Monday, August 31, 2015


I don't know why I want to begin each post with an overly enthusiastic "GREETINGS!" but I do. Do I? I don't think I really do when it comes down to it. I'm figuring out that I don't have anything figured out. I don't know a lot of stuff when it comes down to it. Hello, greetings, good afternoon, Meghan. Nice to meet you. Now tell me... Who are you? I've got time. I'll listen.

I am in my new place. It is my first full day here and, thankfully, things don't seem as overwhelming as they did yesterday. Things do seem rather dark, however, but just in a literal sense. I guess basement apartments are naturally lacking in natural light, huh? Bummer. It's alright, it's okay, it's groovy because I will just have to get my incredibly firm ass down to IKEA and purchase some incredibly firm (?) light fixtures. Plus, I'm usually not home during the day, so shrug shoulders. (I like that I don't even try to explain my emotions anymore, I just let emojis and emoticons do the talking. And if I am too lazy to go find the appropriate emojis and emoticons on the Internet, I simply type out the emoji/emoticon action. Shrug shoulders. Dance the cha cha. Replace your eyeballs with hearts. Corn on the cob. And so forth.)

So I will have to get used to darkness, which is cool because it's almost Halloween (uhhh... in two months) and I am totally on board with the black lipstick trend. There are other little worries and sighs about this apartment, but I am determined -- DETERMINED, DAMMIT -- to make this my home, to make it clean and comfortable and, yes, even a creative space for creative souls to wander in and create/eat my hummus. (Don't touch my hummus.)

I miss writing. So I am writing. But I also miss being outside. So I will end this soon and venture outside to walk and read and discover and get lost and open up google maps and get frustrated at myself that I am 31 and still cannot read a map and then text my mom about how I am lost and then worry that I worried her and so I will text her back and say that I am not lost! but I will still be lost and then I will call (quicker than texting, calling comes in handy on those very rare occasions) my sister and tell her I am a "bit lost" and that she shouldn't even bother to say north or east or south or west and speaking of west, did she hear that Kanye is running for prez in 2020? And why is my right eye so blurry these days? 20/20 vision would be a miracle, but so would winning the lottery and building a glass box out in the desert where I will live and ride camels and rub sand on my heels to heal the rough skin, the rough sole, the rough soul. Where was I? I seem to have drifted off into a no-man's land, which would be glorious. No men! Just women! Just women and camels and President North West. If I have to sleep in order to have this dream, consider me zzzzz.

Okay. Walk time. And then I'll finish cleaning, I swear, I swear. Damn! Shit! Nipple!

Thursday, August 27, 2015

pep talk

There isn't an instruction manual on how to say goodbye. Okay, there are probably dozens and dozens of manuals in the form of self-help books, so... I guess that's that! See ya!

Wait. I don't want to say see ya just yet. But I have to. I have to? When did I decide that I have to move on, to move out, to move towards something... else? What is this something else? And am I asking question after question in an attempt to lose myself in a labyrinth of uncertainty? Except you don't get lost in a labyrinth. You wander. And I'm not going to get "lost" when I move. I am wandering, wondering what will come next and bracing myself for the whatever, the not-quite-yet-lit corners and unpaved paths. And dammit, that's brave. It's brave to me. It's brave for me. Define bravery for yourself, but for me this is it.

Well (cracks knuckles), I must have added some drama to my coffee. Yes sir, I've been known to be a tad overly dramatic for a solid 31 years now. I'm just moving 40 or so miles away. It's a stepping stone. It's normal. This is what people my age (and younger) (and older) (so therefore all people) do. And anywhere you go, you find your new comforts, your new routines, your new way of doing things. The new then becomes the old, or rather the familiar. You wear this new life like a pair of boots. Reliable, well-traveled, and hopefully waterproof. Eventually even the sturdiest shoes will wear down and holes will show up overnight. That's okay. They had a good run.

But you don't leave your past in your past. It follows you like a shadow and sometimes it's even that good luck rock in your pocket. You existed in places and people before and you exist in them even when you're gone (except that you're not really gone).

Leave the manual behind, you won't need it. It was never even published in the first place. Just bring your boots and your shadow. You've got this.

Monday, August 24, 2015


Writing blog posts is towards the bottom of my list lately, but only because I am moving soon and my list is full of delightful tasks like, "check hiking boots for spiders" and "drain bank account to pay for rent and deposit." Once those tasks are checked off, however, I'll be back to blogging about absolutely nothing. Wonderful!

