Wednesday, June 29, 2016


I don't even know why I have hair. The one thing that can make me gag is finding a long strand of hair not attached to a scalp. And don't even get me started on shower drains. Ugh, FOR REALS it grosses me the freak out. The frick out. The fudge out.

Fudge. Next topic. Nice transition, Meg! Fudge reminds me of my grammy. She would make fudge and caramel for everyone around Christmas and send them in festive tins. I preferred the caramels over the fudge and I'm sure I still would today if she was still alive and making these treats. But treats? I don't eat treats, right? I don't allow myself the pleasure. Total denial or total indulgence of pleasure: Welcome to America, where we can't not do everything in extreme.

I do want to change this, though -- this denial of almost everything even remotely enjoyable in life. I don't quite understand why I hold such rigid restrictions for myself. Yes, it's the whole desiring-to-be-in-control thing. But there's something else to it as well. I am tempted to say it has something to do with repentance, with purity. If I deny the desires of the senses, I am somehow atoning for sins I most likely never committed. It's a bizarre, deeply ingrained belief. Then again, I might be way off base.

This was going to be a really lighthearted and fun post. OR SO I THOUGHT. Then I sat down and my fingers had a different idea. And now my brain has the idea that it's done for the day. It's almost 5:00 anyway. Quittin' time. Clock out, drive home, puff on a cigar. My brain needs an after-work cigar.

I am gonna give my brain a break (but no cigar, sorry) right now and go on a walk. A walk is like a brain massage. And after the walk my feet will need a massage. After massaging my feet, my tired hands will most likely want a massage of their own. I can't forget about my sore butt and tight calves and tense shoulders. There's a lot of freakin' massaging on my agenda tonight. A lot of frickin' massaging. A lot of fudgin' massaging. Massaging is a form of indulging, right? See -- I'm not hopeless.

Tuesday, June 28, 2016


The older I get, the less I like the heat. Oh no! I'm discussing the weather again! And what I said wasn't even entirely true. I like the heat. Maybe not 100 degree heat, but I prefer it over being cold. THE THING IS I am not super fond of summertime anymore. Summer used to be a welcome relief, long days filled with running through sprinklers and eating so many Otter Pops that your mouth turns blue. Oh, and night games. Fun fact: My first email account was The "NG" stood for, yes, night games. I loved loved loved night games. I guarantee my friends and I were the most obnoxious kids on the block. We must've been doing something right. Summer now, though? Summer now is full of way way way too many Little League games, way way way way way way way too many fireworks (idea: outlaw all fireworks), carnivals that ruin my pretty park, sticky kids terrorizing the streets, and Old Navy flag t-shirts. Summer is an introvert's worst nightmare.

Paragraph on weather out of the way. Now on to my paragraph about my ex. Kidding. But I will say that I try to cut him out of my life for sanity's sake, which basically just means I block him on all social media accounts. I cannot, however, protect myself from mutual friends posting things about him. After a long day of doing nothing but obsessively reading another Auster novel and avoiding sticky kids, I "relax" by looking through my Instagram feed. Lo and behold, a mutual pal posts a picture of my ex's apartment which he lives in with his gal pal. Pals. Pals everywhere. It shouldn't matter and it doesn't, but for some reason it bothered me at that moment. I will just throw the blanket over the whole situation and say that "it's complicated." I will also say that I am not jealous, I am not sad, I do not ever ever ever wish to date him ever ever ever again -- I think the petty side of me just goes, "Huh. Why does he get to be happy and seemingly successful when I am a) smarter and b) not a bad person?" I told you -- that's my petty side. He is smart, he is not a terrible human (but he did make pretty bad choices in the past! where oh where are you, karma?), and he can have whatever life he wants. I only need to be concerned with the choices I make. I have to stop comparing my life with the lives of 7,400,000,000 people. It'll get me nowhere except the loony bin.

