If we take off a few edges, what do we put in their place? You can't very well take off an edge without replacing it with something, right? I ask too many questions. From the very beginning, I ask a question and then another one and then nobody wants to answer any of them when they feel harassed. I apologize I have harassed you with questions, questions that don't really need an answer.
It has been difficult for me to write. For the past five years, almost six. I blame college. I am upfront with you about who I am blaming because apparently I have to blame someone or something for each of my difficulties. But to be honest, college isn't to blame. In fact, I'm not sure there is even a need for blame. I just haven't wanted to write, simple as that. If I had truly wanted to write, don't you think I would have found a way? There I go again with the questions.
When I feel bad (or anxious or sad or mad or lost) I go outside. I don't write, I don't create, I don't meditate. I step outside, with urgency, and walk. I don't have a destination. Or maybe I do? I only want to end up getting a little lost. Lost enough to where I'm forced out of my own thoughts and into what's around me. Notice the sky. Notice where the sun is. Notice the homes occupied by strangers who are somebody's lovers. Notice the way the sidewalk doesn't let you dive into a distraction. It cracks and lifts and dips in places that beg for attention. So you pay attention. You place your feet where they are supposed to go in that moment and you move forward. And I move forward. And I wander until I end up where I started, but it's a different place now. It's a blank canvas and I am bare. I have shed my skin and here I am.
So maybe I don't write that often. So maybe it doesn't matter. So maybe what matters are the ways in which I get lost and what I notice along the way to being found. I always let myself be found, but first I must let myself give up. Give up what blocks your view and you will see the moon for what it is -- perfectly round, without edges, claiming its place in the universe of things.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
arch
Looks like I lost a follower! Not that I'm keeping track. I just casually noticed, okay? But that's okay! The fewer readers, the safer I'll be in the long run! Who knows what kind of crap I've admitted on here that will one day shoot me in the foot. Is that the right phrase to use? "Shoot me in the foot"? Speaking of feet, mine have hurt for decades. As it turns out, I will forever be in sneakers with excellent arch support from now on. Stilletos were for my 20s, specifically when I was 20 and I was in Vegas and I thought I'd look cute in my Ramones t-shirt, jean mini-skirt, and plaid "punk" stilletos. Turns out it was the mistake of the century! That and going to war with Iraq. Iraq? No, YOUraq. Ugh. Never mind.
Sneakers. Sneaker? But I hardly know her. Wow, it's becoming blindingly apparent why I have recently lost a follower. Oh well. I yam who I yam.
I've made one stupid resolution for 2016. I came up with this one about an hour ago. Here it is. The suspense is building.
Resolution: I will go on one road trip a month. I have weekends off, I am done with work by 12:45pm every day, so... So why not save up some pennies to go somewhere with someone for a weekend? Okay, so there may be a lot of reasons to not do such a thing, but pish posh. I miss going on road trips. It's odd -- I am terrible at meeting someone for lunch, but I am terribly excellent at sitting in a car for hours with another human. And there's the strong possibility that we'll get into a lot of wacky adventures! And we can take some rad Instagram photos at abandoned gas stations and lonely motels! And we'll probably have to pee in a bottle in the backseat at some point when traffic's too bad and there isn't a reststop for another 100 miles. It all sounds like a dream.
If there are a lot of typos in this post, don't shoot. I am typing this on a computer older than I am. AND I AM OLD.
Well, I have drained my entire mind, body, and soul writing this post and have nothing left to offer. Just know that I still love you, even if you are all on the verge of unfollowing me. Don't follow me in the first place! Stand beside me. Walk with me. Carry me, maybe, if my feet ache. But definitely -- definitely -- drive with me to the border.
Sneakers. Sneaker? But I hardly know her. Wow, it's becoming blindingly apparent why I have recently lost a follower. Oh well. I yam who I yam.
I've made one stupid resolution for 2016. I came up with this one about an hour ago. Here it is. The suspense is building.
Resolution: I will go on one road trip a month. I have weekends off, I am done with work by 12:45pm every day, so... So why not save up some pennies to go somewhere with someone for a weekend? Okay, so there may be a lot of reasons to not do such a thing, but pish posh. I miss going on road trips. It's odd -- I am terrible at meeting someone for lunch, but I am terribly excellent at sitting in a car for hours with another human. And there's the strong possibility that we'll get into a lot of wacky adventures! And we can take some rad Instagram photos at abandoned gas stations and lonely motels! And we'll probably have to pee in a bottle in the backseat at some point when traffic's too bad and there isn't a reststop for another 100 miles. It all sounds like a dream.
If there are a lot of typos in this post, don't shoot. I am typing this on a computer older than I am. AND I AM OLD.
