401

Sometimes you make weird choices. For example, today on my morning walk I decided to read Lolita. That is fine. But maybe if I choose to read Lolita, do not choose to walk around a park with a playground and tweens playing soccer. Luckily I am a whisper of a girl (kidding! I am a THUNDERSTORM! a TORNADO! a TUBE OF VIOLENTLY SPINNING AIR!) and do not seem suspicious in the least... WHICH means I would be a most excellent spy. How does one become a spy? I am pretty sure you just join the FBI and then pay attention to the bulletin board in the employee lounge. Like, spy opening! Apply by Friday! And I would apply. And they would take one look at my non-tornado appearance and hire me. Do I get a trench coat? Do I have to carry a potted plant with me in my purse? But most importantly, do I still get health benefits and a 401K? Kidding, I have NO CLUE what a 401K is. Four hundred and one thousand dollars? You get $401,000 if you are employed by a company that offers a 401K? Like, here's $401,000... IF YOU WANT IT. Huh. Yeah, that's definitely what a 401K is.

I really believe, in my heart of tornado hearts, that Laura and I need to write together. We have written together and the results have been awesome, but we are currently too far away to be any kind of productive or consistent. So does this mean I move to Long Beach? Because I would. If I had a job. If I had a 401K. I guess I could always be an idiot and move there first and then hope I find a job within 3 months. People do that often, right? And some of them survive, right? Then again, I have never ever wanted to live in Long Beach. And I am probably not a Long Beach kind of gal. I am more of a hey-I-own-a-dreamcatcher-store-in-Eugene kind of gal. Or maybe I own an unfinished wood furniture store along the Oregon Coast, which is actually just a front for my spy business. Look at me! Owning businesses! Giving NONE of my employees a 401K. No way, man. That 401K is going directly into MY bank account. But I will give my employees free popcorn in the break room. Oh, what's that? The popcorn machine is broken? Well, I heard there's a Burger King down the street. Go buy the entire office some Whoppers! But I'm taking it out of your paycheck.

So I didn't mean to mention 401Ks in this post as often as I have. Or at all. Funny how life surprises you, huh? You know what else surprises you? Tornadoes, purses large enough to contain potted plants, liking Lolita despite the fact that Humbert Humbert is, well, a super creep. These are surprises. These are the things we don't expect. They are hidden behind shower curtains and will jump out and yell BOO. Just turn on the water. Drown out the surprises. Live a life of utter predictability. Stay in your storm cellar. It's cool down here. We even have popcorn.

My posts will get less bizarre soon, I promise. Now get back to work! I'm the boss! I'm the CEO of the world!

sunday confessional

Confession: Sometimes at the grocery store in the self-checkout line, I will say that I have one avocado when I really have two. Two for the price of one THAT IS WRONG.

Confession: The other day before we went to Lagoon, I told my dad I needed to stop at the grocery store (my life is apparently made up of trips to the grocery store) to get allergy medicine. LIE. I had forgotten my red lipstick and wanted to buy another tube. My comfort blanket can be found inside of a tube.

Confession: If the pope got, like, even more liberal and started ordaining women and marrying gays, I would consider becoming a nun.

Confession: I am terrified of going to the dentist.

Confession: I really need to go to the dentist.

Confession: I don't want to tell you why I really need to go to the dentist.

Confession: I think I might be autistic. But then again, doesn't this thought go through everyone's mind at some point? Or is that just me? Or is that just an autistic thing?

Confession: An ice cube fell on the carpet, I picked it up, and directly put it in my mouth.

Confession: I vacuumed a part of the carpet in my room that had turned gray because it was covered in so much dust. And by "dust" I mean human skin, clearly. Isn't that what dust is? Skin and nostalgia?

Confession: I have waaaay more interesting and possibly damning confessions that I shall not share with you today. But tomorrow? Maybe. Only if I am not too busy stealing avocados and reciting the Liturgy of the Hours.

secure

Don't walk away from your computer, Meghan! Sit. SIT BACK DOWN. Just write whatever. You can edit it later (but you won't) (because you don't like to edit) (or maybe because you forget) (you forget you like it). Eventually, however, walk as far away as you can from your computer. And by walk, I mean run. And after you are done running, start hiking. Stay hydrated. Hike until your legs give out and you have to rest under a cottonwood by river. Watch out for that anthill. Don't sit on a family of ants. Don't sit on any kind of family. Let families have their fun while you rest. Get away from that computer and get closer to yourself. You forgot a lot about what you like, huh? You have forgotten that you are afraid of heights, but only the kind where you are securely strapped in and enjoying cotton candy. If the rise in elevation leads to a scenic overlook with an abandoned eagle's nest, then good. Good. You are good with that. You are not secure in the slightest. There is no cotton candy except for the puffy clouds which can turn on you in a moment's notice. Notice the clouds. Notice the nest. Notice the struggling sun stretching out across the land you never knew you missed. You miss it so much that you do everything in your power to imagine this is just a ride. A ride is fun. A ride will end. A ride can be ridden again and again until you're sick and wish to go home. But here you are, home, at the top of a peak and you cannot stay. To be ripped away from one's home is like going through the tunnel of love without a heart. Or maybe you have two hearts. Two hearts too many because now you feel too much, but have nowhere to release this love. You have abandoned the nest -- or perhaps the nest abandoned you -- and now you wonder if that vulture will sneak its way in and claim ownership.

