life is like sliced bread: just kidding, it's not: the true story of sandwiches: what is true? what is false?: now a major motion picture

I know it is entirely too early to tell, but today feels much better than yesterday. It's not surprising, though, because like I said in my last post, every other day is good. One crazy-curmudgeon-sour-puss-everyone-is-stupid day followed by a oh-hello-there-seagull-eating-trash-in-the-park-parking-lot-aren't-you-a-beautiful-creature-my-lord-isn't-everyone-and-everything-glorious day.

I guess it's not this drastic all of the time, thank goodness. And maybe it would do me well to stop thinking that every other day will be shit -- that would put a huge dark cloud over my "off days" the second I wake up, which sucks, and it would also screw up my "on days" because I would be dreading what's to come.

Come on, Meg! You are into that Buddhist hippie mindfulness Eckhart Tolle crap, right? Right! So harness the power of now! Live in the now! Now is the time! Now you realize there IS no time! No time except for right now and also dinnertime. I love dinner so so so much. Just me and wasabi sandwiches (it's a thing, I promise) and television. I know, that's not a very "mindful" dinner, but... But I am still a beautiful creature, just like that seagull eating trash in a parking lot! Except I'm eating a bizarre Asian-American culinary creation on the couch.

Are sandwiches American? Does any country claim to be the birthplace of the almighty sandwich? Hold on a sec -- Okay, so apparently there is an Earl of Sandwich? John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich. He didn't invent sandwiches, but according to a totally legit website, the Earl made them popular. And I guess this all took place in England or whatever, but America and England are pretty much the same country, right? I mean, not right, but also right. Like, I am right and I am wrong. I am happy and I am sad. I am on and I am off. But today! Today I am on. Or rather, right NOW, in this moment, the only moment that has every existed, I am on, I am okay, I am proud that the gays can finally marry.

Yeah for gays! Yeah for seagulls! Yeah for earls and sandwiches and deep breaths and ice cubes I can chew and the days that I can choose to be whatever I want them to be. Isn't it a relief? Isn't it a relief to know that we are the puppet masters in our own lives? Yep. It definitely is.

hook

Every other day I feel like a saint. Okay, maybe not a saint, but I at least feel nice. Relatively nice to myself, not not nice to others -- an all-around okay human being. And then the days in between? Well, I become a bit of a beast. I see the world through the eyes of a curmudgeon and I feel like tripping everyone I walk past. No, not tripping them. That would lead to a confrontation. And even in my edgiest moments, I would much rather disappear than engage in a fistfight... Mostly due to the fact that I have noodle arms and probably the worst upper hook this side of the Mississippi. Where is Mississippi, by the way? Is it by one of the Carolinas? Up until right now I had forgotten that South Carolina existed. Oh! And West Virginia! There isn't a North Virginia, correct? Okay, just checking. Quick! Draw me a map on the back of a cocktail napkin while I drink the cocktail you ordered in order to chill the bleep bleep out.

Where was I? Oh right. Grumpy Pants Meg. Sour Puss Wiems. Totally Awful Attitude and Geographically Impaired Lady. JK, I ain't no lady, not even when I'm wearing a skirt. Or a dress. Or a neon sign around my neck that reads "LADY." Not even then. Anyway, I need to find ways to counteract my crappy mood on those days when I am not a pseudo-saint. Meditation? Okay, sure. Mantras? Why not. Muscle relaxers? If only.

But seriously, the world doesn't need anymore bad vibes. I don't want to be the non-lady, fake saint who contributes to the blahs that seems to be everywhere these days. Maybe I can begin by smiling more and scowling less -- unless it's at a strange man because those dudes get the wrong idea. I need my Bitch Face for them. But for everyone else, I promise to be more pleasant. I promise to be more compassionate. And I promise to never swing my arm at you unless it is to give you a high five and wish you all the peace and happiness in the world.

fragment

The problem I come across with writing blog posts... Or writing letters... Or writing reviews/essays/short stories/poems/wills/customer complaints/customer compliments/grocery lists is that I do not know how to begin.

I don't know how to start off the piece with a killer first line. Some prolific writer wrote in some book somewhere that the perfect first sentence may be the 187th sentence you write. Or something like that. So I guess that means we keep writing and writing and writing and editing and revising and rewriting and finally -- ahhhh. There we go. There's the sentence on the page/screen/sidewalk and it is perfection.

No, not perfection. Please don't get caught in the perfection trap (again), Meg. Besides, if the first sentence is perfect, then is it all downhill from there? Unless you make yourself crazy by making every sentence that follows just as perfect... But don't do that. Maybe don't think so much about it?

Maybe what I need to do is try a zen-like approach to writing, which means I don't write and instead sit on a black cushion for 12 hours a day getting hit on my back with a bamboo stick. Okay, no. It means that I write when I write, I chop wood when I chop wood.

Most likely I won't be chopping wood anytime soon, although the days are getting brisker. But I will be writing, and a very important step in the process of writing is to, well, actually write.

I think about writing, I stress out from thinking about writing, I distract myself from the stress of writing by not writing and instead I busy myself by chopping wood and/or taking important quizzes on BuzzFeed to find out which Disney Princess I am. And this needs to stop.