Well, I have drained my entire mind, body, and soul writing this post and have nothing left to offer. Just know that I still love you, even if you are all on the verge of unfollowing me. Don't follow me in the first place! Stand beside me. Walk with me. Carry me, maybe, if my feet ache. But definitely -- definitely -- drive with me to the border.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
done
In the most surprising and welcome news of 2015, I have started to cut back on my time on the treadmill to come home and meditate. Except for today. I still cut back on my running, but instead of meditating, I am doing this. You know, blogging like I am some 17 year old who is so proud she has a blog. Sometimes I think this dopey blog is the only thing I have going for me. That and maybe my Twitter feed. I may be giving myself a bit of a hard time (I've been known to do that occasionally), but lately I've become aware of some of my personality traits of which I am not so fond.
Like quitting. Wanna know a secret that cannot remain a secret for much longer? I quit my second job. Like, two days ago. I swear there was something about that snow storm on Monday that caused its own blizzard in my personal life. Everything fell apart on Monday, in small but significant ways, and by Tuesday I hit a brick wall -- luckily not literally. But emotionally I was stuck. It's difficult to explain because I'm still trying to figure out what it was. Whatever it was, it caused me to somewhat impulsively and frantically quit my job. Immediately after I felt the brick wall dissipate. There was still dust and rubble, however. No decision can ever be spotless.
So now what? Now I wrestle with my self doubts. Now I try to hold myself to higher standards so that I don't keep ending up in positions that deaden me with people who drain me. Now I attempt to take more responsibility for my decisions, to avoid avoiding things and people and situations that are uncomfortable. Now I get comfortable with the uncomfortable. Now I forgive myself.
When I have more time, I want to go over the reasons why I quit and do a little self-reflection. Maybe that should be kept in a private journal. Maybe I should first have a private journal. But the one thing I don't want is to remain quiet and afraid and isolated. I want to let people in, to give them a chance, to give myself a chance. I may quit a job here and there, but I hope I never quit myself.
Like quitting. Wanna know a secret that cannot remain a secret for much longer? I quit my second job. Like, two days ago. I swear there was something about that snow storm on Monday that caused its own blizzard in my personal life. Everything fell apart on Monday, in small but significant ways, and by Tuesday I hit a brick wall -- luckily not literally. But emotionally I was stuck. It's difficult to explain because I'm still trying to figure out what it was. Whatever it was, it caused me to somewhat impulsively and frantically quit my job. Immediately after I felt the brick wall dissipate. There was still dust and rubble, however. No decision can ever be spotless.
So now what? Now I wrestle with my self doubts. Now I try to hold myself to higher standards so that I don't keep ending up in positions that deaden me with people who drain me. Now I attempt to take more responsibility for my decisions, to avoid avoiding things and people and situations that are uncomfortable. Now I get comfortable with the uncomfortable. Now I forgive myself.
When I have more time, I want to go over the reasons why I quit and do a little self-reflection. Maybe that should be kept in a private journal. Maybe I should first have a private journal. But the one thing I don't want is to remain quiet and afraid and isolated. I want to let people in, to give them a chance, to give myself a chance. I may quit a job here and there, but I hope I never quit myself.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
iris
You look up and see an unblinking fluorescent light. It doesn't see you. You remain frozen, unable to turn away from the strain being placed on your eyes. Your eyes are your one prize. They are good eyes. No, you do not have perfect vision, but the pigmentation of your iris is often the cause of praise. It's a hazel so rich it needs a new name. You and your deep eyes remain nameless, however, as you allow the fluorescent light to maintain power, to have the upper hand.
Then it falls apart. In an instant. In an instant the lights shut off and you miss it. You miss the control, the struggle, the insecurity. Then the question of who shut off the lights comes into your head. I guess the insecurity is still there. It never really goes away. But now there is no control, no way to know how to overpower or submit. You were decent at that game, even when you were the loser. How do you absorb a light that no longer exists?
This is where I'm at right now. I am in the middle of a room I do not know because I paid no attention to it when I entered. I let the light blind me, or at least transfix me, and then I let go. I let go of knowing what it was I wanted, what it was I needed, what it was I was. What I was. Past tense. It's in the past. So there's that. I can let go of that and go on to whatever is next, which at the moment is me stumbling around in the dark, arms outstretched, cautious. I do not know what's lurking. I do not know if there's even anything lurking. I know I have thoughts. I know thoughts have the power to control the light switch. I know this, but I do not admit it. Maybe one day. Maybe when I'm tired of my prize-winning eyes being hidden in an inky void.
What do I avoid? From what do I shield my eyes? And how do I begin to open, open, open?
Then it falls apart. In an instant. In an instant the lights shut off and you miss it. You miss the control, the struggle, the insecurity. Then the question of who shut off the lights comes into your head. I guess the insecurity is still there. It never really goes away. But now there is no control, no way to know how to overpower or submit. You were decent at that game, even when you were the loser. How do you absorb a light that no longer exists?