I keep thinking I don't want things to own me, which is why I keep giving things away. But sometimes I want to let go of that need for control and allow something or someone to own me. Maybe that means religion, maybe that means relationships. Maybe that means I just float down a river and hope for the best. I can swim, but maybe I can float. My life is one bizarre scenario after another littered with maybes and perhaps. Perhaps I would rather live in the ambiguous than the certain. Maybe I don't know where I'd rather live -- at the top of a peak or the depths of my psyche? They could very well be the same place. WELCOME TO MY TWILIGHT ZONE.

Yesterday I went to an amusement park. It was not like the amusement parks I frequent in my dreams. Not even close. But it was amusing, sure, at how much I longed to be on a farm, working with the land and wearing myself out just in time for a hearty meal at four. I would be in bed by eight with my thoughts, both of us exhausted and satisfied. We would start all over again the next day, tip toeing to not disturb the sun. Let it rest while we silently work. If I am going to be hot and tired after a couple of hours outside, I want it to be because I was reconnecting with animals and soil, not waiting in line to sit on a sticky seat next to a sticky child who is not mine. But let the child have fun. For the love of god and buddha and santa, let the child have fun.

stampede

I can't even imagine being 19. That age doesn't seem real. It does not exist, at least not in this new Universe. What is our Universe called? Milky Way? Hold on. That's our galaxy. And Universe probably shouldn't be capitalized. Should it? Should I shave my legs today? You can't even really tell my legs are hairy due to the fact that I have light blonde body hair. Except for in certain areas. My carpet, drapes, and AstroTurf are all delightfully mismatched. It keeps people guessing, not that anyone is around to do any guessing. But if they were, they would be guessing up a storm.

I have been cleaning out my room for the past century. Today I stumbled upon piles and piles of dust bunnies. It's laughable that I refer to them as bunnies because they were clearly elephants. The elephants were stampeding over my college diploma, shocking and sappy love letters, cringe worthy diaries, and empty pill bottles full of regretful decisions. I scooped up the debris from the wreckage of my past and tossed it all. Except for my diploma. I should hang on to that. But the rest of it! The rest of it can rest in peace. Not that I have made peace with all of my past, but I've made enough peace to move on. You just have to make a little piece of peace, not the whole cake. The cake can come later. Right now I will take what I can get.

I will start each paragraph with "I" because this is my blog.

I wish this was my vlog, which is a video blog for those of you not in the know. I would vlog tips on absolutely everything. Need to make a green smoothie to make you invincible, immortal, impossibly self-righteous? Watch my video! Need to throw a super cute baby shower for someone you secretly despise but keep around because they are your "ugly friend" and you look better when you are around them? Video! Need to feel bad about yourself? Watch my video on how I am expanding my family and my empire all with daddy's money! Pish posh. Whatever. Whatevs. The universe/Milky Way keeps turning.

Imagine being 19. Imagine no past. Imagine elephants in space, eating planets like peanuts. Imagine a time when you can eat the whole cake.

<3

okay

I try saving everyone like a modern day Millennial Jesus (kidding!), but I end up saving no one. What I mean is that I TRY SO HARD to make sure everyone is content and physically/mentally/spiritually okay that I end up frustrated with myself and them when they are not. Like, can't I just save the world? Or at least one person? Or at least one day? I am going to save the day! Except I can't. I can't save an hour, either, because time can't be saved. It rushes by like a train -- I am getting off track. I am getting off track and I am getting off the track because I do not wish to be hit by the time train today. Today I will be okay with not making everything okay. Goal.

I am not entirely sure what a trust fund is, but I do know I wish I could be a trust fund baby. I would get over the guilt of being a trust fund baby within a matter of minutes and then HOT DAMN! Time for me to waste away and wallow in a boatload of self-reflective behavior. I will not reread my last sentence because I don't think it made much sense, but I am too lazy to go back and edit. So instead of editing, I will ignore. Ignore > Edit. Anyway, what I'm struggling to say is that money would be great, wouldn't it? Just having so much disposable money to do whatever the fudge you want so that you never have to worry about blah blah blah never mind. What a tired thought. Yes, duh, Meg, money would be great. How about instead of wishing I had it, I actually go out there and hustle? Or maybe not hustle, but just work like a normal person? Am I a normal person? Or am I a modern day Millennial Lazy Alien Androgynous Fleshy Creature? I am not androgynous... YET. But I love the aesthetic. I love a lot of things I am not.

