affect

My goal is to sleep tonight. That's a good goal. That's a good girl. That's a good ghoul.

When I pause, step back, and take a look at what I write, I see that I am a poster child (WOMAN) of hashtag white girl problems. Hashtag first world problems. Hashtag spelling out hashtag. I use up your valuable time to have you listen to me complain about lack of sleep, complain about too much free time, complain about exercising at a gym too often. Yes, the world is bigger than my complaints. Thank goodness.

But I don't want to dismiss my feelings completely. Feelings are feelings and it's best if we allow ourselves to feel them. Acknowledge them. Let them run their course without harming anyone or oneself. You know, cry if you wanna cry. Punch a pillow if you want to punch a person. That kind of thing. Letting yourself feel those crummy emotions opens up the door for you to notice and fully appreciate the exhilarating, purely blissful moments that will, I promise, happen.

Hi, I'm Meg and recently I've become a self-help guru??? I say that mockingly, of course. I ain't no self-help anything, although I've sure sounded like I'm trying to be one recently. Here! Let me spout of some wooey wooey crap you've heard two dozen times before (and more eloquently stated). Two dozen times? So you've heard these platitudes 24 times? That, folks, is math without paper. Did the addition in my head. Oh well. If you love me, you'll love ALL of me -- and that includes my preachy, wooey wooey craptastic side.

Yeah. I'm just so so so so tired. I don't know why I'm even forcing myself to blog. Maybe because I feel like I can't do anything recently except for blog, binge on books, and bake bread? Yeah. Maybe.

I think I'll go watch some reality TV and drink a Fresca. And who knows? I might be ambitious and whip up an omelet or three. There's no telling what surprises this Tuesday night holds. Peace out, fellow ghouls. Keep feeling all of the feels, you hear me? xoxo

doing

Oh hey, if you haven't noticed, you made it through January. You survived. You are a strong motherfucker and I'm immensely proud of and in and around you. I'm proud around you, yes. That's what I typed. And why am I typing? Because the computer is on a desk in a room full of light. Light feels healing and it feels... light. Yes, judging by my limited vocabulary, you can safely assume that I have not taken a nap, that I am still running on fumes (and, wisely or not, caffeine), that it's a fact the brain needs zzzzz in order to do... things. Things.

And I am doing things! I am! It may not appear that way because my room is still a mess, my legs are still unshaven, my checking account is still rapidly inching towards empty -- but I assure you that I am progressing. My progression just may not be visible, that's all.

In what ways am I "doing things"? Well, for starters (and this is huge for me), I am easing up on my time at the gym. I always have this tinge of embarrassment when I talk about the gym. Gyms are meant for dicks and hoes, no? Kidding. But they kind of are. Anyway, long story short -- I am attempting to find some kind of balance when it comes to physical activity. Running is excellent for my depression and devastating for my recovery from an eating disorder. So. Buddha advocates the "middle way" and, well, the dude's been right on other things before. I trust him and now I just need to take his damn advice already.

I am also trying to "get out" more and try new foods, eat with other people, make and follow through with plans, listen to new music, watch captivating shows, read poetry out loud. These seem small and insignificant, but to me they aren't. I envelop myself with the familiar and stay like a statue in what I know, so to branch out is a big deal. And the more I do different, new, and somewhat frightening things, the easier and more rewarding it becomes.

So does anyone have any gold stars for me? Because I deserve at least two. Make that three. I am proud of myself for not giving up, for seeing areas in my life that are less than and putting in the effort to make them more. It can be exhausting, though, but then again maybe that exhaustion is just from the lack of sleep. Note: As tempting as it may be to drink almost two Rockstars and watch anime all night long, I would not recommend it. Then again, try it and see for yourself. Life is one experiment after another, is it not?

puppet

Did I overdo it yesterday? I have a feeling I overdid it yesterday. Today might not be any different. In fact, most of my days for the past couple of months have felt remarkably similar. Like, 6 months = one very, very long day. Part of that had to do with me having a consistent schedule with work, but another part of that had to do with me finding almost too much comfort in routine. Routine isn't inherently bad. Of course not. It provides structure and stability. But it ended up stifling my creativity and spontaneity. I think creativity is a form of spontaneity, right? I need to learn to not keep such a tight rein on my life -- because none of us can control everything that happens and we'll just make ourselves miserable if we attempt to be the puppeteer.

What. Am. I. Even. Saying. I am practically typing this in my sleep. Oh, sleep? What's that? I was up until at least 3am, fell asleep for an hour, woke back up and was pretty much awake for the rest of the night. Or rather, early morning. Whatever those secretive, silent hours are. A nap would make sense, yes, I agree. But when have I ever made sense? A shower would also help. Maybe I can even work up the courage to wash my hair, shave my legs, be a lady. Kidding. Ugh, gender roles! You know, man?! Or woman. Or gender fluid human being. All I know is that I am taking another day off from the gym. I guess a little movement would make me feel better, but not much. I will just walk around the living room and read, like I usually do. No need to push myself to conform to society's standard of beauty. I am ready to make "being healthy" my goal. And sometimes resting is the best thing one can do for one's health. That and eating an entire loaf of pumpkin bread.

Words escape me today, so instead I will end this post with the words of another, more coherent person. "You are a puppet, but in the hands of the infinite, which may be your own." -Antonio Porchia (I take back everything I said about not being a puppeteer. You ARE the puppeteer and you always have been! Right on, babes.)

miss

I have less than three hours to write 27 posts!!! I can do this!!! Crunch time!

