has read it -- I'm not sure anyone else would be interested in it. It's wacky and could possibly get me checked into some kind of institution. Anyway, it was incredibly fun to write and I wonder wonder wonder why I don't write fiction more often. What is stopping me?

*How much I get grossed out by public displays of affection.

*How frustrating it is when people practically push me off the sidewalk while I'm walking. I am a ghost to everyone in Utah County!

*How funny it is that I get so frustrated at impolite people who practically push me off the sidewalk while I'm walking around like a ghost in Utah County.

*How much I miss painting.
Sure, I regrettably stopped taking art classes after a junior high teacher gave me a bad grade on a shading assignment, but I can still enjoy the act of painting being the NOVICE that I am. I enjoy painting, but I actually don't do much of it anymore. What is stopping me? Blessed be the day when I can create absurdist fiction and paint abstract whatever without any road blocks. But if there are blocks, let me write all over them and spray paint the sides neon green.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

tuesday moods

Surprise surprise, I've been melancholy lately. Well, I've been more angry than melancholy. Both are undesirable, but the anger does frighten me. I've never been much of an angry person. I am not quite sure where this angry is coming from. It feels alien and uncontrollable. I need to get rid of these hot coals, you know? I don't want to burn my hands. I also definitely don't want to burn anyone else's hands. No hand burning here, okay? Okay.

I checked out some CDs full of nature sounds tonight at the library. Like, 13 of them. I hope the humpback whales and rain forest birds help dispel some of these gunky emotions. I get that emotions -- all emotions -- are okay and should not be suppressed with whales and parrots. But I don't think I'm suppressing anything. I'm doing no pressing of any kind. Nope. No pressing of letters, no pressing of wine, and definitely no pressing of sup. Weird joke. I've been weirdin' it up since 1984, bitches.

Beautiful bitches. You are all beautiful/handsome/attractive/kindhearted bitches. I wish I could be more like you fine folks, actually. Lately I have felt like the scummiest scum. It might be wise for me to take an honest look at just how honest (or dishonest) I am being in my everyday life. I want to be the kind of person I'd like to be friends with. Why can't I be friends with myself right now?

I just purchased a book on conspiracy theories. And earlier I purchased eight -- EIGHT -- frozen burritos. If I could, I would have probably adopted eight cats tonight as well. One day. One day my impulsive burrito purchases will be replaced with impulsive cat adoptions. I'm fine with that.

I'm fine for tonight. Thanks for being here to listen. Love you, bitches.

Monday, May 4, 2015


What if I woke up this morning determined to be more spontaneous? I would go out and grab a LATTE (I always get black coffee! But not this time!) and then wander over to a tattoo parlor to get a face tattoo (I never get face tattoos! But I will this time!). Hey, it could happen! Actually, in all honesty, in all truthfulness, in all sincerity, in all pinkie promises, I would get a face tattoo. I considered it at one time! I won't tell you what it is, but let's just say it is not a teardrop or anything tribal.

Do not worry, mom and everyone else, I am not getting a face tattoo anytime soon. Maybe when I'm 80, but not now. I do, however, desire to be more spontaneous. I always thought I was spontaneous. No, dear. You aren't. You are impulsive, yes. You impulsively cut bangs, you impulsively send regrettable emails, you impulsively make huge life decisions based on a pretty picture or a subtle hint. You are good at those things. But spontaneity? You could stand to move that muscle occasionally. Don't let it fall into atrophy.

Do I start small or do I go big? I guess the whole point of spontaneity is to not PLAN out your spontaneity. That wouldn't be spontaneity; that would be called planning things out. Okay, noted. Besides, when I begin to plan plan plan, I never actually do do do (do do!) because I begin to psych myself out. The doubt creeps in, the self-consciousness settles in for a long stay, and then I give up. I would like to stop this cycle. I would like to take chances, push myself (in a loving way, of course!), be scared, learn to swim when I hit the water, so on and so forth. (May the fourth be with you? Sorry, sorry. I didn't want to make the joke, I really didn't. But I spontaneously decided to anyway.)

Get ready for me to make some serious and non-serious changes. Almost half of 2015 has passed and I haven't done a whole lot*. I don't want to see the other half of the year pass me by while I just sit around waiting for life to happen. I'm going to start doing the things I want to do and seeing the places I want to see. I am going to grow into the brave soul I know I am. She's in there! She just needs a little push. And maybe a latte with whole milk.