I want to write letters again. By hand, slowly, and with mistakes. I want to cross things out, decorate the envelope with stickers, and mail it to some sweetheart across the country or at least hundreds of miles away. Maybe they are along the coast. Maybe they are stuck in the middle of a corn field. Maybe they are just down the street. I want to reach out in a more intimate way than through a screen. A handwritten letter is a start. Eventually, one day, a millennium from now, we might graduate to a handshake. A non-holographic handshake.

Breakfast. English muffin. Mango. And, for some odd reason, wasabi sauce.

Have a pleasant afternoon. Wear sunscreen. Remember you are not always okay and that that is okay. Okay? Okay.

ornament

I don't know much, but I do know how to collect. Collect items of worth? That's debatable. One anemic woman's treasure is another woman's trash. All of the so-called treasures of my past have become trash of my present. Well, some of that trash is recyclable. Thank goodness. And thank goodness I spelled "recyclable" correctly on not my third try, but on my FIRST. I am moving up in this world! In this imaginary world of correct spelling. Nobody spells correctly on their own anymore. Independent spelling? No thanks, not for us.

But back to my trash. I have amassed bags full of cheap jewelry from cheap mall stores, which is entirely baffling to me because a) I don't like jewelry and b) I don't like malls. Guess I was lured in by the cheapness. <--- That could be a true statement for many facets of my life. The jewelry is tarnished and broken, most of it anyway. It doesn't SPEAK TO MY SOUL. It doesn't speak at all. It is an inanimate object, desiring of no love, no anything. Its feelings will not be hurt if I decide to donate it. Where will my donation end up? West Africa? Does anyone in Africa need comically over-sized hoop earrings? What about local band buttons? I can just see women walking around in Nigeria sporting Weak Men and Mathematics Et Cetera pins. I hope this happens. I hope the Universe is on my side with this.

The useless jewelry comes with useful memories. Useful in the sense that it is a reminder of who I do not wish to be. Yes yes, I honor my past and am appreciative of where it has lead me and the lessons I have learned along the way, buuuut... But I was wrapped up in all the wrong things/people and was mostly concerned with anything beginning and ending with me me me. Maybe I can just blame my age. Maybe I can just blame other people. Maybe both of those things are too easy. It's too easy to brush the uncomfortable aside and place the blame on somebody or something else. I believe what I am beginning to realize, finally finally finally, is that I must take responsibility for my own actions. Shocking discovery, I know.

So thank you, little broken locket and guitar pick earrings. Thank you for being the thread that lead me back into my past, a past in which I own so that it doesn't end up owning me. It is a past I take responsibility for, at least eventually, and a past I will gladly leave behind with the dust mites and mood rings. Now I can let go and go forward. Now I can bravely bare my skin without hiding it behind layers of fake gold and rashes. Now I can focus on now.

lax

Sundays are the best days. I deserve a Sunday after a Saturday. Saturdays are the worst days. Saturdays are full of very determined people rushing about, polluting the environment with noise and, well, pollution, and filling in every damn second with busyness. Relax! Stop kicking that soccer ball! Or kick it for a little bit and then relax! Sit in a hammock for Buddha's sake. And then we finally collapse into our lonely beds in order to eventually wake up to the greatest day God made. It's the greatest! People chill the eff out. They brunch. They read the newspaper on their iPads. They go for a freakin' stroll. Strollin' around like you own this town. That's what I do. I own this town. I own this town and everything that has happened to me in this town! Anyway, a man in a suit just walked by the window. I want to yell at him, in a very gentle way, that he needs to rip off that suffocating suit and find a hammock STAT! C'mon, maaan. Swallow that chill pill and throw on some Jimmy Buffet. While you're at it, you might as well whip yourself up a margarita. I'll provide the tiny paper umbrella.

Hmmm... I hit a wall. Logging onto Facebook isn't going to break that wall, Meg. Okay okay okay, logging off. It's not that hard to log off these days. I am more interested in going through my dusty junk and knick knacks and giving them away. I get a lot when I give a lot, you know? Put THAT on a coffee mug why don't you. Seriously, why don't you? I know, it would probably take a lot of effort to find a coffee mug company to print "I get a lot when I give a lot" on a mug. And you'd have to pay for shipping and handling and... What exactly is "handling"? What if you just want to pay for the shipping and not the handling? Or what if you just want someone to handle your personalized mug instead of shipping it to your personalized front door? And why, might I ask, did you personalize your front door? Is that going to help or hurt the value of your house?