Last paragraph, thank Buddha. Let's see, I can discuss politics or the weather again or the struggles of a slightly apathetic Millennial OR... My eating disorder! It's been a minute since I've done that. Deep breath. I won't get dramatic I won't get uncomfortably honest I won't cause you worry. <--- "I won't cause you worry" is a typical statement with someone with an eating disorder. We don't want to disturb anything or anyone, so we hide and keep quiet and put on the cloak of perfection. Everything's fine! I'm fine! You're fine! It'll all be fine fine fine! So first order of business: Speak up, show your emotions. Well, the first order of business should be to eat something. And eat often. And continue to eat. Recovery is such a delicate, tricky business -- an ED sufferer obviously needs therapy in order to recover, but they can't think clearly or function properly without adequate nutrition. So you have to restore your weight before any real progress can be made in therapy, yet you need therapy in order to eat without completely freaking out. It's a puzzle and seems nearly impossible. Nearly. But not totally. Recovery can happen and has happened to thousands of people. So why can't it happen to me? It can, don't you worry... I mean, worry. I mean, worry but also don't worry? I guess you should do whatever. And so should I. And maybe we can discuss all of this sometime over a nice, hot, entirely satisfying meal. We deserve it.

Monday, June 27, 2016


This heat, man! Sheesh. Okay, I won't discuss the weather, although I do discuss it often. I discuss the weather and politics. I will choose talk radio over music any day. I get excited when an Eddie Bauer catalog comes in the mail. I appreciate sensible shoes. I am a bonafide adult.

But I won't discuss the weather or any of those others things right now. Instead I will dive a little deeper and open up a little wider. Then again, maybe I won't. Maybe I've already chickened out and shied away from vulnerability. I tend to do this. I tend to not want to rock the, boat, to worry others, to set myself up for possible rejection. But by closing myself off, I close myself off to all of the good shit life is ready to give. The good shit = relationships, success, peace of mind.

All defense mechanisms are safety nets. The problem with safety nets are that they prevent one from learning how to land on one's feet. If you never learn, what happens when some trickster (i.e. sudden, unavoidable life events) cuts holes in the net? Wouldn't it be better to be prepared -- or to not even have the net in the first place?

The past few years have been... hard. Hard because I am finally feeling the effects of ageing, of not being in my invincible and unstoppable 20s anymore. I feel left behind, not-quite-there, a late bloomer. A very late bloomer. People my age or slightly younger have careers and families and homes and so much more shit figured out than I do. Or so it seems. Maybe they don't have shit figured out, but they have their shit together. Or so it seems. There is a lot of seeming going on here. Point is, I feel stunted, stuck, unable to progress on any of life's paths. I could label this as depression, fear, refusal, or a toxic combination of all three. I don't know. I do know, however, that something needs to change soon.

Where to begin? This is the question that overwhelms me, thus preventing me from building up the motivation to move forward. I avoid the question because I am so impatient with myself and want an immediate answer, a surefire plan, detailed steps on what to do and how to do it. But I have to realize the answer will only come from me, not from any outside source. So I guess I just stumbled upon my answer: I begin with trusting myself.

I think it's time for a long walk. I may not know exactly how to land on my feet quite yet, but I do know how to walk. Thank god for that.

Sunday, June 26, 2016


What odd things do you do when nobody is around? I have lost count of how many odd things I do, but just now I chewed off a dead piece of skin on my hand and continued to chew on it until I realized that was pretty gross. I would be better off eating a sandwich, not skin. We'd all be better off.

I want to be a nicer person. I want to visit ethnic markets and buy foods I don't understand. I want to write without first staring at a blank screen for several torturous minutes. I want to wander around lost in San Francisco again, but maybe this time with someone else, maybe this time we'll buy the crab on the pier that looked so good and off limits. I want to be on limits, which means I want to be unlimited. I want to roam. I want to settle. I want to never be in between because my entire life thus far feels in between, almost, not quite, waiting, waiting. I want to make peace with the wait and maybe embrace it on occasion instead of reacting out of fear. I want to respond. I want to listen. I want others to listen to me as well. I want to be a well that doesn't run dry, that might even have a secret door at the bottom which leads one into some enchanted land populated with the ghosts of our past and cats who never die. I want to forget all of my routines and schedules and rules and demands and start fresh, start over, start out on top instead of under, under water in a well with no rope or ladder or even that secret door. I want to dry off and put my feet up. I want to relax. I want to rest. I want the rest of what I deny myself over and over and over. I want to use words to connect as well as push them aside in order to connect without the crutch of language. I want to feel and taste and see what I shield myself from on a day-to-day basis. I want a base. I want to run, or crawl, to a place that's as essential as my own bones. I want a home.

No more chewing my own skin. Got it.

