employ

My job is my blog. Not really. I can't even imagine being paid to write. I know I should imagine that because sometimes writing feels like the only thing in which I am competent, but I don't. Recently I've been "blessed" with a bunch of flashbacks from the two jobs I had last year in Salt Lake. They were good jobs. They were probably the best jobs overall that I've ever had. Buuut -- I kinda blew it at both of them. I won't go into the details of what happened or why or how or who or any of that. Nothing scandalous happened, unfortunately, so it's not that exciting of a story. Basically I think the winter and the shitassdumbasfuuu (sorry, mom!) apartment I lived in and the somewhat self-imposed isolation did me in. It kinda broke me mentally. Physically I was doing alright, which is odd because stressful situations like that usually trigger my eating disorder and other self-destructive behavior, but nope. (I did, however, have nasty colds constantly, but I blame that on being around those germ bags known as "children.") Anyway, I don't really know what I want to say except that now I feel like I would be much better employee and coworker and teacher -- not so closed off, more productive, friendlier. I dunno. I guess there's no point in wishing there was a time machine I could jump into. I guess all that I really can do is that whole "learn from the past" thing. Okay, okay.

I think it would be wise of me to, you know, work again. Preferably at a place that pays me money solely due to the fact that I am a consumer in a capitalist society and kinda sorta totally need that abstract thing we call money in order to do that thing we call survive. But more importantly than surviving is being able to connect with other people. Even stupid coworkers and the dumdum public. I've been on my own sabbatical-of-sorts for long enough and now I need to balance out all of this introvertedness with a few hours here and there of forced extrovertedness. Yes, I could just go hangout or join a club or something, but like I said I need the ca$h and the structure a job provides -- along with the satisfaction of productivity. I miiiight also be looking at everything through rose-tinted contact lenses. Jobs mostly suck, huh? Who would want one if they don't absolutely need it? I'm not sure what I need. I'm not sure I ever know what I need.

I probably need the open spaces of Wyoming again. Well, guess what, Meg?! You are in LUCK! You get those spaces in approximately two and a half days. Or two days? I can't think clearly, my brain is still trapped in the past. Anyway, I leave on Saturday. Damn. I have to pack. Maybe I can pretend like packing is my part-time job? And then I will pack with such precision and honesty. You don't want your packing to be done in a sloppy, shady manner, partner. No sir. Hmmm. I'll pack later. All I really need is a book and a journal and 17 flasks full of whiskey and probably my assless chaps and cowboy hat or whatever. Wyomin'!

I can tell I'm distracted by how lazy my writing became in that last paragraph. The fact that I ended it with "Wyomin'!" is proof enough that I've already checked out. I wanted to write about less snoozefest subjects, like the sea and sexuality, but I suppose my musings on such things will have to wait until after I locate that time machine and use it to return to the present. But for now I gotta clock in and make the boss proud. Employee of the week signing out.

harken

Preface: I wrote most of this yesterday. Yesterday was Sunday. So when you come across the part where I say it is Sunday, just harken back to this preface.

I just heard what I thought was a school bus and terror filled my icy heart. (That would be a terrible first sentence of a book. Or of a blog post.) A school bus usually stops in front of our house around this time to drop off close to a thousand junior high creatures. It really is terrifying to li'l old terrified me. I don't know. Just the fact that there is a large unpredictable crowd of hormonal humans in close proximity to my body is not comforting. But guess what? Today is Sunday and if memory serves me correctly, kids don't go to school on God's day. So the only possible explanation for the sound of the school bus is that my neighborhood is being haunted by a ghost bus. This is very much okay with me!!!

What else is very much okay with me? I thought you'd never ask.

*Men's clothes. Okay. So. I forget sometimes and then remember that I prefer to wear men's clothing. Or at least androgynous clothing. (I am so pleased with myself that I spelled androgynous correctly on the FIRST try!) Basically, I want to be a blank slate. White shirt, black pants, sensible loafers. Or if I am in a more outdoorsy environment, give me flannel. All the flannel. Transform the skin I'm in into plaid.

*Eating lunch. Turns out eating lunch will make my stomach and mind feel better, if I let it. Sure, I my mind can also make my mind feel crummy about anything, and it often does. But I'm learning how to redirect my mind into a more positive pasture. Let my mind roam free in the meadow of contentment, in the valley of serenity, in the volcano of equanimity. I sincerely forgot what I was saying. Let me, well, harken back. Oh yes! Eating lunch! Redirecting the mind! Funny and super hard thing about eating disorders is that in order to overcome the fear of eating you have to eat and eat often. Your brain quite literally cannot function if you are in starvation mode. Once the brain starts getting the nutrition it needs, it starts to work again -- which is rad as hell and also hell. It's hell because when the fog lifts, you see things as they are -- no more hiding that head of yours in the sand! A plethora of emotions that you've suppressed for far too long also return. So yeah! It's a blast! But in the long run, I'd rather work through that gunk and learn how to deal with various aspects of life than hide and, well, die. My head's outta the sand and I'm ready for more sandwiches. And it feels very much okay.