I am reminded every ten minutes or so that I am living in a very extroverted world. It is a world hostile to introverts. It is a world where people want to chat, where people don't even think twice about calling you on the phone. It is a world that can't be left alone. Well well well, when will they realize the value in solitude? When will they/bros on Facebook realize that I am not the girl who will ever ever ever want to instant message with you? Or anyone? Look, I'm not a hermit. Okay, I'm sometimes a hermit. Like, half of the year I am a hermit. But the other half of the year I am a wanderer. I don't mind wandering around with another person, so long as they give me ample time alone and realize that we don't have to constantly do do do (do do?). And good god don't make me go to parties. There are only a few "parties" I would be willing to attend and they are parties that involve blanket forts and books and maybe Bananagrams. Otherwise, let me be. Leave me be. Leave it to Meg to end this post with a picture of a dog meditating with a shit ton of birds.

loaf

Step away from the computer, return. Now I must have something I wish to write, right? Stepping away from a blank screen gave inspiration the chance to hit me over the head. PSYCH. Although the screen is no longer blank, what I have written feels sluggish and full of struggle. Wuz up wit dat? I have loads of things to write. I have loads of laundry to wash as well. My day is just one load after another, apparently. Saturday is the unofficial day of loads. And loafs. Loafs! I remember baking a loaf of bread every single night for a good two or three weeks. I didn't need the bread. Nobody needed the bread. Well, somebody somewhere must have needed the bread. But they weren't getting the bread. I was getting the bread, all of it, just me. I know you are thinking WTF??? and I am thinking the same thing as well. Sometimes life doesn't provide clear answers to these puzzling questions. All I can say is that I liked the ritual and the routine of bread making. I felt almost like a scientist. Almost. I mostly felt out-of-control and unable to not make bread. So a loaf a night I baked, night after night, until it got to be rather expensive and too bizarre to hide, so I stopped. I moved on to store-bought English muffins. Whole wheat. With little caves for the butter to investigate.

The screen is less blank, less sluggish, and struggling not-so-much. I believe the problem begins with the screen. Why oh why must I only write in front of a screen? It keeps all the good, fleshy stuff at a distance. It is a distraction. It cannot easily fit into my pocket and travel with me up into the canyon full of echos and ghosts. It is a dusty screen intent on destroying my already lousy eyes. Then why oh why must I only write in front of a screen? Does it only have to do with a social construct? Is it only because I find it quicker! and faster! and go! go! go! Well, relax, my dear Meggie. Relax and let the words come more slowly. Let the beating of your heart reach your fingertips and push the pen where it must go on a piece of tried and true paper. Try it. Give it a shot. Shut down the computer and hightail it to the canyon. Keep some rocks from the river in your pocket just in case the paper tries to fly away.

And now I must go away and continue digging myself out of this cluttered life I've created for myself. I created it, yes, which means I can uncreate it and start over. Start over with a pen and a paper and about 1,437,899 less things. Things. Imagine a life with fewer screens and things and far more canyons and creeks. Imagine a life with people and shared meals and stolen moments on rooftops. Imagine that this is sufficient. Imagine that this quiet contentment is absolutely yours. Because it is, because it can be.

supposed

I am supposed to be decluttering my room right now, but let's face it -- I'm supposed to be doing a lot of things right now.

Here are a few of the things I am supposed to be doing right now:

Eating breakfast.
Having children.
Feeding my children breakfast.
Getting a PhD.
Getting married.
Getting married to my PhD.
Going through therapy.
Working full-time so I can afford to be going through therapy.
Buying various birthday gifts.
Getting rid of various birthday gifts that are gathering dust. (Decluttering!)
Making meaningful human connections.
Paying bills.
Looking for the bills that need to be paid.
Having a panic attack over the bills that need to be paid with some kind of magically money that magically appears in my bank account.
Taking out the trash.
Hustlin' for some cash.
Wearin' a g-damn sash.
Writing way more poetry.
Starting a podcast with Laura.
Becoming Catholic and/or Jewish.

So there are a few of the things I am supposed to be doing right now but am not. Oh, and I should be saving the world as well, which I am clearly not doing because I just threw away a glass bottle I AM THE WORST.

Stay tuned for my next post about all of the things I should be sexually interested in, but am not. JK. JKJKJKJK. (Or not! Like I said, stay tuned!)

roll

Hi cuties. (I wonder how I would respond if someone consistently called me "cutie" and "sweetheart" and "kiddo" and "sexy." I bet I would be pretty pissed off. I apologize, babydolls.) Half a cup of dark Italian espresso later and I am READY TO UNLEASH THE MONKEY MIND. Dark Italian... That describes my dream man. Kidding. My dream man is Tilda Swinton. Speaking of dreams, I had yet another dream last night about walking around an abandoned amusement park and being compelled to ride all of the rides, even if they were totally unsafe and haunted by the ghosts of sideshow freaks. I rode all of the rides and... And I can't really remember what happened because I got up a bajillion times to pee. I hate that because a) it is annoying, b) I can never really "return" to my dreams, c) it makes me super sleepy the next day, d) I forget what D was, e) it makes me super worried that I have some funky bladder problem that will result in my untimely death. BUT that just means I can haunt roller coasters with the bearded lady. I think that's a win.