Both my mind and time are occupied with the BIG MOVE. This really is a gigantic leap, fellas. And ladies. I didn't quite realize it until yesterday that WHOA -- this is the first time in my life that I will be living totally on my own. No roommates. An entire fridge to myself. An entire kitchen to myself. Walking around WHENEVER with no pants on. The only sad thing? I can't steal my roommate's cereal anymore. Just kidding, like I ever did that... Pssh. Pssh again because YES, I TOTALLY DID THAT.

I lied. Not about the cereal, but about it being the only sad thing. There are lots of little sad things about moving and leaving a place -- and there is one giant sad thing about leaving my mom's home: My mom. I have been more than lucky to spend these past two years getting to know my mom (and myself) better. We have formed a stronger bond and I can say for certainty that she is my best friend. I could dwell on the things I wish I would have done while living down here or I could be thankful for all that I was able to do. I'll go with the latter. I had a good break down here. I needed it. And I think my mom did, too.

But now I am moving on. And I don't know why exactly. I wish I had a more sure, solid plan. I wish I had a more obvious reason for moving instead of "I just feel like I need to." I sometimes wish my heart would be quiet and allow my head to do some of the talking.

Three forty-two in the afternoon. This is a rough time for us, folks. Or at least it is for me. Is it hard for other people? I would imagine it is. Isn't this the time when there are the most accidents on the road? Drowsy drivers, crashing from their caffeine crash. The smart ones take siestas. Or eat a snack. I do neither, but I do drink half a Rockstar and wander around a park trying to lose myself in the trees and the clouds so I don't lose myself in the waves of anxiety. Yes, I know. The energy drink doesn't help the anxiety. I guess I occasionally like playing with fire.

Speaking of fire, I think I have a fireplace in my new place. No. Yes? I don't know. It doesn't matter too much to me because all I really want is a fridge stocked with local produce and local beer (kidding, mama!) (but the occasional beer is okay, too) and local Rockstar energy drinks. I also want a tent in my room in lieu of a bed. I really do. I will feel safe in my tent, dammit! All I want is to feel safe.

I will write more. Later. I will publish this. Now. I will remember how the candy Now & Laters are terrible for my teeth. I will remember how terrible my teeth are and how terribly frightened I am of the dentist. I will remember that avoidance won't magically make every cavity disappear, won't make everything better. I will remember that I have to gently stop being scared of my own life and start being open to whomever and whatever, so long as they are respectful and it is healthy. I will remember to take off my boots before getting into my tent in my room in my very own first apartment. I will remember to remember what I try so hard to forget. I will like myself, I will like myself at my best and worst moments, I will like all of my cavities and clouds as well as my light and unchanging sky.

Thursday, August 20, 2015


Do you ever desire to live here?
Because I do. Every single day. I could go on walks without seeing another soul, allowing my thoughts to run wild without interruption. The keyword here is "without." Without all of the noise and small talk and avoidance and sleepy suburban eyes on me all the time, I could finally relax. Would I get lonely? Sure. I'd get lonely, but then I'd get over it. So this isolation might be ideal for me right now, but other times I want to end up here:
A yurt community! Of course. Of course my other dream heavily relies on yurts. I know I seem like a hermit, and I am to an extent, but I also value community. I would even go so far to say that I ache for a community. The community I desire is one where we work together like a well-oiled machine. And that oil, by the way, is coconut oil. NO PALM OIL, PLEASE. I would feel reeeelaxed in this community, able to express myself and not feel as if I have to live up to some sort of persona (why do I ever feel like I have to?). I could thrive in either quiet isolation or an active commune (where people still shower occasionally). That's nice to know. But I wilt when placed in the neighborhoods with strangers who drive fast and never forget to put up fences and give out suspicious glances. Leave me alone.

Difficulty! So much difficulty writing lately. Wait. When hasn't it been difficult? I'm a broken record. Oh! Speaking of records, I have two records and a record player, all of which have never been used, just waiting for a better home. I was not a good home for these unwanted gifts. They take up the space to which I so desperately cling. Give me fifty bucks and the record player is yours.

I have been getting rid of/giving away a lot of stuff lately. It's all stuff. Stuffing myself full of stuff for 31 years HELLO. This wiping-the-slate-clean is either a red flag, a white flag, a French flag, or not even a flag at all. In other words, should I worry about my sudden unattachment to things? Or should I rejoice? Or should I just not worry about worrying/rejoicing and instead keep giving away so I can plan my going away to France? Yes. And more on France later.