*Tacos, stone fruit, solitude, gardens, the phrase "and monkeys might fly out of my butt," monkeys, butts, NOT monkey butts, live studio audiences, people raking leaves because it means they aren't using my #1 enemy the leaf blower, Winona Ryder, '90s nostalgia even though it KILLS me, denim, all denim, anything denim, properly functioning digestive systems, abandoned malls, recipes.

Today is not Sunday. Just a reminder. I'll talk to you tomorrow, which doesn't exist yet. Yesterday never existed, either. I have my doubts about the legitimacy of today, to be honest. Oh well. <3

rut

I am not sure right now is the best time to start writing. I feel sluggish and a little on edge. I was ON TOP OF MY GAME this morning, though. I have no idea where my overflowing cup of energy came from (note: not from a cup), but I had it and I used it alllll up. Now that cup is full of, like, three raindrops. Like. LIKE. LIKE ME!!! Accept me! Humor me! Backpack through Europe with me! But probably don't marry me because I think I want to be an eccentric old maid who wanders around abandoned parking lots feeding seagulls.

I think Saturdays in general just wear me out. Not that I'm out there doing any of the "traditional" Saturday activities, like mowing my lawn or ramming my shopping cart into whiny children at Target. (NOT that I would ever do that to a child, but I wouldn't hesitate to do that to their slack-jawed parents.) Maybe it's the pressure of the weekend that gets to me? The pressure to be both productive and relaxed, the pressure to be social and LIVE IT UP!!! The pressure to merely make it through the day without having a meltdown over the amount of activities going on outside. In other words, I don't do so well under pressure.

Except that's not entirely true. In certain areas of life I do extremely well under pressure. Examples: Writing papers in college, writing papers after college, writing in general. Maybe that's what's missing in my current writing life -- pressure. I need an outside source giving me assignments and deadlines. I get too comfortable and occasionally lost in my self-made schedules and routines. Sigh. I just need to get a damn job already.

Am I ready for a job? I feel like I am still recovering. I am still trying to heal and attend to my own needs before I take on the weight of "real" responsibility. For the love of... I sound so spoiled. I probably am so spoiled, at least when compared with a large chunk of the world's population. The current path I'm on seems to be occupied only by myself and I'm simply wandering around in a circle, distracted. I want my path to lead somewhere, I want to encounter other humans and creatures (and ideas and experiences and philosophies and perspectives and sounds and smells and tastes and) on this path. I need to be reminded the world is more than just a lonely dead end.

I am headed outside to, yes, look at the clouds, but also to walk to the library and see if I can find a book that tells me exactly what to do and how to do it. I'm joking, mostly. I am going to the library, but I realize that book doesn't exist. Books are guides, but they are not substitutes for living a life. I'm stuck. I'm not sure yet how to find my way out.

sufficient

My fingers are sticking to the keyboard due to the perfect peach I made love to about an hour ago. Correction: I did not make love to it. Yet. The peach still needs to at least buy me dinner first.

Sometimes I wonder if I am a "better" writer when I am sufficiently nourished or when I am empty and amped up on stimulants. I probably think it's the latter, but all signs point to it being the former. But who knows. Maybe the amount of food (or lack thereof) in my system isn't the biggest factor in my aptitude as a writer. I do know, however, that food makes me a nicer human. And right now that's all I really desire.

That isn't true. I desire more than just being a decent human being. I desire, yes, figs. And donuts. I have never cared too much for the donut, yet for the past month or three I have been craving donuts. So why don't I just go out there and buy a donut? Many establishments sell donuts to the general public. I do not have to go to Jerusalem to purchase a donut. The answer is... I don't know. It's too spontaneous? Maybe I like the idea and dream of a donut more than the actual acquiring and consuming of said donut? My answers have become questions.

I desire a home in an open landscape where I have two roofs, one of which has surreal sunsets that feel like a personal gift to my soul. I desire a family in the distant future, a family made up of people or animals or who knows maybe both, all of whom I fiercely love and protect. I desire a way to make my nails grow strong -- and to just grow period. They have stopped growing and, as it turns out, fingernails are crucial when trying to open soda cans. Maybe quitting soda is a good first step on the path to perfect nails. Well, the first step should be eating food and then quitting soda. The order of things is so important.