Okay, the coffee has worn off. Now I need a million-year nap in a million hammocks. How would that be possible? Someone would have to periodically move an unconscious me from hammock to hammock until I successfully napped in 1,000,000 hammocks. Who would be willing to do such a job? Would I need to pay this person? Can I, as an unemployed and chronically lazy Millennial, afford to provide a salary + benefits to a very generous and physically fit human to do this job? I guess only time and my dreams and Facebook comments will tell. Remember MySpace bulletins? I do, vaguely. I remember writing a ton of them after drinking whiskey with someone I loved. Those were the golden days, back when I was a selfish, selfish drunk who was hopelessly in love with all the wrong people. Now I am just a selfish, selfish sober 31-year-old college graduate with a temperamental bladder who is hopelessly in love with a non-dark, non-Italian Tilda Swinton.

Ugh, the coffee has worn back on. Now I need a million side projects to do all at the same time. Can side projects become main projects? Is my life made up of coffee spoons and never-even-attempted side projects? I have ideas, I have lists. All I need to do is jump in the cart, lower the safety bar, and ride that ride. In time, in time. The time is now! Where do I start? I start by giving everything away except for, like, a kaftan and a toothbrush, and clearing out space. I subtract so I can add. I want to add experiences, moments, peace of mind. Less stuff, more naps. Less stuff, more hopeless romances. Less stuff, more time. Less coffffffeeeeeeee, more breakfast. I will see you when I see you. Let's connect. Let's be cuties together.

glory

My hair looks so good tonight, but no one's around to enjoy it. I should date someone just so they can enjoy my good hair days with me.

An ultimate goal of mine is to lead a ridiculously simple existence. I want to own next to nothing and live in a closet. Not an actual closet. I'm comin' out of the closet and movin' into a dwelling that is slightly bigger than a closet, but not by much. It is also made of glass so that it feels as though I am outside at all times. Do not throw any rocks at my glass closet, which might be tempting to do because I have a zen rock garden in lieu of a front lawn. Lawns can kiss my grass! They waste water. Water is necessary. A front yard full of green green grass is not. Neither is clutter. Get rid of it all and start living!

The left side of my body feels weird and my right eye may have gotten a lot of shampoo in it earlier today. Should I be concerned about these things? I'll figure it out later.

I'll figure out everything later, right? Or I won't. It's one or the other. I'm good with the limited number of outcomes. Simple.

Let's go back to the topic of water. Is it too late for me to become a competitive surfer and to be sponsored by Roxy and/or Billabong? The answer is yes. I don't like how simple that outcome is, but it is what it is. JK. I hate that platitude. It is what it is, except for when it's not. I will still dream, secretly, of riding the waves and hanging ten and, uh, cutting a rug. Cutting a rug has to do with dancing, not surfing, huh? Well, pin a rose on my nose and suck it. You can't take it with you! Things happen for a reason! Every cloud has a silver lining and every silver lining has a playbook. In the book of life there are a limited number of chapters. The butler did it. Don't throw zen rocks at glass closets. Simplify your life and let go and let god. What if god was one of us? Just a slob like one of us? Just a stranger on the bus trying to make His way home. Pope. Popes. I am the next POPE! Get ready! Get your chai on!

Ugh. I'm hungry. Catch ya sec-see foxes l8r.

hbd

So this is growing up.

Just kidding. But it's no joke that today I am one day older. Whoops. I meant one year older. And I guess technically I'm also one day older as well. Technically. Technical. Tech savvy at 31.

So what has changed now that I am one year/day older? My favorite ice cream is now cherry cordial, which seems disgusting, I know, but it SO ISN'T. Who knew? The things you discover about yourself as you age.

I want, more than ever, to lead a minimalist lifestyle. Strip me of all my belongings, please! Take my clothes, leave me naked! Throw me inside a trendy tiny home, lock the door, swallow the key! I'll escape out the tiny window. I may need to butter myself up first in order to slide through.

I'm finally looking for a career. Creating resumes, cover letters, the whole damn soul sucking bit. But this time it doesn't feel soul sucking. It feels scary, sure, but also liberating. I'm growin' up and takin' charge! I want autonomy more than ever. I want to be able to pay for your meal.