Friday, June 24, 2016


Today I have taken a walk, thought about the apocalypse, listened to a young man practice the saxophone in the park (he played the entire Lion King soundtrack not well, which is why he is practicing), finished an unsatisfying book about espionage or something I can't quite remember who cares on to the next book I say, did not shower, put on an old raggedy t-shirt that reminds me of a time in my life when I was young and dumb and lost and in love with all the wrong people and I think I had short hair as well, killed a spider and screamed and heard the body crunch under my fingertips, found a lost earring, chewed on some ice cubes and a tissue after cutting the roof of my mouth with a sharp ice shard, took a photo of myself imitating the Kardashians in order to make someone laugh, discussed politics and golf courses, considered a life as an Icelandic farmer, held on tight to anxiety but then decided to let it go a little, washed my face, put on old red lipstick, used sunscreen, told a boy on a bicycle that he needs to ride it in the street and not on the sidewalk because the sidewalk is technically for pedestrians and determined weeds, returned the unsatisfying book to the library after skimming the last 47 pages, logged on, logged off, wore sunglasses briefly, used humor, planned to make iced tea later in the day (which would be right around now), took out some trash, checked the mail, locked the door.

Tonight I will take a walk, think about Dollywood, try to have a few conversations with a few human beings, do a few push-ups, listen to the radio while I shower, make overnight oats and wash celery, forget to drink the iced tea I made, try to recall a few theorems, gift my mother with my presence, gift myself with a scalp massage using one of those wire thingies, rub my feet, look at pictures of meals that high school girls recovering from eating disorders post online, wish I was a part of a community, regret so many things, watch so many things on television, eat and then eat again and then continue to eat until oh my goodness it's almost three in the morning I better be off to bed I am so exhausted why do I stay up so late I am going to be so tired again oh well I will come up with a better schedule soon I hope I can fall asleep I hope I don't wake up a thousand times in the middle of the night to pee the day goes by so fast my dreams are waiting and I can't wait to see what they will be hopefully they won't be about snakes and aggressive owls like they were last night, floss.

Tomorrow I will do it all over again, but completely different and with more iced tea.

Thursday, June 23, 2016


For the love of all that's holy it feels as good as sin to sit down. "As good as sin" -- that's a phrase, yeah? No? Yeah. Pretty sure. I'm pretty sure sitting down was something I should have done two hours ago, but instead I walked and walked and walked and walked compulsively. Walking is good. Compulsively walking might be a problem. I try to walk my anxiety away and it usually works, although it takes a long time and causes my heels to ache at the end of the night when I finally "allow" myself to relax. It would be better if I learned to face my anxiety and approach it with gentleness, curiosity... I know this in retrospect, but in the moment? In the moment anxiety's voice drowns out any promptings from my rational voice.

I wrote the above paragraph yesterday and then immediately abandoned this post to, I dunno, walk? Or maybe take a shower? Make my bed? Fold the clothes? I left to fulfill one of the many daily tasks I assign myself, tasks which keep me anchored to some kind of reality, tasks which give me some kind of future satisfaction when I am able to take that pen make a check mark. Except I don't make check marks. I draw a line though the item. I cross it off, if you will. And sometimes I don't even do that because sometimes I make my lists on my phone, so I just delete delete delete as if it never existed. It did exist, however, and it momentarily gave me purpose.

Hey! Wake up! I know this post so far has been a real sleeping pill, but that's about to change! Yes, my friends, I am about to whisk you away into a fantasy land of romance and adventure and triumph over evil. And this fantasy land is known as MY LIFE minus the romance and triumph part. But the adventure part? Oh, I've got that. For example, this week I have gone to the post office AND the bank and did not have a panic attack at either location. Both were adventures and, upon further consideration, both were triumphs over evil. Still no romance in Meg Land, however, and that's kinda the way I like it. Kinda. I'll admit to having brief desires for a significant other. Mostly I want a partner who will rub my scalp, feet, calves, and butt after a long day. Then they can go their way and I can go mine. Basically I just want a personal masseuse.

I feel straaaange. I think it's because it's that time of day when everything is strange and sleepy, that time being mid-afternoon. I also think it's because I was outside in the sun for almost an hour and the sun does weird things to the brain, I never get the recommended hours of sleep, I am most likely always dehydrated, and I am a Gemini. Geminis always feel strange.

