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 Because I'm not in a bare, concealed room with an outdated hipster accessory.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.

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