I feel deficient in everything.

Do I sound melancholy in this post? I don't feel melancholy today. I feel centered and sorta focused and far less troubled by digestive woes. I am okay! I really am! I mean, TGIF, right?! My sweet mama is out of town, which means I have the condo alllll to myself. Friday night, house to myself... YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS!!! It means I get to stay up watching nature documentaries alone with the volume turned up slightly louder than usual!!! I am legit excited. I desire this kind of Friday night.

I see the clouds moving around out there, out there in my not second, but first home. I should probably attend to those clouds right now. They need me, but not nearly as much as I need them.

figure

I have transformed into a rebel. I have started to do things that frighten me, which end up delighting me because HELL YEAH I JUST CONQUERED THAT FEAR. Sometimes I don't always conquer them, though. Sometimes I just quietly step over them and move on. These fears are small and subtle and sticky. They disguise themselves quite well at times, not even resembling the controlling fear that they essentially are. Bastards. Sneaky bastards. But as I've already mentioned, I am a rebel and the right kind of rebels always defeat the sneaky bastards. At least they do in my reality.

AND WE CREATE OUR OWN REALITY!!!!! WHAAAA?!?! It's true. I think it has something to do with black holes or quantum superposition or something. I dunno.

Here are a few people, places, and things on my mind:

*Figs. They are delicious and I love them and I think they are high in both iron and fiber and you know what? I don't think I've ever had a fresh fig. Where can I get a fresh fig around here? Do I have to go to Jerusalem to find a fresh fig? Because I will. I will go to Jerusalem for a fig.

*Madrid, New Mexico. According to a probably-super-reputable website, the teeny weeny former ghost town of Madrid is a hippie haven. I'll take it! Ghosts and hippies and the Land of Enchantment all in one location? If you tell me they have an abundance of fig trees, I will freak.

*Digestion problems. I SHALL NOT ELABORATE.

*Hair. My own hair. What do I do with it? Does it matter? Of course it doesn't matter, but at the same time it kind of matters. I feel like I could write a scholarly article on the importance of hair in various subcultures, but I won't. Anyway, I've gone back to perhaps foolishly parting my hair in the middle and although it's not my best look, it is definitely not my worst look. I'll settle for a comfortable middle ground with the middle part. For now.

And now it is time for me to step outside of my own neurotic thoughts and help other people. Turns out I kinda sorta totally like helping other people??? Especially if my various acts of selflessness are noticed and praised by millions. I kid! I kid!

Love you, fig heads.

degree

I made the mistake of looking through my Instagram photos right before sitting down to write. It was a mistake because looking at old photos makes me kinda melancholy and leaves me momentarily trapped in the past. In other words, I am not fully present. But when am I ever fully present? I'll tell you when. When I am eating a peach. Peaches consume me, I do not consume peaches.

The fog of nostalgia is starting to lift a bit. Oh, did I say the fog of nostalgia? I clearly meant the fog and pearls of nostalgia. Name dropping my blog! The blog which you are reading right now! Awwww yeah! Hell yeah! Frick yeah! (My mom reads this blog, so I gots to keep it mostly PG-13. Gots? Gots. Gawts. Gahts. Ever remind yourself that language is a social construct and also a DEADLY WEAPON? I do. I do every minute of every day, even on the days when the fog and pearls are so thick I can't breath and pass out for an indeterminable amount of time.)

Should I get my college diploma professionally framed?

One thing I think when I look back on old pictures is daaaamn girl you were a babe. I was such a babe! And I gave my dumb dumb babe self such a rough time. I should have taken advantage of my youth and Baberaham Lincoln looks and married a billionaire with a dumb dumb yacht and a totally unnecessary private jet except it would be totally unnecessary because we'd use it to fly to Russia in the middle of the night to solve crimes and/or spy for the government. Wasted youth, wasted beauty, missed opportunities.

I don't want to get my college diploma professionally framed. I'm not even really sure where it is. I do, however, still want a graduation dinner at a fancy restaurant, dammit. Dam it. Dam this whole river! Our city needs electricity! (I don't know how we get electricity or where it comes from. It sometimes comes from dams, right? Don't correct me if I'm wrong. Allow me to live in the fog and pearls of my own delusions.)