I am also hungry. HUNGRY FOR LOVE. Love = tacos.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016


Here I am! Writing words again! Typing words. Typing out words that are ultimately meaningless, but being without meaning is not demeaning. I'm already off the a bad/excellent start. I can't tell if this will be a poor post that worries my mother and annoys my acquaintances or if it will be a poetic, slightly abstract post that will enrich everyone's lives forever and ever. And is it THAT or WHICH. I never know which one to use, but that doesn't matter. It only matters if you want it to matter, just like everything else.

Speaking of things (and places and maybe people) that matter, here are some of those things (and places and perhaps people) that (who) matter to me:

*Paul Auster. Not that I know Mr. Auster personally, but his books sure matter to me lately. The first time I read him was less than a month ago and since then I have read five other books of his. Yesterday I read an entire book by Paul and today I am 54 pages away from finishing another one of his books. Why do I like him so much? I dunno. I haven't even thought about that yet. I'm too busy devouring his words to form my own words up there in my head and down here on the screen. I'll think about it. Or I won't. I'll do one of the two, I promise.

*Good meals in good restaurants with good people and good conversation and good wine. YES, WINE. Don't worry, Mama! I am approaching my mid-30s and I am allowed to responsibly enjoy a glass or five of wine at a fine eating establishment from time to time. Plus, there is a Wiemer Vineyard somewhere back east, so I guess wine runs in my blood? Literally and figuratively.

*Challenging myself. Challenging myself matters because it's the only way I seem to grow. Figuratively. And I guess literally as well. And scientifically. Psych. Anyway, the challenges I give to myself may seem too small to matter, but they matter. For example, I have been challenging myself lately to deviate from my rigid routine and schedule. Sleep in a few extra minutes, Meg! Use a different kind of mustard on your sandwich! Maybe try going on a walk in a different direction, like backwards. Use the black rubber band for your hair, not the brown one. For whatever reason, these slight changes in my day allow me to see myself and the world in a different way -- especially if I am walking backwards.

*Iceland, Twitter, sunscreen, heart-to-heart conversations, handwritten letters (I WILL FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU IF YOU WRITE ME AT LEAST A DECENT LETTER), the queer community, the Buddhist community, communities in general, general stores, honest hard work, sandwiches.

Well, looks like I spent up all of my energy typing. I cannot think of anything else to write right now, so this is all you get. This is all you ever get from me -- a bunch of letters that (WHICH?!) form words that form sentences that form paragraphs that form posts that form future forgotten memories. These words are a memory, these words will be forgotten, we will continue.

Monday, June 20, 2016


I've come to the realization that in order to write -- really write -- I need to be blindfolded and led into a secret location, down into a windowless room with nothing but a desk, a chair, and a typewriter. Yes, a typewriter. Not because I am a hipster okay maybe a little bit because I am a hipster, but mostly because with a typewriter I will not be distracted by the Internet. And typewriter sounds are so delicious. Anyway, whomever led me to the room will slip out silently before I take off the blindfold, making sure to lock the door behind them. Now I am locked in this room. Now I have absolutely nothing to do but type and write and go rapidly insane. The latter isn't desirable, but what happens happens. Plus, who's to say insanity isn't desirable? If you are insane, do you know you are insane? Maybe insanity is enlightenment. KIDDING. I am writing horribly right now. And you know why? Because I'm not in a bare, concealed room with an outdated hipster accessory. If I was, however, you better believe this post would be frickin' Pulitzer Prize worthy. No, not Pulitzer Prize. I'd rather win the National Book Award. Don't start getting picky now, dear one. Take whatever medal you can, even if it's a medal for being a participant. Participate, Meg! Participate in the novel of LIFE.

I should probably write these blog posts earlier in the day when I am refreshed and not in the late afternoon when I am famished and delirious after unwisely searching for aggressive and protective hawks in 98 degree heat. I should, but I won't. Instead you'll get what you get. And this is what you get -- a rambling, nonsensical meditation on the art of writing and the anticipation of insanity. Burn this post after reading, please. Thank you.