Enough daydreaming. Enough struggling. Enough going without breakfast. I will talk to you later after I talk to my Rice Krispies. Snap, crackle, pop. (THE BEST THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN ON THIS BLOG.)

Sunday, August 16, 2015

organic shoulder shrugs

It has been awhile, sweethearts! Okay, just a few days. Okay, and not all of you are sweethearts. Some of you are dreamboats. But NONE of you are shipwrecks. And here are some Sunday evening thoughts:

*Mark Wahlberg has kind of a sexy voice. Shrug shoulders emoticon.

*I cannot wait to go WWOOFing in another country. The only question is -- WHICH MOTHERHUGGING COUNTRY?! I change my mind constantly. But basically I'll go to whichever country accepts me. Estonia? Alright! Albania? You got it! Ethiopia? Maybe! (Note: I had to quickly google each of those places to make sure that they were, in fact, countries. Shrug shoulders emoticon.)

*WHO WILL WWOOF WITH ME? There is one interested person, who happens to be a great friend of mine. So I hope that person really does end up coming along! If not, I would go by myself. Just me, a cat I hide in my carry-on, and the ghost of Brigham Young. SHRUUUUG SHOULDERS.

*I am doing a good job with eating all of the crackers. <--- NOT a racial slur. Or maybe it was? Whatever you decide to think is fine by me. Fine with me. Fine for me. Fine. Fine, I don't understand grammar anymore. FINE.

*It is really hard for me to not shrug-shoulders-emoticon at the end of everything I write/say/think/do. My bane in life.

*I need to watch more critically acclaimed foreign films, worry less about the physical appearance of my body, plant more plants, garden more gardens, crack open the Da Vinci Code, write books, learn languages and social skills.

*I like hanging out with people. I do I do I do. (I'm going to repeat this until it comes true.)

Time for some cracker eatin'. You sweethearts and dreamboats are on my minds more than you know. Keep it real, suckas.

Friday, August 14, 2015


"Pick your poison, dear." This is a phrase I had stuck in my head upon waking up this morning. A bit alarming, sure, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Ah! That guy! That shrug-shoulders-don't-give-a-shit-apathetic-as-fuh guy. What a terribly wonderful man. He is my poison. But I also have other poisons... Ready?

*The basic white girl poisons, such as caffeine, hummus, avocados, REI shopping sprees. Okay, so only the caffeine is poison. And I guess consumerism is also poison. But hummus and avocados? If having shiny hair and amazing toast is poisonous, then ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

*Running on an ecologically unfriendly conveyor belt until my ankles/knees/feet creak/throb/swell vs. feelin' hella guilty, unnecessarily, for resting. So either I beat myself up physically or I beat myself up emotionally. Pick your poison. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I give up on speaking about poisons. Well, I didn't "give up" per say, I just concluded the discussion a little earlier than expected. Was it even a discussion? Go ahead, chime in! Wind chimes: Another poison.

My morning walks have begun to be progressively more stressful. Am I just more paranoid? I feel like I get stared at more, especially if I am wearing a sleeveless top, and that I am either a ghost or people don't give a shit when I am walking down the sidewalk -- they continue to ride their bike/speed walk in my direction, forcing me into the curb. It's not a big deal, I know, but even tiny things like this deflate my spirit. Dramatic? Yes. I just want my spaaaace, man. Give me somewhere to walk where my mind can wander without wondering if I'll have to defend my character to judgmental doofuses.

Doofuses or doofi?

Short posts. That's right. No need to stress myself out. Just gotta chill, man. Gotta chill in my chinos on my sailboat with my golden retriever and CD full of humpback whale songs. The easy life may be my strongest poison. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Sunday, August 9, 2015


Sunday mornings are terribly wonderful, yes yes. I am looking forward to the day when I can spend my Sunday morning on a lonely beach looking at sand and collecting sea glass. Do I have to be retired to do this? Fine by me. First I'll need a career from which to retire. And maybe some turquoise jewelry. And a shiny track suit. And then I'll be set! But for now I will spend my time wandering around tree-lined streets, avoiding people I kinda sorta know, and maybe stopping somewhere to get coffee and toast.