There are so many lumberjacks out there that can do a better job at wood chopping than I. So let me let them chop the wood while I write about the ax separating the fibers along the grain. And sure, there are also countless writers out there who can construct a better first sentence than I can, but even imperfect logs burn and create a fire that can warm an army.

I'm on my mark. Now it's time to go.

harvest

I worry I am becoming less creative the older I get. I worry that I begin too many statements and questions and commands with the word "I." I used to worry that I used the word "and" in excess, but I don't worry too much about that anymore. I worry that one day I will realize that I've never tasted all of the fruit in the world and I will be crushed beyond belief. All it is is a part of a flowering plant, the means by which these plants disseminate seeds. And it also happens to be the subject of still life paintings. The apple was the one thing Eve could not resist. Is it still life when you are cast out from your home due to an all-too-human surrender? You surrender to what some may consider sin; you consider the flesh divine.

There I go on another tangent. Maybe my entire life has been a tangent? I am not sure I exactly understand the definition of "tangent," though. I guess a lot of my writing is mere stream-of-consciousness. That style can be exhausting for not only the reader, but for the writer as well. Sometimes I want to dam up that stream, you know? Not that much electricity would be generated from my stream. I am not sure I exactly understand how dams work. Or streams. Streams lead to oceans, correct? And do fish swim against or with the current? Currently I don't care. If I don't care, why do I keep asking questions? There I go again.

And again I've written another blog post that doesn't quite say much (while at the same time saying so much!!! right?!?! like, read between the lines, man!!! or woman! female followers, hello! i appreciate you!). I am not sure I exactly understand how to use the mighty parenthesis. But why do I feel the constant need to be exact? Maybe living in the exact, in the precise, in the supposedly "all-knowing" is all crap. It's a delusion, it's a destination that will never be reached, it's the apple at the top of the tree that upon closer inspection is actually not an apple at all. It's the moon. It was an optical illusion and now you can't trust your eyes, your mind, or the moon. There is no creativity to be found when you are too busy doubting the mess. Sometimes inaccuracy offers us the fruit of its labors. It's up to us to step outside and take a bite.

wiggles/walks

I have gotten into the habit of going on a walk in the park the minute I wake up. I started walking to get my wiggles out. Listen, I have a lot of wiggles in the morning even before my coffee. Listen, I can be a 30-year-old and still use the word "wiggles," okay? Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain. Telling me just what a fool I've been. I wish that it would go and let me cry in vain. And let me be alone again. Those last four sentences were song lyrics not written by me. Name the song and the group and I will give you the prize of immortal life.

Anyway, my walk. So I walk around the park by my house while reading The New York Times and War and Peace because I am pretentious like that. I initially start out welcoming the world. The sun! The breeze! The trees! The new day! Hello! And then people happen. Yes, Camus, hell is other people. Granted, I am the other for others -- in other words, I am no peach pie for some folk. I disrupt their world just as much as they disrupt mine. Okay, I am being a tad hyper-sensitive, I know. Most of the time people at the park are just minding their own business. Walking their dog (but does their dog really have to poop in my path?), getting their daily exercise (but do you have to run with your stroller the size of a mid-size SUV?), catching up with their friend (but do you really have to have such an idiotic conversation about your juice cleanse?), and so on. Occasionally some gem-of-a-human will drive by me in their pick-up truck equipped with a Duck Dynasty bumper sticker and gun rack in the back and honk and/or shout incoherently out their window and/or politely ask for my opinion on Tolstoy's Christian anarchist views. Well, maybe not the last one. But the first two? They happen far more often than they should. They should never happen, actually. And it pisses me off. And it also scares me a little. It may seem odd, but being harassed first thing in the morning isn't exactly my favorite way to start the day.

So I come home from my walk, which was supposed to relax and refresh me, but instead I grab a large cup of ice and chew away my anxiety and anger. Something has to change and I hate to say that it's most likely my attitude that needs an adjustment. Yes, it would be nice if the harassment stopped, but it won't. Yeah, if the dog poop and the stroller moms and the mind-numbing conversations I can't help but overhear would disappear life might be easier. But then it wouldn't be life, right? Life comes with annoyances, interruptions, and too many wiggles to successfully erase. It's learning how to handle these situations in a way that doesn't add fuel to the asshole fire. It's learning how to send out good vibes for the sake of the world and, maybe more importantly, the sake of your psyche. Hell may be other people, but I can create heaven within myself.

IN THE NAME OF COFFEE AND TOLSTOY AND CUPS OF ICE, A(WO)MEN.

outermost (the post about aliens and ice and smoke)

Greetings! Welcome to my blog! Welcome to Internet Land! Where all of your dreams will come true, all of your time will be wasted, and all of your naked photos will be hacked and sent around the world and maybe even into space. Aliens might see your boobs! But then again, aliens have probably already seen it all. X-ray vision and whatnot. What? Is this not a good beginning to a blog entry? Well, pish posh. Whatever. I've forgotten how to blog. Is blogging passé? Should I be Snapchatting and/or Skyping instead? I think I should probably be sending out smoke signals for the extraterrestrial creatures up there in the celestial skies and tell them to stop being perverts. Maybe I should also chew on some ice.