Okay. OKAY. Okay, focus. I want to write nice things again. "Nice" meaning purposeful, linear, coherent. But I don't know where to start. I never know where to start. I can't come up with that one particular subject which will hold my attention for an extended period of time. I dunno. Sometimes I think I just don't care too much anymore about writing "seriously." Sometimes I think I just want to care about plants and rocks and lizards and moss and the direction of the wind and the way the day cracks open like an egg, spilling its yolk over the still mountain peaks.

derive

A few interesting/crazy/sexy/cool things that have happened over the past day or month or decade or whatever:

*I may or may have purposely tipped over my neighbor's garbage can. Okay, it was not entirely on purpose, but it wasn't entirely not on purpose, either. And I believe my mom witnessed the whole thing from inside the house. Hi, mama! Sorry! But I picked the damn can back up. It's a long story. It's not worth telling. I have to start telling the stories that beg to be told. This particular story is doing the opposite of begging.

*A dude down the street skateboarded past me yesterday afternoon while I was on a walk. I was not in the best of moods. I felt weird. I felt fatigued and sweaty and thirsty and a little bit like a robot and just not super duper in the mood to have skateboard dude do a stupid trick on his skateboard, tell me I am beautiful, tell me (not ask! tell!) to give him my number, shook my hand twice (?), and I dunno, I zoned out the rest of the interaction. It was frustrating. It was frustrating because I did not know what to do in that situation. I am clearly not interested, so do I just tell him? Do I lie and say I have a boyfriend (or a girlfriend or a rabid dog that hates men or a warrant out for my arrest or leprosy)? Do I comply and later block his number? I did the latter. It just felt easier and safe, although it also felt like a defeat. I don't know what he would do if I said no. I don't want any kind of confrontation and, frankly, I didn't want to hurt his feelings (although blocking his number probably doesn't make him feel like a billion Bitcoins). I just wanted to keep walking, alone. Let's hurry up this uncomfortable situation, dude and be on our way. When I got home, I immediately started crying. I maaay have overreacted to the situation, but at the same time I am tired. I am tired of being a concept and/or an object and/or made to feel like I have to constantly be submissive and gentle and humble and eternally friendly and accommodating and passive and pretty and approachable and whatever else society decides I should -- have -- to be.

*I ate a nectarine.

*I began to seriously consider (again) getting my TESOL certificate. I gotta do something. I gotta do something because I am tired of talking and writing and thinking about doing something, but never actually, you know, doing that something. Whatever that "something" may be. I search and search and search for that something to the point of near-insanity. And it stops me. It stops me from doing much of anything. It's all thanks to overthinking. I have to start putting my brain on pause and start listening to that old heart of mine from time to time. And that time might be now. (So will I decide to teach overseas? Or go farming for a month on some groovy organic plot of land? Maybe work seasonally in a dear-to-my-soul national park? Who's to say? I guess I'm to say. And then once you say it, babe, do it.)

*I ate plantain. Well, I thought of eating plantain. Tonight might finally be the night I eat what I was thinking of eating. Eat your thoughts, wash it down with a cup of cognition, enjoy a slice of scrutiny for dessert.

pack

Yesterday I didn't write because I was sad, which is odd because sadness usually means I write way more, often words I soon regret once that li'l storm cloud passes. And it always passes, PS. Post Script. Except I am not in the post script part of my post. Or something. "Or something" is a good way to wipe the slate clean. Just say "or something" if you don't want to do anymore thinking or backtracking.

Backtracking. Take out the "tr" and throw in a "p" and that's exactly what I need to be doing soon. Not necessarily want to be doing, but need. Backpacking is a big old test to see if a) you can survive and b) prevent blisters. I like this test. "Like" might not be the write word. Any backpacking trip is immediately met with anxiety (because that seems to be how I meet anything/anyone in my life), but then stubbornness kicks in and I go, "Let's do this shit and let's do it right." Going on prolonged trips out there under the mostly unpredictable sky where you carry everything you need for your survival is a good way to cleanse the mind of all its petty gunk and to see what it is your need to see without any filters. Ideally. I (or perhaps my soul, if that is a thing and if that exists separate from the I) need this mental purification. Or at least a decent brain dusting and polishing. (Where to go and with whom and when and how and what and all of those are yet to be decided.)

HAPPY CHOCOLATE CAKE DAY!!! Or whatever. Or something. Chocolate cake is not my first choice. I want a Funfetti cake or an ice cream cake or even a German chocolate cake, but not just a basic chocolate cake. And if some bozo gives me a slice of chocolate cake I will FREAK OUT. Kidding! Geeez, I'll take any kind of cake -- who am I to be so picky? Eat your damn cake, Meg. (And also I love you, Meg.)

You know what? That paragraph on backtracking-minus-the-tr-add-the-p has sure distracted me. Now I just want to go outside, even though suburbia is slightly less thrilling than the Grand Canyon or whatever. Or something. Still, I planted that seed of being out in nature in my head and now it has turned into a ginormous redwood and the branches are sticking out of my ears. I have to take this crowded head outside and give it space to roam. The trivial things I was planning on writing will have to wait because I can't wait.