Let's see........ LET US SEE... What can I say that will be more linear and readable? I can say that I went to the post office today without even a hint of a panic attack. I successfully ventured out into society! I am going back to Wyoming at the very bitter end of July to work on the dude ranch again. Man, I sound like a rad person! Someone who just dicks around all summer and occasionally disappears into the mountains to restore haunted dude ranches. I sound like a rad person and as fate would have it I also look, act, and smell like a rad person. Are you wondering about how I taste? If I also taste rad? Well, sicko cannibalistic perv, I wouldn't know. Although I do know because occasionally I'll lick my shoulder after running and the salt from my sweat is highly satisfying. Who needs Gatorade when you have your own flesh? Please.

This has been a joy -- a real treat -- to write. I am happy to say that I am happy with this post. Happiness all around. Spread that joy, spread those wings, cross your legs, be a lady. Don't forget to brush and floss and wash and change the ribbon in your typewriter so you can finish that participant award winning piece you've been working on for who knows how long. No one knows how long. No one knows because time doesn't exist down in that secret locked room. No windows, no time, no worries. And no pants? Hey, why not. Who do you have to impress but(t) yourself?

Not the end. Not ever.

Thursday, June 16, 2016


Hi everybody! It's me, your favorite foggy blogger with pearls, back from a few days of ignoring everything that matters in order to give my full attention to paranoia. It's really fun, try it someday! Don't try it someday. Try it never, in fact.

Okay, I haven't been that paranoid. Just my normal amount of paranoia (which is a lot). I worry about being tired. Why are you so tired, Meg? I worry about my lack of focus. Why can't you focus, Meg? I worry about my bones and my butt and my teeth and my throat and my stomach and my intestines and my skin and my eyes and my nose and my ears and my toes and my knees and my joints and my blood and my reproductive parts and my breasts and my nails and my fingers and my feet and my heels and my toes and my bowel movements and my need to constantly pee and my diet and my ribs and my heart and my maybe my brain. A little. I don't worry about my brain that much, although that should be one of my top concerns.

So I worry. I find something new to worry about every 15 minutes or so. If I'm fixated on some weird spots on my skin, I'll soon forget about them once something else odd (real or imagined) pops up. If I had a billion dollars, I'd have a personal doctor with me at all times. Or at least I'd visit a doctor every single day without worrying about the damn co-pays and deductibles. I would also have a personal chef and masseuse and life coach. I would probably turn into my generation's Howard Hughes, though, so perhaps it's best I don't have a billion dollars. (Then again, I wouldn't refuse it. Are you offering? Because I'LL TAKE IT.)

I gotta get this hypochondriac thing in check before it completely spirals out of control. It takes over my entire day, my thoughts, my mood. I can't be a functioning member of society when I'm obsessed over what could be and what might go wrong.

I believe my first step on the road/trail/path/highway/freeway/byway to living paranoia-free is to start facing whatever it is I avoid. This seems like it would do more harm than good, but I think reality tends to be less terrifying in most cases than whatever storyline I've concocted in my head. An overactive imagine is supposed to make me into a great novelist, right? Instead it's convinced me I have every illness and disease on the planet. So start facing the fears and taking precautions, Meg. Not extreme precautions, mind you. No need to wear tinfoil on your head or Kleenex boxes on your feet (yet), but just remember to wear sunscreen and drink water, okay? Okay.

Another step I can take is to, you know, cut my hair and get a job. Except not the cut my hair part. But get a job. Or at least a few hobbies. I just read and read and read and read and walk and walk and walk and walk and read and read and read and read and walk and walk and read while walking and it all adds up to me being oh-so-very-much in my head most (if not all) of the day. That is a recipe for paranoia. Anyone with that much time to themselves would be trapped in a maze of their own thoughts. Sometimes the best thing we can do is be busy for stretches of time so that our free time is productive and enjoyable instead of misery inducing. In short, I gotta get out more.

This has been a post! I don't know how to effectively wrap this up! The only thing I know how to do lately is make overnight oats, which I should get started doing if I want to eat them at midnight. And I do. I at least know that I want to do that. Everything else? Well, I'm beginning to figure it out. The road/trail/path/highway/freeway/byway may be a long one, but by god I'm determined to traverse it. Wish me a safe journey.