Yes, I've been chewing on a lot of ice lately. This could mean one of about a dozen things. I could be sexually frustrated (HELL-O!), anemic (OH CRAP), dehydrated (WHO ISN'T?!), or anxious (DUH). I guess those are just four things, not a dozen. Look, I never said I was good at math. But guess what? I'll say it now: I am terribly wonderful at math. Not even joking for one damn second. I was the top student in my COLLEGE math classes! I even went on a date or two with my math professor AFTER I was out of his class! I know that last thing has nothing to do with my math skills, but it does have something to do with my dating skills, which I do not possess. I possess little to no skills in the world of dating. But man oh man, I am more than capable of plotting ordered pairs on a coordinate plane. Sexy? Uh, yeah. I don't blame you if you want to chew on a bucket of ice after reading about my mathematical skills. I don't blame you, but I won't kiss you. Yet.

Hmmm. So I guess my blog has abruptly shifted from being a place where I write vague and poetic musings to a forum for my descent into madness. Let it be! And so it shall be! And I will lose followers by the post, but I will gain lost time. Weird how you can gain while you lose, huh? Weird how time is just a construct and numbers are erotic and I am neurotic and aliens are paying attention to my smoke signals. It is strange, though, because I do not know how to start a fire. How can I send the message without a flame? Apparently I am. Apparently someone out there is reading this. Apparently madness is still expressed in a sane way through the tidiness of words and (mostly) complete sentences.

So will you, aliens of the Internet (whom I love), continue to read my smoke signals? I can almost promise you that I have more coherent things to express. I will have to express those things at a later time, however. I have to go to recess! Seriously. I get paid to play with 5-year-olds. If there's one thing I've learned from working with children, it is that they too are aliens. Aren't we all? But heaven help me if they ever read my smoke signals. Pssh. Like those goofballs can even read anything beyond the word "cat." Give me a break. (And give me a chance?) (Also, while you are giving me a chance, will you also give me a very large container of chewable ice? Thanks, you adorable space inhabitant you.)

the return

Hi, Reader! I say "reader" instead of "readers," because I'm skeptical of there being more than one person who reads this blog. Okay, there are probably three of you suckers, maybe four. But definitely no more than five.

Time has passed! I have disappeared! I did not actually disappear -- unless we don't quite know when we disappear until we look into a mirror and realize we are missing not only a face, but a head and a body and maybe even our arms. Our feet and hands, however, remain. And our smile. We have turned into the Cheshire Cat while at the same time being curious Alice and the aggressive Queen, looking for a head to chop off.

I did not stop writing. I guess I exist if I write? So I've been existing, not disappearing. It's just that I've been writing FICTION and PRIVATELY. Privately fiction. Private Eye fiction. Not private eye. I am simply private about what I write when I feel like I may be on to something... Not that I necessarily believe that my idea(s) will be stolen, but because I feel like I have to keep the sauce in the pot boiling before I take it off the stove and show it off to everyone in the dining room. Keep it in the kitchen until fully cooked.

Other than marinating/sauteing/frying/baking/filleting the strange and surreal stories that seep out of my brain, I have been doing a lot of walking. And reading. I read while I walk, which makes me the weirdo in the neighborhood who reads while she walks around the park in circles. Who is this odd blonde creature with over-sized sunglasses and a shocking shoulder tattoo? Why is she such a nerd? I wonder if she is secretly a drug dealer and is going to the park to give children candy laced with cocaine? Kids don't need cocaine. That last sentence will be the title of my second memoir. My first memoir will be titled, "Do Kids Need Cocaine?"

So I read, walk, whisk up words in a mixing bowl (yolks included), and push around a kid in a wheelchair. Oh yeah, I now have a job. And it's a "wheely" good job! Kidding, it's not good. At all. Okay, so helping children is wonderful. They are ill-behaved germ bags who are on rare occasions amazing humans. Overall, though, I look at this job as very super incredibly temporary. For one thing, it doesn't pay well -- and we all know that it's all about the, uh, scrilla. I also feel like I am not "utilizing my talents." But seriously. I have this English degree and I can whip up an Ionesco-like one-act play in seconds flat, but put me in charge of a dozen 6-year-olds and I become the dumbest person in the room (which is pretty bad because 6-year-olds are pretty dumb). I'm beginning to realize that I don't give myself enough credit. I settle for what is easy and safe because it is, well, easy and safe. I don't have to worry about being crestfallen or groundless. But oh how I've forgotten how much I value vulnerability and bravery. Vulnerability IS bravery. It's time I take a chance on something and go after what may seem impossible, yet soul-fulfilling. If there's anything I've learned from teaching kids, it's that the impossible usually ends up being possible and worth it. I've also learned that kids hate vegetables and love sneezing into the wind.

I don't have a point with this post other than to update you on ALL THINGS MEG. Meg! The girl who sneezed her dreams into the wind and ended up infecting the world! Get ready!