If you consistently read my blog, then you deserve a medal or a ribbon or a bow for your beautiful hair. You even deserve not just a slice of cake, but the whole thing. Or something.

chair

Do you enjoy sitting down? Well, I have just the thing for you! It is called a chair and you can often find this object in many public and private spaces, both inside and outside. Some come with cushions, others come with arm rests, and there are even a few out there with built-in toilet chambers. And if you aren't sure if you enjoy sitting down, I can assure you that you do. You just have to try it once and you'll be sold. Chairs: In existence since at least the Early Dynastic Period of Egypt.

Hi! Good afternoon, happy Friday, and a very happy World Orangutan Day. I won't list what other holidays are today because there are too many and each one of them is pointless (except for Orangutan Day because maybe it raises money for wildlife conservation or whatever) and all of these meaningless holidays are just distracting us from something super scary. What is that super scary thing? I have no idea because I am too busy choosing the perfect filter for my perfect Instagram photo of a perfect s'more I made in celebration of National S'mores Day (which was August 10, but can also be every day if you want). I apologize, where was I? Oh yes. Hi!

Hello. I am in a much better spot today. That's a relief. It's also a bit of a bummer because if the pattern continues, tomorrow I will be back to being crummy. Every other day I am "in a better spot." Okay, life doesn't follow predictable patterns. Except sometimes it totally does. Look, I'm no scientist. Except sometimes I totally am. What I want to say is that I am attempting this whole "be aware of how you treat others, including yourself, and then adjust accordingly" thing. So far it's going alright! I mean, it's disheartening to realize just how often I react to others rather than respond, but self-examination was never meant to be easy. Worth it? I sure as hell hope so.

Other things I hope:
*I hope to have perfect vision one day. Someone shoot some lasers in my eyes already!
*I hope to visit Costa Rica and volunteer at a monkey orphanage and also learn how to swim and surf while I'm there and somehow become a world famous surfer with tons of endorsements that will essentially buy me my own monkey orphanage.
*I hope to get to a point in my life where I have enough money to go to the grocery store and not even worry about the cost of Cracklin' Oat Bran. Not that I desire to be a wealthy a$$ bitch, but not having to worry about every bitch a$$ penny would be rad.
*I hope I can start trusting myself again. Or maybe it's for the first time. Have I trusted myself for an extended period of time in the past? I sincerely do not know.

I DO know, however, that peacock feathers freak me out, apples should never be waxy, and all of the songs from the '90s will make me cry.

As I end this post, I challenge you to two things: One, trust yourself. Way more than you already do. Two, buy the dopest ass chair you can find and sit your adorable ass down and chill the eff out. It will feel amazing -- trust me.

define

Webster's defines "opening sentence of a blog post" as "a line which is difficult to write so you resort to the embarrassing 'Webster's defines...' opening." Who is this Webster asshole anyway and what makes him assume he and Merriam are the experts on words? Okay, I just got back from doing a little research on Merriam and Webster and it turns out Merriam is not one person, but two brothers (George and Charles) and that Noah Webster was actually a kinda cool dude. He was opposed to slavery and a bit of a freethinker. A bit. But a bit is better than not at all. And why the hell am I going on and on about Merriam-Webster? Yet again, I've wasted both my time and yours.

"Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time." The formerly all-knowing Internet credits that quote to about a billion different people, from Bertrand Russell to John Lennon. I'm sure somewhere someone credits it to Mr. Noah "Not an Asshole" Webster as well. I already wasted my time reading the Wikipedia pages for the Merriams and Webster, so NO WAY am I going to get to the bottom of this who-actually-said-it mystery. Not right now. I will later. Later when I am wide awake until 3am for no apparent reason, yet too drained to read a book or be "productive" in any way. Yes, I spend the hours while the rest of the world/house is sleeping in the deep abyss of screens. Is it possible to be in different abysses at the same time? I am lost in television while also lost in the Internet, both in an attempt to not get lost in head. Sometimes I need a break from being in my head. Sometimes I need to step out and step down into the abysses. Abyssi?

I actually did have an idea for something I wanted to write today. I wanted to write about how I feel so crummy. Not all the time, no. But the past few days I have just been feeling and acting crummy. Noah defines "crummy" as, well, I don't know how he defines it. But I define it as reacting over and over and over again to any slight or imagined trigger rather than calmly and mindfully responding to it. The reactions are never good, never helpful. Reactions are mere walls and armor where walls and armor are not needed. What's usually needed in these situations is space and openness and vulnerability. And compassion. Always, always compassion. I can't stress it enough just how vital compassion is to all of our lives. So I can't stress it enough, but do I live it enough? Or at all? Sometimes it doesn't seem like it. And for that I sincerely apologize.