Avoiding people I kinda sorta know. Yes, that is something I do. That's something we all kinda sorta do, right? Like, "OH HEY! Wow, cool seeing you here! So what's up? I know, it's sooo hot/cold/windy/snowy/sunny/rainy outside, huh? Geeeeez." Looook. I'm not that opposed to seeing people I know. In fact, I'm at the point in my life where I'm so thirsty for social interaction that seeing someone in real life is miraculous. I forget how great it is to connect with another human! But when it's someone who expects me to be charming or funny or to suddenly fall madly in love with them during our interaction, I freeze. I can't handle those expectations. They drive me insane. Not that this happens often. And maybe I'm delusional and have a massive ego. MAYBE. Or maybe I'm kinda sorta right. My thoughts are everywhere right now. Let me try to clean this up: 1) I sincerely don't mind running into acquaintances, despite any initial awkwardness. 2) I DO mind running into people who have, in the past, claimed that I am "so unique" and "so different from other girls" and "quirky." I do not want to be your entertainment. 3) I like toast.

Very unrelated, but would anybody like some Vogue magazines? I have about a million of them that I am about to recycle. Speak up now or else go digging through the recycling bin later.

Maybe I would write more posts if I keep them shorter. Let's try it out! Or rather, let me try it out. Let me try out a lot of things, okay? Not that I need your permission. But if I did need your permission, I'd ask you to let me try out surfing, acting in a small town production of A Streetcar Named Desire, caviar, wearing glasses in the morning and at night and perhaps even in the afternoon, an asymmetrical haircut, and kale soda. No, no, scratch that last one. Only complete suckers would try kale soda. (I secretly think that it might be delicious, though.)

See ya later! We'll skip the small talk, though, please.

Saturday, August 8, 2015


No one wants me to begin this post with "Happy Caturday," but... Happy Caturday. Okay, now that that's out of the way, let's get down to business. Or rather, let's get down to busyness. No! Let's cut out busyness. <--- It's something I've been trying to do for a few months. A few years. Okay, 31 years. I fail exceedingly well at cutting out the busyness, but at least I get some credit for trying, right? Sure.

My "new thing" these days is keeping up with the news from multiple sources. I read, I watch, I discuss. I pay attention. I feel like most of my 20s was spent not paying attention to what was going on in the world. I was too busy paying attention to crushes and concerts and cute haircuts. Upon reflection, I am saddened by how much I missed. I missed out on movements, I missed out on playing a part, I missed out on history. Currently I do feel a little angry at my younger self, which I know won't help anything. I need to see the positives in my former apathy (was it apathy? or simply ignorance? both?) so that I can make peace with myself, learn, and move on. In the meantime, I'll be reading the pape, sir. With a cup of coffee and a heart full of outrage. Turns out the world is an amusement park, but all of the rides are broken and there are real zombies in the haunted house.

Since I'm on the subject of things-that-frustrate-me, I have been frustrated lately with certain folks close to me who... How do I vaguely put this... Who don't really keep their promises. It's also like they are auditioning to play the part of family member. They go through the motions. They feel like a semi-friendly colleague. They are too absorbed in their own distractions to have any kind of relationship with me that goes beyond surface level. I know it's not all about me. Sigh. I know that I don't know what goes on in someone else's life/mind/heart. I know that I probably expect too much out of certain people sometimes. But I also know that it's okay to be frustrated. It's okay to be upset with someone's behavior. I am tired of endlessly giving out get-out-jail-free cards and excusing very hurtful words and lack of action. Shrug shoulders. Moving on.

Moving on. I'm moving on! Have I mentioned this yet? Oh, I have? Okay. Aside from physically moving on, I feel like there will be some huge emotional shifts happening as well. Maybe even social changes (which just means I might start being social again GASP). Am I ready for these things? Does it matter? It will happen whether I'm ready or not. "Ready or not, here I come!" Is that from the game hide-n-seek? I cannot remember. Is it from tag? No, definitely hide-n-seek. Yeah? What have I kept hidden from myself? Will I be brave enough to seek it out? And once I find it, what will I do with this fleshy pulp? I will have to claim it, I will have to shape it into what it needs to become. Trust trust trust. That's all I can do right now.

Okay! Caturday demands I eat a breakfast now. I will give in to this demand. I am nothing if not a slave to eggs.

Tuesday, August 4, 2015


I do not often talk about what I want, so today I will tell you -- and myself -- what I want. (And now that I think about it, I actually do talk about what I want. A lot. Whatever.)