I also maybe kinda sorta perhaps want to date you. Or at least give relationships a shot. Never have I ever cared to share my bed and head with another human (well, not NEVER, but certainly not often), but I'm beginning to think that might be kinda sorta perhaps... Nice. A relief. Somewhat necessary.

I love sitting on stoops now. I think I always have, though.

I feel more confident and comfortable in my skin. Not entirely. Heavens no. But far more than I have in the past. It just takes too much energy to care too much, so I don't. Gotta save all the energy I have for more important things anyway. And this old geezer has less energy than she did when she was a spring chicken. A spring turkey. A spring tofurkey. A spring block of cold, slimy tofu.

Okay, a parade is happening right now. AND ALL FOR MY 31st!!! I cannot concentrate with sirens, so I shall conclude with these words and then go inside to drink my 3rd can of Fresca: "It takes a long time to become young." Thanks, Picasso. I agree. I'm still getting there.

candles

Okay! Today's post is going to be light and happy-ish and full of very dirty limericks. Maybe not the last one, but... Maybe?

I am walking around a quiet-for-the-moment park on a Saturday morning which just happens to be my BIRTHDAY. But no more birthday talk because it might quickly lead me into a full-on panic attack. Kidding... Maybe?

I am reading Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson and it sure does make me dangerously nostalgic for my early 20s. Oh dear! I'm reading it mostly because I'm SUPER INTO reading short books so that I can actually finish something and feel SUPER ACCOMPLISHED. So far it's working... Maybe?

Okay, I was going to finish each paragraph with dot dot dot maybe question mark, but I don't think I can keep it up. I can, however, keep up with this pigeon that seems to be following me home. Or am I following it (him? her?) home? My life is a question mark, my home is a pigeon's nest. Kidding. I do not know what the flip/fudge I am saying.

I know that I am going to a huge antique mall soon, though! Me? At a mall? On my birthday? You bet your perfectly shaped ass. I hope the place is haunted. I hope I am visited by three ghosts. Birthday Past, Birthday Present, Birthday Future. I hope all three of them are Brigham Young, but with different hats! I am wearing a hat today. It's my birthday and I will wear a flipping/fudging fedora if I so wish.

Make a wish, Meggie! Blow out the candles, light some new ones, eat a cake. And take whatever happens and wrap it up and give it as a gift to yourself. You are one in a million, babe... Maybe? No. Totally.

line

Do other, more "successful" writers make it a point to write everyday even when they feel they have nothing to say? I feel as though I have nothing to say. Well, at least nothing new. All of my posts lately seem to lead to the conclusion that "I am sad" or "I am angry" or "I don't know what the hell to do with my life." It's tiring. It's dull. It's the smallest pity party thrown over and over again with no guests, just me sitting alone in a corner with a cake I will not touch.

I know the correct response to depression is not "just snap out of it!" But... But sometimes I think I need to be told to just snap out of it. Or, more gently, just give yourself a break. If ever I become brave enough to give myself a break, the world might break open and I'll see how wide it is, how inviting it has always been.

But I don't see that. Yet. I am still stuck like a stick in the mud. And my anger had gotten worse. I've never been a terribly angry person. A scared person, sure. Maybe that's all my anger is. Fear with a mask. I believe fear wears a multitude of masks. I believe fear is the ultimate super glue.

So now that I have all of this "insight," how to I actually live it? How do I become unstuck and pull myself out of this funk? I feel motivated this morning to figure it out, to build up the strength, but by the afternoon all motivation has vanished and I am nothing but a wet noodle. An angry, pillow-punching wet noodle.

If you have absolutely any suggestions on how to not live in total fear 23/7 (there's always that one golden hour), I am absolutely and totally open to hearing it.

First step: Drop the story line.
Second step: Eat breakfast.

ship

We are all Russian dolls. Think about it.

I think about how it was to have a partner, to have someone there who would fill in the days and evenings, who would literally put bandages on self-inflicted wounds. I think about how that became normal, but how quickly it became a relief when it was over. I think about the moon and the mountain and how still both of them are, how unshakable.

I do not know if I am "meant" to be with any one particular human. Prove me wrong if you must, Universe. There is a whole host of reasons why I think I will end up alone, the biggest one being that maybe I'm just not... Interested? My time and energy is spent mostly within, constructing and creating. Ah. Ah, I could also just be immature and selfish. Yes, that is a very real and uncomfortable possibility. Maybe the best thing for me to do on this "spiritual journey" is learn to open up and share my life intimately with another. Maybe.

I trust that "I'll know" when it is right, when I am "supposed" to be with someone. But this may not be the case. I have been known to turn down and turn away from people who would have been good for me. Like, really good. And there's the problem -- "good FOR ME." I need to realize not everyone exists to serve me, to be supporting characters. They too have their deep wells, their hidden and majestic stories.

