Wednesday, July 27, 2016


I am attempting to do this new thing where I write right after running while I'm still running on endorphins and my legs really need a rest and my brain doesn't need a rest and it might just want to flex those, uh, writing muscles??? What are my writing muscles? My brain? Is the brain a muscle? The brain is cauliflower. We already established that.

Do you ever read "endorphins" as "endolphins"? No? Just me? Okay, fine. Endorphins are swimming around up there in my cauliflower muscle. Endorphins are very smart creatures. My brain? Sometimes a smart creature, but most of the time just a puzzling head of a not-quite-crisp cruciferous vegetable.

Do you ever read "cruciferous" as "crucifix"? No? Just me? Okay, fine. Speaking of crucifixes, do you ever humor the idea of becoming Catholic solely for the pageantry? Yes? ME TOO!!!

Guess what? I ended up abandoning this post for a few hours after that Catholic comment. I just wasn't feeling the need for speed. And by "speed" I meant "creating a provocative piece of writing." Writing is my form of speed! NOT. Psych. It's really not at all. My speed was always actual speed. NOT. Psych. My speed was acting. Yep, I was in plays throughout my childhood and into my very early 20s until I valued being social and stupid over performing. I wish I hadn't given up acting. I don't even care if I was very good at it or not. I just loved it with my whole heart, simple as that. And I think that's all you need. I was also determined as hell as an actress. Does this mean I'll pick it back up? It meaning the memorization of monologues, the countless auditions and rejections, the occasional, obscure role, the long rehearsals and usually flawed performances? Do I want that life again? Funny, Meg. You know you've never really known the answer to that question.

Okay, sunscreen on. Restless legs activated. Need for speed/nature intense. I guess it's that time where I walk and think and stare at clouds and bump into strangers also trying their damnedest to answer their own private, aching questions. We're all in this together, but when will I actually believe that?

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