*A foot rub. Even though two of my toes are creepy and I have a lot of calluses, I still want another human to get in there with their fingers and just rub the hell out of them.

*To read the most addictive, compelling, indulgent book. Where is that book? What is it about? Please don't tell me to write it myself. Okay, maybe I should write it myself. Maybe I should write myself. Am I, as a human, addictive, compelling, and indulgent? I highly doubt it. I am more like a pair of REI zip-off pants: Practical, reliable, attractive when paired with Birkenstocks.

*A cat. Obviously. But a cat who lives forever. An immortal cat with wings and maybe even a horn. I want a unicorn, okay?

*To not be addicted to running. I am stubborn when it comes to my run. I don't switch it up. If I don't run the same amount (or more) every single damn day, I failed. I should just go ahead and bring a whip with me to the gym. Ease up on yourself, Meg. Go on a bike ride. Sit down, maybe. Rub your own damn feet. Damn! So many damns!

*To be a park ranger. But not a park ranger who has to arrest anybody. A park ranger who tells ghost stories and roasts marshmallows and makes weed s'mores with THC chocolate and wears that cool hat and carries an official badge and occasionally canoes.

*An endless supply of wasabi, cherry cordial ice cream, fancy vegetable platters, and juuuust ripe enough peaches.

*My own podcast. Well, a podcast with Laura. Imagine! Each week (or every day?!) you could listen to Laura and I talk about pressing issues, such as who will get the kids -- Gwen or Gavin? And is Rihanna a peacock goddess? Do Jay and Queen B like seitan or tempeh better? Who's a better couple -- Miley and Stella or Cara and Annie? Stay tuned.

Thus concludes. Thus concludes what? This post. This post is crap! No, it's not. It's okay. I've written better. But I've also written worse. I shall not compare, though. Time to make some of these wishes come true. I will start with the adoption of a unicorn. (Pics will come soon.) Smell ya later.

Monday, August 3, 2015


Oh, excuse me for a minute. I have to go put on a SWEATSHIRT. A sweatshirt! Because, obviously, I am slightly chilly. And yesterday it was 90 degrees. And here I am, talking about the weather. Or rather, writing about the weather. Or rather, weather rather. Rather weather. Writer's block. Blockhead. Gumby. That is a brilliant show. Other brilliant shows: The Golden Girls, most British comedies, Sid & Marty Krofft shows, Pee Wee's Playhouse, Fraggle Rock.

Writer's Block is killing me. Actually, my lack of red blood cells is killing me. But so is my inability to write. It's not an inability per say. It's more of a disinterest. I was frequently told growing up by family and teachers that I was a great writer. That that was my "calling." I was fairly shrug-shoulders-okay-whatevs about it. It felt nice to receive attention and praise, of course. I felt like I was "doing the right thing" by writing. If I strayed from that and entertained some of my other interests, such as acting or painting, I felt like I was being disingenuous. So I just kept writing when asked or assigned. And I majored in English because, well, just because. And I just did whatever I was told la la la same old story. But once I accidentally graduated, that was that. I was "free." And terrified. I didn't know, and still don't quite know, what I wanted to do. I began asking myself the questions I should have been asking myself decades earlier. I began to realize that HOLY SHIT this is MY life and I am going to have to make the decisions that will make me happy, that will fulfill my needs because HOLY SHIT no one else will do these things for me. Where ohhhh where do I start?

I didn't start. I put it off. I put it off for a long time and instead found myself occupied with whatever distraction I could find, whether it be in the form of another person or a substance or a story. I tied heavy books and heavy relationships to myself so that I would drown in distractions and not have the oxygen to consider other possibilities, other desires. I let myself become so confused. Confusion was easier to handle than clarity; I'm still trying to find the logic behind that.

But it couldn't last. The act of avoiding my life has a lifespan of only a couple of years. The distractions began needing their own distractions. I ran out of crawl spaces; I had to start facing vast, empty rooms. Eventually the truth will emerge, it will show up and tap its foot. It won't wait any longer.

So I got quiet. I quieted down so I could listen deeply. What were my bones saying? What did my heart crave? Where did my feet long to go? I didn't know, but I was willing to discover. I am still discovering, but I have inched closer and closer these past few months to a truth, to my truth. Now the real challenge is to follow it wherever with whatever courage I can summon.

I am still a writer. I always will be. But there's more, there's more, there's more.