Sunday, June 12, 2016


My fingers aren't used to this furious blog post typing anymore. One week! One week away and it's as if my fingers have forgotten all they used to know, not that they knew much. But now they know how to hang up curtain rods and dob cabins. I don't even know if I am saying that correctly -- "dob buildings" -- or if that was even what I did for eight hours straight under the open Wyoming sky, but words are just words. Point is, I'm back. I learned a lot, mostly about myself and a little bit about restoring historic buildings. I'm back, I'm still catching up on sleep, I'm still unpacking, I'm still checking for ticks. I'm back, but in many ways it feels like (wait for it) I never left. Yes, in a weird twist of fate, Wyoming has become at the very least a second home. I never would have guessed the reddest state in America would be a haven for my soul.

Although I am properly caffeinated this Sunday morning, I doubt I have it in me to unload every experience and emotion I had over the past seven days. That sounds like an overwhelming task to say the least. It is a "task" I'd like, and probably need, to write down at some point, though. I don't want what I learned, what I saw, what I thought to fade away. I will say right now, however, that it was an overall positive experience. It was a week where I was tested and failed multiple times, but also picked myself back up and began again. That alone is a success, yeah? Yeah.

Gee whiz, I am out of practice writing. I wrote in a teeny, tiny journal while in Wyoming, though! Every day! And every entry was kinda scattered and all over the place and full of whiny complaints and anxious ramblings! I wrote some nice, sensitive things as well. I also chewed a lotta tobacco up there PSYCH but I did chew a lot of gum because my ear kept popping and it was driving me bananas and no, I did not eat a single banana on the trip. I ate not a lot on the trip, to be honest... Which is stupid, I know, and sad. But there came a point when I was walking in the middle of sage brush towards some abandoned cabins when I had maybe an epiphany? Or at least an enormous burst of motivation to heal. To live and not let outside influences (and the almighty inside inner critic) get the best of me. Or get any of me. Still, I know I have a long way to go. But at least I found that spark to continue. And to eat bananas, and anything, far more regularly.

Will write more later, whether it be here or in a teeny, tiny journal. Take care of yourself and don't let the abandoned cabin door hit you on the way out (it won't because the door is boarded up). <3

Friday, June 3, 2016


It's me! The girl who's still icing her butt with frozen peas after all these years. Yes, the same bag of peas. Yes, I will eventually eat said peas. Said peas. "You have a nice butt," said peas. Yes. Yes, I do.

Except I don't. I would like my butt to be slightly bigger. Just... Healthy looking. Except warning! "Healthy" is a dangerous word to use around a person with an eating disorder. That makes perfect sense, right? Wrong. Absolutely nothing about eating disorders makes perfect sense. But I'd rather not get into a lengthy rambling about eating disorders, you know? Not right now. I'm too hot from my morning walk and too cold from my morning pea pack and too tired from too many stimulants. See! More things that don't make sense! Nothing makes sense except for the fact that nothing makes sense. That makes sense. Does it?

I would rather be reading right now than writing -- and this is the case almost 100% of the time. It hasn't always been like this. Maybe with reading I am able to give up control. And for someone like me who always feels the need to be in control, giving it up is equivalent to my soul chillin' in a hammock with a piña colada. Also, the fact that I wrote "my soul chillin' in a hammock with a piña colada" might be another reason I don't write so much these days.

I am envious of those who do write regularly, though. I write in this blog fairly regularly, but I'm talking about those of you scribes out there who are feverishly working on novels, dedicated to your screenplays, perfecting your poems. Who are you and how do you do it? Where does your motivation come from? Is it a desperate act of survival? I want your dedication. I want your drive. I want your desire. Yes, I desire desire.

I do have desires, though. I am glad I have desires. (Shut up right now, Buddha.) I desire to be outside. I desire to read. I desire to connect, occasionally, with brilliant minds off of the page and in this thing we call "real life." So I guess that means I'm destined to a life under a tree with a book whose pages are the carcasses of the tree's family members? Essentially that means I'm destined to be homeless. Or so incredibly wealthy that I no longer have to work. OR it might mean that I have to find some kind of career that blends the outdoors with a shit ton of books. There has to be some kind of bookstore without walls, right? Where people come to a secluded and foggy corner of the forest to browse magical tomes full of insights and incantations. Or maybe I should just drive a damn bookmobile.

Well, thus concludes another post. I never know how to end these damn things. Damn! Damn! Damn! My one swearword that I use frequently, no matter who's in my company. I do not even consider it a naughty word. I consider no words naughty except for TRUMP, am I right, folks? Topical. So I guess ending on Trump is always a good place to end. The end.