This is where I'm at right now. I am in the middle of a room I do not know because I paid no attention to it when I entered. I let the light blind me, or at least transfix me, and then I let go. I let go of knowing what it was I wanted, what it was I needed, what it was I was. What I was. Past tense. It's in the past. So there's that. I can let go of that and go on to whatever is next, which at the moment is me stumbling around in the dark, arms outstretched, cautious. I do not know what's lurking. I do not know if there's even anything lurking. I know I have thoughts. I know thoughts have the power to control the light switch. I know this, but I do not admit it. Maybe one day. Maybe when I'm tired of my prize-winning eyes being hidden in an inky void.
What do I avoid? From what do I shield my eyes? And how do I begin to open, open, open?
Monday, December 14, 2015
oy vey
Blogger is just my diary, to be honest. Or rather, my journal. Why is it "diary" for a female and "journal" for a male? Because society is EFFED UP. Kidding. But it is.
So I've had a few good cries today. They weren't good. I take that back. The first one resulted in a bloody nose, which got all over my carpet, coat, and kitchen wall. And face. And in my hair. I felt like an episode of CSI. My second cry came this afternoon after I read an email from my cool supervisor basically lecturing me on missing work today. He has no idea how rare it is for me to not come into work, so maybe he thinks I'm flaky. I am flaky, sure, but only when it comes to relationships. Work? Like it or not, I'm pretty much a brown noser. BUT I TAKE ONE SNOW DAY AND SUDDENLY I'M THE WORST PERSON IN THE WORLD. See. This is why I never took snow days before. Bummer City. I could go on and on about how disappointing that job has been, how most of my coworkers make me feel, at best, lame and, at worst, invisible. I don't get paid much, I only work about 12 hours a week, I'm not pretty enough for one of the dudes in charge to flirt with me, and soooo on. But I don't want to dwell on it. I don't need to dwell on it. As is common with me, I'm most likely making it out to be a bigger deal than it actually was. Still. I put in a lot of work and very rarely do I get credit; the only feedback I get is negative when I take a legitimate day off. Grumble.
I don't know. I'm kinda melancholy right now. I guess I don't feel much like writing. Or reading (gasp). Or cleaning or walking (bigger gasp) or eating (you can't gasp any louder) or crying or talking or praying or sledding or shopping or meditating or jump roping or tight-rope walking. Shoveling. I feel like shoveling.
Blank.
So I've had a few good cries today. They weren't good. I take that back. The first one resulted in a bloody nose, which got all over my carpet, coat, and kitchen wall. And face. And in my hair. I felt like an episode of CSI. My second cry came this afternoon after I read an email from my cool supervisor basically lecturing me on missing work today. He has no idea how rare it is for me to not come into work, so maybe he thinks I'm flaky. I am flaky, sure, but only when it comes to relationships. Work? Like it or not, I'm pretty much a brown noser. BUT I TAKE ONE SNOW DAY AND SUDDENLY I'M THE WORST PERSON IN THE WORLD. See. This is why I never took snow days before. Bummer City. I could go on and on about how disappointing that job has been, how most of my coworkers make me feel, at best, lame and, at worst, invisible. I don't get paid much, I only work about 12 hours a week, I'm not pretty enough for one of the dudes in charge to flirt with me, and soooo on. But I don't want to dwell on it. I don't need to dwell on it. As is common with me, I'm most likely making it out to be a bigger deal than it actually was. Still. I put in a lot of work and very rarely do I get credit; the only feedback I get is negative when I take a legitimate day off. Grumble.
I don't know. I'm kinda melancholy right now. I guess I don't feel much like writing. Or reading (gasp). Or cleaning or walking (bigger gasp) or eating (you can't gasp any louder) or crying or talking or praying or sledding or shopping or meditating or jump roping or tight-rope walking. Shoveling. I feel like shoveling.
Blank.
profesh
Meghan Wiemer: Professional. Just a pro. In just about everything. Just. Justin. This just in: A nice fellow named Justin was texting me for awhile, but I had no energy to keep up with his texts. I had no energy (or courage) to meet up for dinner. Will this be the mistake of the century? Was Justin my soulmate? Well, guess what, kittens? I don't believe in soulmates. Or maybe I do, but I believe that we could all be each other's soulmates depending on when and where we meet. In other words, there is no one perfect person. Aside from Santa Jesus. This post took a nose dive directly after "Meghan Wiemer: Professional."