Who am I apologizing to? I could list off at least three dozen names. But would my name be one of those dozens? Probably not. I am an afterthought to myself, which is probably the root of all this crumminess. Can one be simultaneously self-obsessed and self-loathing? Because that's how Webster would define me.

But I have the power to change this definition. All I have to do is write my own definition and paste it over the old one. Nothing in life is permanent, not even definitions, not even words, not even crummy feelings and crummy actions. Words and actions, however, hold consequences. I am beginning to sound like a moralistic asshole, so I'll stop. I don't feel as though I quite finished my thought(s), but that's okay -- it'll just give me something meaty to think about tonight before I select my abyss of choice. Thanks for listening/reading/scoffing. Wait, not scoffing. Stop scoffing. It's crummy. (But you aren't. You are more than okay. I promise.)

embrace

I am about to write perhaps the most depressing sentence I've written in months: I think in tweets.

What I mean by this is that none of my thoughts go further than 140 characters. And what I mean by that is that my attention span has gotten even shorter, which none of us thought was possible. I have done the impossible! I am superhuman! But I might actually be a robot! I am superrobot!

So this Twitter Brain I now possess makes it challenging for me to write worthwhile posts. I sure know how to promote my blog! <--- Sarcasm. I'm not here to promote anything, okay? I am here to be self-deprecating in a totally relatable and charming way. I am here to dump out my various 140 character thoughts for friends and lovers and strangers and haters to read and be puzzled by. I am here, take me to your leader. Twitter Brain Thoughts (Some May Exceed 140 Characters) (Don't Count the Characters, That's Just Weird): *I finished my Tolstoy book! HOOOOORAY!!! And also dammit! Dammit because it was great and I love Tolstoy and I don't think he's coming out with any new books anytime soon. I could be wrong. Oh yes, and I read Resurrection by that damn man. Damn! Damn! Damn! Now I am reading The Mill on the Floss by MS. George Eliot. Floss... That reminds me... I forgot to brush my teeth today. Don't sue me! Just don't come too close to my mouth! Or to my face or my body or my soul or my feet. Definitely not my feet. My feet are in some serious need of a little TLC. Look, I'm joking about not coming close -- kind of joking. I do enjoy my solitude and find it hard to "let people in," but I also kinda sorta totally miss human interaction and connection. I might have to start making an effort to be social, huh? And that means I'll have to make an effort to brush my teeth occasionally.

*Okay, that first thought far exceeded the 140 character limit. But who's the jerk who's imposing these limits? C'mon, maaan! (Assuming it's a man.) (It's always a man.) Break those chains or whatever! Live on the edge! Speaking of living on the edge...

*...I want to join a motorcycle gang. Not true. I do, however, want to take up some hobbies, join a few clubs, maybe even volunteer somewhere sometime someplace somehow. I want to do these things because I, well, just do, but also because it would help me to break out of my rigid routines and strict schedules. Breakin' those chains again, you know? Trying to, at least. I have never been a spontaneous soul -- and it's not as if I have to suddenly do a 180 and become the poster child (WOMYN) of spontaneity, but maybe I can try to do a 45? Did that make sense? I don't know how numbers work. Basically, I will try in my own small ways to jump in without obsessively thinking about and researching and examining the metaphorical water.

*Metaphorical water. Psssh.

*I lied about not knowing numbers. I am damn good at numbers and math and pole vaulting.

*I lied about pole vaulting.

I never know how to end these non-post posts. (What makes a post, though? I am holding myself to unrealistic expectations and imaginary rules. Typical! Also not productive or necessary!) I'll end it with pictures. Always pictures.

secreto

My thoughts are all over the place, yet at the same time they are focused because I ate a peach. Yes, there I go again, professing the power of the peach. Hold on. My thoughts can't be both focused and unfocused simultaneous, right? That makes very little sense, yet at the same time it makes all the sense in the world. Kidding! But also not kidding.

Cults are appealing. Well, they are. They are appealing to me because they include strict routines and rituals, extreme devotion without that pesky "doubt" I've dealt with my entire life, and secrets. And who doesn't love secrets? I don't love secrets, actually. I will obviously keep your secrets, but I don't want to keep my own secrets. I want to lay it all out on the table, the operating table. Yes, I want to perform open heart surgery on my secrets. Scalpel, STAT! Spork, STAT! Salt and pepper, STAT! THESE SECRETS ARE DELICIOUS.