Thursday, June 2, 2016


I have had a semi-frustrating morning and I've only been awake for an hour. But I can turn this day around! This day can significantly improve! I just need to somehow get rid of all the road construction (that includes you, incessant jackhammer!), all of the Little League games, all of the children on razor scooters and skateboards (unless you are a hella rad skater), all of the children in general except for that incredibly precious 7-year-old child in a ballerina costume who said hello to me in the park yesterday. YOU, tender ballerina, can stay. Everyone else, though, must go. I need space, I need silence, I need solitude. The three Ss if you will. How would you write that? The three Esses. JK. There is no apostrophe, so don't even suggest S's. That's not right, goofballs. But S's would be a passable name for a passable nightclub in Vegas. S's. DJ Esses at Club S's ONE NIGHT ONLY. Now imagine some sick beats. Now imagine some Sugarfree Redbulls and Gray Goose. Now imagine an actual red bull and an actual gray goose. Imagine they become the best of friends in the South of France. Imagine them going on many adventures over the course of many books. Imagine that each adventure comes with a moral, a moral about the being slow and steady, about being fast and loopy, about being the best possible bull/goose that you can be. You are a bull. You are a-door-a-bull.

I have already forgotten about my frustrating morning! Summer be damned! Summer be damned forever! But soon I will be heading out into the world once again and all of these nails-on-the-chalkboard moments will inevitably happen, so what will I do to prepare? What can transform the nails into feathers? Feathers (preferably goose feathers) on a chalkboard sounds relaxing, not grating. Do they, the makers of chalkboards, even make chalkboards anymore? That's beside the point. The point is, I am the only one that has the power to change nails into feathers. The jackhammer can be music -- or it can simply be a jackhammer, neither good or bad. The Little League game can be just that -- a game. The children and their unpredictable contraptions with wheels, however, should be kept safely inside away from the world. Kidding. BUT ALSO NOT KIDDING. In other words, I don't have to go out into the world with a thousand shields. I can drop my resistance at anytime.

Vulnerability is scarier than trendy Vegas nightclubs, though. But at least vulnerability doesn't leave you with hearing loss and a hangover. Vulnerability does nothing but open up your life, your heart, and your world. And how can that be bad?

Wednesday, June 1, 2016


Last night I briefly cried over the loss of a television station. It was very brief, about four and a half seconds, but the sadness was there. Laugh! Laugh if you must! Because it is pretty funny. Why was I so upset? Well, I won't bore you (and me) with getting to the root of the problem, but mostly it was just because this ultimately inconsequential station provided me with programs that made me feel SMARTER and MORE WELL INFORMED ABOUT THE WORLD AND ITS CITIZENS after watching them. Could I get this similar result from reading a book? Yes, you bozo. I read books all day long. But at night my mind can't read words, so it watches pictures instead. I GUESS there's this thing called the Internet. Fine fine fine.

Lately I have felt the strong desire to step out of my small world. I wouldn't even call it a desire -- it's more of a need. It is necessary for me to quit being involved in solely my own life and begin to reach out and explore the lives of others. I want to get involved and not always be "just an observer." Observing is great. It's what I think all writers and artists do constantly. But now it's time for me to step in and try my hand at being one of the observed. In short, I want to connect.

I have wanted to connect all along. I crave a community, something I've written about often in the past. It seems strange that a loner like me wants to be around people, but I don't think it's strange at all. I just want to be around people with whom I can connect. Connection does not always mean we share similar viewpoints or have the same interests. Connection just means... well, connection. It means seeing the person in that moment as a person, as someone who experiences fear, joy, hunger, satisfaction, confusion, clarity. I suppose this connection could happen with anyone if we (I) just try hard enough. I will say, however, that it doesn't hurt at all to be in a community with like-minded folk. I can't help but be very desirous of that.

It will take effort on my part to form this kind of connection. I can't keep running away from what I don't know, I can't keep immediately labeling those I don't know as ignorant idiots. I gotta give people a chance, which begins with giving myself a chance. First step is to listen. Simply listen without filling in any blanks. No Mad Libs here. Stop expecting the worst, stop expecting the best, stop expecting. Just start listening and experiencing and then don't be surprised when connection is the sum of the two.

This whole post has been one long Note to Self. I hope it has been at least somewhat useful or amusing for you to read. If not, I have provided some delightful pictures below. Enjoy. <3 <3 <3