Timing. I guess that's what it is. I guess I have been so wrapped up within myself and those pesky, life-sucking neuroses that there would have been no way I could have a relationship. That makes sense. But as I grow older, I find myself growing calmer and quieter and more able to give of myself. I guess all I have to do is remain open and curious, and, yes, forgetful of the Self from time to time.

It's another beautiful day! I walked past a magnolia tree and the fragrance is sure to haunt my dreams tonight. Go outside and open up to the vast sky above. Love you.

flash

What has been on my mind lately? Well, aside from cats and burritos, I have been thinking a lot about how I desire to disappear, yet simultaneously I wish to be recognized for how awesome I am. Recognized, acknowledged, but never approached. Why is that? Is it too simple to say that I fear abandonment? Maybe. But maybe I do. Could that be the only explanation, though?

I believe being a writer, if I dare call myself one, has given me a superpower. No, I cannot fly or shoot lasers out of my eyes (yet), but I can contradict myself consistently. Then again, that's probably a human thing, not just a writer thing. I'm confusing myself and most likely you right now. My thoughts and words must still be asleep.

But I am awake! I am awake and wandering around this city park while pine cones fall on my head and I nearly run into tree branches. Okay, not nearly. I do. I do run into tree branches with surprising frequency. Not much surprises me, though. I've seen and heard it all, folks! Mostly because I am observing 100% of the time and participating 0%.

I'm ready, I think, to participate again. I will always be an observer who disappears from time to time for whatever necessary reason, but I trust myself to return like the tides and bring back treasures from my solitude. It's time for me to share with others. It's time for me to remember what it's like to interact and connect and be heartbroken. Yes, heartbroken. I want my heart to be open enough so that it can break into irreparable pieces.

I will still always wonder what it is exactly that makes me come and go with no warning, like a flash flood in a slot canyon. And that's okay. Wondering and self-reflection is okay, even if it does drive one straight to the nut house. I like nuts. Walnuts give you brain power. And I could always use a new superpower.

Stay happy today, sweethearts. Or if you are sad, know that you will not stay sad, isolated. Moods change like the weather. There is always a sun behind those storm clouds.

cycle

I am beginning to feel kinder. No! No, wait. Maybe not? Right after I wrote that, I called someone an asshole. Hilarious how human I am! But c'mon, most drivers in Orem ARE assholes. I'm just speaking the truth. And yes, I am writing this while walking. Walking seems to be the only time when my brain will function.

SO ANYWAY. Aside from my interactions with bad drivers, I am beginning to be a kinder, more patient person. That's not to say I don't fail over and over again. But fail better, you know? I seem to bounce back quicker from those dark moments. I am starting to pause, if even for half a second, before I react. And that half second can save me (and everyone else) a lot of grief.

My biggest hurdle in this quest for kindness is believing that I deserve kindness and then going ahead and giving myself that kindness. It is wildly easier to pamper and nurture others than it is to show even an iota of compassion for myself. Crummy, huh? I'm guessing this all ties back to the ego. Yes, disliking the Self is a trick of the ego. Anything involving a Self is a trick of the ego. The challenge is to forget the Self while simultaneously caring for the Self. Ah! Buddha! You've done it again, you holy holy holy totally relatable and human bastard.

There will always be assholes. There will always be moments of self-loathing followed by moments of self-destructive behavior. But there will also always be a way out. There is always a way out of this cyclical hell. In any moment we can wake up. In any moment we can begin again and relearn to love what is.

sky

I am so angry these days. Every little thing irritates me, from a person coughing to a typo on Twitter. I feel disillusioned and uninterested. I feel frustrated and forgotten. I feel like I am quickly becoming an expert at constructing emotional walls. Construction Worker Meg. I deserve a hard hat and a cigarette break on top of a steel beam way up in the sky.

Maybe I will change my name to Sky. Maybe I will change my name to Sky and pretend I am a happy hippie who in no way has any hang ups over the way I was (or was not) raised. Maybe Sky will try to like her family and attempt to give romance a shot. Maybe Sky will stop shooting herself in the foot and sticking her head in the sand. Maybe Sky will remember her innate goodness. Maybe Sky won't be such a shithead.

Yeah. I'm not changing my name to Sky anytime soon. Too much work to replace my drivers license and social security card. Plus, I don't even really like the name Sky. But if I don't change my name, can I at least attempt to change my attitude? I am making myself miserable every single minute I am awake. I think I might just be a brat.

I have to learn to let down my guard. I can't keep up these superbly constructed walls. I need to somehow soften my heart once again and let people in. I want to like myself. I want to be able to look at myself in the eyes and not be ashamed or disappointed.

I am still not motivated, though. The only thing I seem to know how to do is wander. I walk and walk and walk around unfamiliar neighborhoods and past homes that are not my own. I am a stranger, the other, the odd girl with a permanent scowl on her face.