I am trying to write this as quickly as possible because if I don't write now I won't later and I want to post something and I also want to get outside soon because I have been trapped inside (by my own choosing) for hours and I have forgotten what the clouds look like and you know how much this bitch likes clouds. So, uh, I guess I'm just offering an explanation for the frantic feeling of this post. Just offering explanations, left and right. Just offering up my secrets to anyone who's willing to listen, left and right. Just forgetting which hand is left and which hand is right. Can't my hands be bipartisan for once?

For once I'd like to have a PB&J sandwich for dinner. This might very well happen tonight. I have my own secret reasons for wanting a PB&J. I will tell them if you ask nicely/in German using a cockney accent.

And there it is! The brick wall. I've crashed headfirst into the I can't-possibly-write-another-sentence wall. I am not complaining, though. It was good while it lasted. Was it good for you, too? No? I apologize, but I secretly don't care. I amuse myself quite frequently and maybe, just maybe, that's all that matters. That and peanut butter. And peaches. And clouds. Always, always clouds.

pêche

I am about to take you on a thrilling ride through the dark passages of my mind. And by "thrilling" I mean "rickety." And there won't really be any dark passages. I have those dark passages, sure. We all do! We are all weird humans with weird psychological issues! But today, right now, I feel pretty A-OK. I also have a massive amount of energy for some reason (I know the exact reason -- will explain later), so that is why you are about to get strapped in to this roller coaster of a post and take off on a ride full of loops and dips and abrupt stops that cause whiplash and what the hell am I even typing? I was lost from the very first sentence, as I imagine you were, too. Hey -- at least we're in this together, riding the same wavelength, the rickety wavelength found in this amusement park I like to call the universe...

Thanks for your patience! I promise to not waste your time anymore. Okay, I can't make that promise. But I can promise that about an hour ago I forced myself to eat before I let ED completely dictate the rest of my day. Eat without thinking about it too much. Just get some sustenance, girl. So I ate a white peach. A perfectly ripe and juicy white peach, a gift from the peach tree gods, a spiritual and slightly sexual experience in the form of a stone fruit. I have tasted the light, I have been saved, I am born again. In other words, holy shit that was a good peach. I ate the peach, I savored the peach, and then I ate a lot of nuts. And I swear my mood lifted immediately. Food is the healthy heroin, I suppose. I don't even have to inject the food. I get to taste it and discover different flavors and textures. AND most food is entirely legal! Food rules, drugs drool. (There will always be exceptions.)

So yeah. Remember to eat, Meg. I promise those daily things you find obnoxious or overwhelming will seem less so when you nourish yourself. It truly is that simple.

This hasn't been as thrilling or as rickety as I assumed. It was basically me just letting the world know I ate a peach. I do have other things on my mind, however, and here they are, quickly:

*Pecans rule.
*Tolstoy rules. He really, really does. Or did. Does. Authors are immortal. His writing fills my soul with joy.
*I wish I had a job that required me to go to Wyoming for one week every month.
*Reminder to self: Take a shower, brush your teeth. It's 3:24 in the afternoon. These things should have been done by now. But that's okay! You still deserve love and respect!
*Maybe I'll cut my hair into a bob?
*Another reminder to myself (and everyone else): Be kinder. Respond more, react less.
*Start painting again, Meggie.

LOVE YOU. Go dive into a peach. You won't regret it ever ever ever.

rest

Hey! I decided I'd write a post simply as an excuse to sit down. Funny how I still feel like I need to make excuses when I want to, you know, rest. Funny how I associate "resting" with "failure" and "guilt." Funny how I associate a lot of pleasurable and often necessary aspects of life with guilt. Funny! Funny! Funny! A laugh a second, a second of laughter, laughter is the best medicine unless you have irritable bowel syndrome and then maybe laughter should be lower on the list of medicines to take. Although not too low because guess what? IBS is often a side-effect of anxiety and stress. And laughter relieves anxiety and stress. And so I guess you can say that laughter is a fairly effective medicine when it comes to chronic gas/bloating/constipation/diarrhea. Why am I writing so much about irritable bowel syndrome? Well, only because I am almost certain I have it and this is my blog and this is my brain and the words you read here are the thoughts that are going through that aforementioned brain.

"Aforementioned." Look at me, an IBS sufferer and occasional guilt-ridden rester, using fancy college words. Is "aforementioned" a college word? What even are college words? I assume more college-y words would be kegger and dreadlocks and crippling student debt.

Yeah, I didn't stay sitting for long. But I only got up because I had to pee. I got to sit down to pee (in case you were wondering), though, which was nice. Yep. Just telling you far, far too much. It was not my intention to mention details of what goes on when I go to the ladies room, but then again, I'm no lady. I am a sexless alien trapped in the body of a lady.