Nosedive or no nosedive, I must continue! I cannot get used to typing on this computer, which is the size of a king size candy bar. Sure, that's a large Krackle, but my oh my that's a teeny general-purpose device that can be programmed to carry out a set of arithmetic or logical operations automatically. Yes, it is. But enough about my candy bar computer -- more about Krackle. Do people still eat Krackle? I mean, of course they do. If it's around. If it's just sitting there on a lonely, cold operating table, someone (probably someone not under general anesthesia) will most likely pick it up and enjoy it for the seven seconds it's in their warm, wet mouth. But does anyone just get an unbearable craving for a Krackle? So unbearable that nothing, not even the WORST SNOW STORM OF 2015, will stop them? They get into their frozen car with the bald tires and defy death just to get their Krackle fix. They've hit rock bottom, but man does it feel good.
Hi, I'm back. I promise to write less about Krackle and Justin and Justin's obsession with Krackle in the future. Weird how the future will never happen, though, huh? Now now now. Won won won. We've won! We've won the prize of an all-expenses paid vay-cay to Now. Enjoy it while you can be it'll only last forever.
You know what, maybe I should give you guys (and girls) (and cats) (and Santa Jesuses) a break from my incoherent ramblings. I'll be back, though! So grab a coffee and a Krackle and prepare yourself. Yourselves. You. Do you even exist? Only right now. Lucky you.
Nosedive or no nosedive, I must continue! I cannot get used to typing on this computer, which is the size of a king size candy bar. Sure, that's a large Krackle, but my oh my that's a teeny general-purpose device that can be programmed to carry out a set of arithmetic or logical operations automatically. Yes, it is. But enough about my candy bar computer -- more about Krackle. Do people still eat Krackle? I mean, of course they do. If it's around. If it's just sitting there on a lonely, cold operating table, someone (probably someone not under general anesthesia) will most likely pick it up and enjoy it for the seven seconds it's in their warm, wet mouth. But does anyone just get an unbearable craving for a Krackle? So unbearable that nothing, not even the WORST SNOW STORM OF 2015, will stop them? They get into their frozen car with the bald tires and defy death just to get their Krackle fix. They've hit rock bottom, but man does it feel good.
Hi, I'm back. I promise to write less about Krackle and Justin and Justin's obsession with Krackle in the future. Weird how the future will never happen, though, huh? Now now now. Won won won. We've won! We've won the prize of an all-expenses paid vay-cay to Now. Enjoy it while you can be it'll only last forever.
You know what, maybe I should give you guys (and girls) (and cats) (and Santa Jesuses) a break from my incoherent ramblings. I'll be back, though! So grab a coffee and a Krackle and prepare yourself. Yourselves. You. Do you even exist? Only right now. Lucky you.
Sunday, December 6, 2015
festive
I HAVE AN EXCUSE. I have not been writing because my computer totally died. Totally. Bit the dust. Filled with dust, dust broke the fan, overheated, burned up some kind of board or drive or whatever. All I know is that it is no longer with us. Scattered the computer's ashes all over this land, some of it may even be in your land/dinner. That's right, I snuck some of my computer's ashes into your Hot Pocket. Sorry you are eating a Hot Pocket for dinner. Maybe add some guacamole? Fancy it up.
Snuck is not a word. But clearly it is because I used it. It exists because I used it. Them's the rulez.
So anyway, my old computer can rot in hell/be eaten with guacamole. I have a new li'l device, which can sometimes be referred to as a "computer." But it is so tiny! There's not even a CAPS LOCK key! I have to hold down the shift key anytime I want to shout at you, WHICH IS OFTEN. No no, I'm not shouting AT you, I'm shouting WITH you.
In an hour and 17 minutes I will be at a work holiday party in some lameass mansion. Is the mansion haunted? I vow to find out. I wonder if my coworkers will want to have a seance tonight. If they don't, I will throw a glass of champagne in their faces. Not a glass, but multiple glasses. And then I will smash the glasses and declare a war on Christmas.
I suppose the thing I need to do right now is get ready for this seance. Apparently I am supposed to wear "festive attire." What about a festive expression on my face? Will that suffice? I'll let you know in the next post. Happy Holidaze, you filthy and unbearably attractive animals!
Snuck is not a word. But clearly it is because I used it. It exists because I used it. Them's the rulez.
So anyway, my old computer can rot in hell/be eaten with guacamole. I have a new li'l device, which can sometimes be referred to as a "computer." But it is so tiny! There's not even a CAPS LOCK key! I have to hold down the shift key anytime I want to shout at you, WHICH IS OFTEN. No no, I'm not shouting AT you, I'm shouting WITH you.
In an hour and 17 minutes I will be at a work holiday party in some lameass mansion. Is the mansion haunted? I vow to find out. I wonder if my coworkers will want to have a seance tonight. If they don't, I will throw a glass of champagne in their faces. Not a glass, but multiple glasses. And then I will smash the glasses and declare a war on Christmas.
I suppose the thing I need to do right now is get ready for this seance. Apparently I am supposed to wear "festive attire." What about a festive expression on my face? Will that suffice? I'll let you know in the next post. Happy Holidaze, you filthy and unbearably attractive animals!
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