Again, I am probably just a brat. I probably just need to get over myself. Please, let me. And please, somehow stop me from closing myself off. Thank you for being out there and reading my mostly depressing words. It means more than you know.

riddle

Riddle me this. Why am I such a grumpy sourpuss today? If even a BABY looked at me in a slightly odd way (and what baby doesn't give odd looks?) I would probably freak the freak out. I mean, the baby would be totally safe -- I would just rip my hair out and start bawling.

I already bawled twice today. And why? To be perfectly frank with you, Frank (and all of my other readers not named Frank), I can't really pinpoint what it was that had me in tears. Hysterical tears. Tears that were in no way delicate or adorable. Just full-on sobfest. Whaaaat happened? Whhhhy does this keep happening? I cannot seem to keep a steady, calm mind, try as I might. Might I not be really trying, though? Might I be procrastinating getting better? I know the steps to take to get myself out of this roller coaster hell, but I don't take them. Or I take them, but then I immediately run back onto the tracks and jump inside the runaway train. Maybe mental instability is familiar to me. And familiarity is comfortable. And being comfortable means you don't have to face any of the scary things in life, even if those scary things lead to a greater, more spacious and compassionate world.

I am so exhausted. I cannot stress that enough. I believe that a big portion of my "craziness" is due to physical exhaustion. I don't sleep, I push my body to it's limits, I can't sit still. But at the same time, I can't move. I can't move past trauma, self-doubt, self-hatred, hurt feelings, and bad habits. I am absolutely drowning in these things and, goshdarnit, I'm just trying to make it through the day.

It might be time for a wake up call (after a long nap, please). It might be time to discover a world outside of my head -- and that the world does not revolve around me. It might be time to cut my strings to certain people and attempt to save myself. It might be time for me to let go.

So let's go. Let's go to that better spot inside of ourselves, that place where we start to push away the clouds which have blocked our sun for who knows how long. Let's long for this place. Let's reach out, desperately and with determination, for a future that is full of wild wisdom. Let's not give up on ourselves just yet. Let's instead give up on our dark corners where we retreat when everything gets to be too much. There is too much wonderfulness out there, waiting for our attention and devotion. Let's go.

allergic

I have never written a blog post from my phone, yet here I am, composing one from the comfort of an uncomfortable park bench in what is unofficially a zoo for trees. The trees, however, are not in cages. The trees are free; it's you and I who are trapped in cages of our own making. I have made my cage out of bizarre and intricate rituals. I have made my cage out of turning away from people who might hold the key. Quite possibly I have made my cage out of a wet paper bag, but I do not have the courage to test the strength of these walls. I won't even touch them.

That is not 100% true. I have actually been damn good at breaking out of my soggy paper cages over these past couple of weeks. I should give myself more credit. I should give myself more time to reflect on how far I have come. Warrior Meg or something.

I am beginning to sneeze. This tree zoo may have been a mistake. To what am I allergic? I am allergic to success. I know that sounds like a punchline to the world's least funny joke, but this is no joke. I have begun to suspect that I purposely sabotage my chances at success. Why why why. Do I wish to remain small? And then I must ask myself why I wish to remain small. Why why why. It's a never ending maze of whys and self-doubt. My self-reflection turns into self-doubt quicker than it takes me to become annoyed with the lawn mowers that are constantly CONSTANTLY mowing the lawn which needs no mowing here in this tree zoo. And that is pretty damn quick.

I don't know what else to say. I am feeling the tiny feet of hopelessness begin to walk steadily up my back. Once they reach my head the feet will no longer be tiny. They will be clown-sized feet stuffed inside steel-toed combat boots. And they will stomp stomp stomp until I either give up or desperately reach out for help. The thing I fear the most, however, are not the weight of the hopelessness. The thing I fear more than anything else is reaching out to either a void or apathetic hands. I've experienced both and I do not wish to experience that ever again. Maybe I should just get used to the weight.

Well, this ended more negatively than expected. I am doing mostly okay on most days. There is a change headed my way and I don't know what it is and I don't know how to prepare. But I will be here to welcome it and, more importantly, learn from it.

31

Looking at photos of myself from this past winter makes me sad. I was suffering more than I realized -- and probably more than I realize now. I still am. Aren't we all? But maybe I am beginning to relax. Maybe I am beginning to loosen and open up. Maybe I am remembering the magic that's attached to relaxing into what is. My senses are returning and welcoming me home. (So am I returning or is it my senses?) I worry, however, about disappearing into that place again, that place devoid of light and juice and I don't want to lose the tastes and the nourishment that comes with allowing myself to naturally be who I am. Whoever she is. That fear may always be there -- but hope will always be there as well.