I am also so freakin' tired. I don't think I realize how tired I am because I am always tired, thus tiredness is the new norm. (Don't worry, mom! I will work on getting to bed earlier! No need to be anxious about this! Love you!) Those parenthetical exclamations were humorous, yes, but they were also a window into why I struggle with food and the body -- because I am a people pleaser. A perfectionist. Always trying to be everything to everyone, glossing over any problems or issues, forgetting to pay attention to my own needs and desires. I feel like I just described most women I know. Sigh. Let's knock down this patriarchal system, ladies! And men! And gender fluid humans! And, yes, even you sneaky aliens.

I got up again. I can't remember why. It's unimportant. What IS important, however, is that I venture outside and lose (and find) myself in some clouds. I can -- and should -- do this while freely lounging in a damn hammock. It is National Lazy Day, after all.

peach

There are a lot of thoughts floating around in my head right now, thanks to the energy received from actually ingesting food, and I am trying to figure out a way to connect them all and place them on the page. And by "place them on the page" I mean type them up on my keyboard. I did, however, place many words on the page while I was in Wyoming. In a simple red college-ruled notebook that cost $0.19 at the grocery store, I took a pen in my hand and wrote out my thoughts for the first time in what felt like forever. And it felt nice, like a deep sigh or the moment when you take your hair out of that stupidly high and tight ponytail. Seriously, why don't we all just shave our heads and wear wigs on occasion? Logically it makes the most sense.

So anyway. Thoughts. I don't think I want to put in the mental energy attempting to connect them, so let me instead just dump them out right here, right now (watching the world wake up from history):

I want to go to Cuba. I want to go to Alaska. I pretty much want to go anywhere, even the sticky, shitty parts of Mississippi. Basically, I just want to travel and somehow do it for free.

I have a lot of meal ideas planned and I wish I could cook and eat them all right now without exploding and having diarrhea for a million years.

Turns out I love pecans. I bet I love a lot of other foods and flavors I never allowed myself to experience. I want to experience it all now. And yes, I want to experience it all right here, right now (there is no other place I wanna be).

I need to be nicer. I want to be nicer, sure, but I also need to be nicer. I say this often. I should start walking the walk, ya know?

Speaking of walks, it's probably smart of me to start taking walks again without a phone glued to my hand or my nose glued to a book. Leave the glue at home. Step outside and watch the sky (and occasionally the ground so you don't, you know, trip or step in some shit).

I promise there are 18,769 (69!!! nice.) more thoughts in this physically large head of mine, but I have the attention span of a flea and must flee to another activity. You see? You see.

key

IT HAS BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE I'VE POSTED SOMETHING HASN'T IT??? Okay, just a week or so. But seven days is a long time! Anything can happen in seven days! And a lot has happened in the past seven days! Lotsa stuff occurred while I was on that Wyoming dude ranch. For example, I ate pizza and smoked salmon and roasted chicken and a sandwich the size of Delaware and approximately 17,000 bananas and a frittata and mugs full of Grape Nuts and I would have most definitely had a burger if we would have been in a place that served burgers. In other words, I ate. I ate more than I have in, oh I dunno, seven times seventy days. Maybe even longer. AND THE REAL KICKER IS I didn't even exercise. I guess I just let go and let god, you know? Kidding. But I did let go. I definitely let go of the need to control and restrict and deny. I relaxed. I allowed. I enjoyed immensely.

So now I am back and completely surrounded by reminders of old, unhealthy habits and routines. Will I be triggered? Will I return to what is comfortable, despite being harmful? Yes and yes, because I already have. But -- BUT -- that is okay. It's disappointing, sure. It's frustrating, sure. It's to be expected, sure. I do not think assuming I will fail is necessarily a pessimistic view. I believe it is more of a realistic view. Recovering from any illness is bound to be messy. Recovery will never happen immediately, overnight. Setbacks will happen; it's how I handle these missteps that count.

IN OTHER WORDS, DON'T WORRY! YET! I am still mostly pumped about my new attitude and my new outlook. And my new food in the cupboards and fridge that I purchased today. The keyword is "I." I purchased them, not my eating disorder. Fist bump times 1,000.

I want to write more. I need more sleep first in order to write more. Although maybe that's not true. I can't write in my sleep, can I? Plus, didn't old wino Kerouac write On the Road while on a drug-fueled three-week frenzy? I'm sure he didn't get much sleep during that time. Then again, Jack is kinda meh. Sorry, man. Haunt me if you wish.

Love you, dudes.