Friday, September 4, 2015


Hi, I'm back! It's me! Bet you didn't even know I was gone for maybe a day, a day and a half. Anyway, here I am, Meghan "Frustrated Forever" Wiemer. Sexually frustrated? Actually, no. Not really. Mentally frustrated? I don't even know what that means exactly, but yeah, sure. Phone frustrated? If you mean absolutely and totally and without-a-doubt pissed off at my phone, then yes. Well, not at my phone. I love my phone. My sweet baby phone who I love so -- what am I saying? Not much. Phone blah blah blah frustrated over no service yadda yadda yadda. Meanwhile, there's a refugee crisis and melting ice caps and the constant threat of nuclear war. And there's the sweetest poodle mix over at the animal shelter down the road who is wearing a cone of shame and is missing an eye, yet his tail keeps wagging and he just wants a home. HOME. All any of us want is a home, a shelter, a sanctuary, a holy site where we can finally find our peace, with or without appropriate cell phone service.

I need to not complain. But if I do complain, I need to not give myself a hard time. In fact, wouldn't it be wonderful if one day I learned the art of self-love? Or at least self-neutral-feelings. I can't do this self-loathing thing much longer, even though I am a pro at it. (Why would you give up something you're really good at? Because sometimes we are talented in terrible ways.) I don't even realize most of the time that I'm treating myself poorly. I push myself all day long to go go go and do and still, no matter how much I accomplish, it is never enough. So depressing! Let's lighten the mood.

How do I lighten the mood in such a dark basement? Whoops, there I go again. Okay, I am feeling better. Things will be okay. Things are okay. It's been said before and it's worth saying again, but it's all about one's perspective. Of course, perspective can't fix a sink that won't drain or provide a clear reception, but it can make those slight annoyances more bearable and not such a tidal wave of despair. Quick: Go through my hundreds of posts and count how many times I wrote "tidal wave of despair." If I was a woman with an income, I'd bet that I've written it at least 13 times. 13 Going on 30. I'm 31. I am no Jennifer Gardner. I will not sing "Love is a Battlefield" into a hairbrush.

I may not sing into a hairbrush, but I will go carry-oak-ing. How in the world do you spell it? Kareoke. Karoke. Keareokkey. This is getting ridiculous. Karaoke. There we go. We're okay. We got it. Karaoke.

Thanks for, I don't know, letting me be a mess. It's nice to know that someone will when I won't. Maybe if I embrace the mess that I sometimes am, I will start cleaning up with compassion and patience. Speaking of cleaning up, that's exactly what I've been attempting to do all morning, but instead I've been pacing back and forth and making eye contact with the neighborhood cat. I should really do the dishes.

Take care. In the meantime, don't text me because I won't get it. But definitely sext me because I will feel it.

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