*I haven't done a whole lot except for actively working on my recovery from an eating disorder I've had for over 20 years, quitting a prescription drug that was highly addictive and destructive, being diagnosed with anemia and beating it (I think), opening myself up to other humans and making that priceless connection, and going back to being a blonde. Three hundred cheers for me!

(Check out this stupid photo. Apparently this is what the Internet thinks is spontaneous. I mean, they aren't WRONG.)

Sunday, May 3, 2015


There's something about the sky right now that reminds me of my childhood. The colors. The way they fade and blend and hint at a storm. It's not a threatening storm, though. It's a storm which washes away dust and reminds you of how thirsty you are. Have you forgotten to drink water today? What do you forget and what do you remember? The sky will tell you. Just be quiet long enough to listen.

Today was hard. It was beautiful and holy this morning, but for some reason it went downhill quickly. I was so cruel to myself. Some things never change. But I hope that is one thing that does change. I do not wish to come to the end of my life still an enemy to myself. I do not wish to be so wasteful, so oblivious.

And I'm sorry if I've pushed you away. I push people away for two reasons. One, to think, uninterrupted. Two, to pad myself against an inevitable end, be it death or a breakup or miles and miles and miles between us. The first reason gets my stamp of approval -- for we all need periods of solitude and isolation -- but the second reason is disheartening. And to push someone is so violent. I'm not a violent person, although who knows? Who knows. I may not be physically violent, but I just might be prone to throw out the occasional emotional sucker punch. I am sorry.

It's regrettable. All of this. The violence towards myself and the violence towards any possible intimate relationship with another human. I sever, I suffocate, I silence. I disappear and leave it without looking back. But that's not entirely true. I look back. Oh, how I look back. I am a 21st century pillar of salt. I long for. I linger around. I listen for signs of life in what I have already killed, hoping that time travel is possible, hoping that I can revive what was once alive long enough to look up at the sky with me, hand-in-hand, both of us believing we are brave enough to weather the storm.

And then the clouds crack open and we run for cover. Where is our shelter? Where is our home?

Friday, May 1, 2015

pow pow

I feel! I want! I need! I should! Who am I! What should I do! Where should I live! I hate you! I love you! I forgot who you were! I remember! Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours! bodies! suffering! magnanimity! Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!

The last half of that? Not my words. But who can really claim ownership of language, you know? Kidding. But who can really kid about something so serious? Why so serious? Why the long face? Hey, bartender! Why is there are horse in this bar? You folks serving horses now? Did you check his ID? I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that no one wants this horse here! I'm also going to go out on an actual limb and rescue this kitten who has climbed up a tree and is now stuck. I am a hero.

The last half of that? Not a joke. Well, a joke, but not a funny one. A confusing one. I am a hero.

I like horses. I do. It's just that I don't want to marry a horse. I don't. I do, however, wish to whisper to one. Not just one, but many! I will whisper for what feels like an eternity to a thousand horses across this great country of ours. Ours? Who can really claim ownership of land, you know? Land vs. language: a Pay Per View event. You pay for each view, that's how it works. View it once, pay once. It's not hard to figure this out, you guys. You guys like this post so far? No? Why are you still reading? Are you waiting for some more horse jokes? I know I am.

I also know I am hungry. I know that when one is hungry and has the incredible privilege of having a bounty of food within reach, one should probably eat. Puzzle pieces coming together. Amazing! I wish to share my meal with you. Do you like wasabi paste liberally applied to spinach leaves and placed in between two slices of French toast? I am hella joking about the French toast. I just use regular bread. Yep, regular old Freedom toast for my wasabi sandwich. Anyway, if that sounds almost sexual to you, I will create this delicacy for you. To you, for you, you do you. You know? No horses were harmed in the creating of this sandwich. (Although seven of them were killed in the writing of this post.) (Don't be horrified by the fate of the horses. Save your horror for the outcome of the land vs. language boxing match. Spoiler alert: No one wins, everyone falls into a black hole.)

I love myself. I love the slow but sure return of absurdity into my life. Roll with it. Ride this wave. Stop being so trapped in that box. Step into the ring and knock 'em all out. Giddyup.