Instead of writing what might be delusional posts, I should be writing a novel, yeah? Or maybe a short story. Or poetry or a one-act play or a cover letter or an apology letter. Something else. Channeling my energy into other writing projects may be beneficial. May. But I feel such a sense of accomplishment (in the short term) with blog posts. Type type type, click "publish," done. I need to develop patience and perseverance. Writing a novel or a short story or even a poem will not take twenty minutes. It takes time. But don't get me started on time again... No really, don't.

What do I miss? I miss college, sometimes. I miss him and him and her, sometimes. I miss summer, always. I miss not being iron deficient. I never miss not having a menstrual cycle, although I should, I think. I miss being "Hippie Meg." I miss theater and adrenaline rushes and cake with ice cream. I miss conversations in the middle of the night with nothing but the moonlight and secrets to illuminate our way. I miss what was never lost.

What do I not miss? I do not miss loud people living above my head. I do not miss cold caves littered with regret and, occasionally, the empty shells of snails. I do not miss midterms and parking lots and inappropriate professors. I do not miss the feeling of being trapped in an already failed relationship. I do not miss cigarettes. I do not miss him, even though that is a lie. I do not miss what was never lost.

Okay. Twenty-six posts to go. But for now I go, go to the kitchen to make some bread to pass the time and avoid missing anything, anyone.

branch

Here I go! More thoughts! Three posts before 3:00! Let's make it 30 posts before 2300 hours! 2300 hours = 11pm. That's doable.

What else is doable? Well, figuring out what I want in life and going after it. It's doable, but it won't be easy. So far it has actually been one of the hardest things in my life, second only to learning how to properly skip. Yes, skip. Like, what small elfish children do in fields of daffodils.

Okay, so now it is almost 4. I guess the whole "three posts before 3" did not come true. There's still hope for the 30 posts before 11pm. Sometimes all we have is hope, though, and not 27 more posts.

But yeah. 4:00. Where in the world does the day go? What a boring rhetorical question. Still, I want to grasp the day with my sandpaper hands and make it stay stay stay. I have so many things I need to do! I need to, I don't know, vacuum! And organize my bookshelves and put on some pants and research penguins and think about applying for jobs I'll never get. I was even considering shaving my legs, but why? And for whom? And with what time? Time escapes. It does not wish the be held. I either make myself miserable wishing time wished to be held or else I drop that wish and release myself from my self-imposed prison. (That sentence could have been less messy, but life is just messy sometimes. Drop it.)

Chapped lips, hairy legs, sandpaper hands, bloodshot eyes. Who will love this beast? When will Monday leave? But wait -- I thought I wanted time to stop. To stay or to leave, to invite or turn away. Make up your mind, sweet beast.

Turns out my posts get progressively weirder throughout the day.

Turns out I might want to get married after all. Just for a decade or so. But what a decade it'll be! We can go to Spain and for some reason Yugoslavia and we can fight in hot hostels with hot Europeans eavesdropping. We can order meals in restaurants and ask the waiter for water or better yet wine or better yet water which has been miraculously turned into wine. We can look for miracles in our marriage in order to save it, in order to stop time, in order to freeze love at its height, at its most deceptive and blind. We can find nothing but pockets of regret and photos of us from when we looked really good with our tans from Spain. Maybe we should get takeout tonight. Maybe we should stay inside and not let the world out there decide our fate. Maybe our fate has already been decided, but my does the orange chicken taste good with white wine. It shouldn't, but it does. We shouldn't, but we do. We haven't enough time, so let's stop looking at the clock. Let's be fools for miracles instead of slaves to seconds.

Again, progressively weirder posts as time goes on.

And on.

And on.

And on.

And prepare yourself for 27 more branches emerging from my brain.

den

I have figured it out. When I have ample time and cannot distract myself with the drabness of employment or the responsibilities of a relationship, I read. And write. That's it. So maybe this blog does serve a purpose. A few purposes. Yes, it's a distraction. But it's also a map. It's a map as well as a journey as well as a destination. A key. A mess, a necessary knot to untangle. And maybe this blog full of its twists and dead ends and rough starts is only useful for me. And that's okay. And and and.

And it's just a blog. I don't have to make sense. I'm not writing a dissertation here, folks. I'm not even trying to write terribly well. If I was, I would start fewer sentences with "and" and I would cut out a majority of the "probablys," "maybes," and "perhaps." I would swear less, although swear words can absolutely add to a piece of writing when used "correctly." I wouldn't make so many parenthetical statements (yes I would). I might even -- gasp -- revise and rewrite.

But this is where I go to, you know, jam. Yes, this is my version of grabbing a guitar at 2 in the morning and just jammin' with my bros, yo. This blog is my bongo drum. I will write without limits! Without hesitation! Without ever mentioning borscht again!

This week has been weird. Oh, it's only Monday? Funny. Funny how a few hours can feel like a week when you are snowed in. When you are Edward Snowden. Ed's last name is literally "snow den." I want a snow den. I think I may even require a snow den if I want to live a full life. And I do. I do want to live a full life, part of that life spent living in a snow den surrounded by books and huskies and husky men I will never be attracted to. I picture a snow den to look like a sexy 1970s den, complete with wood paneled walls, a mirrored ceiling, shag carpeting, roaring fire, cocktails and coke on glass coffee tables.

To be completely frank with you, I do not want a snow den. I want a museum. I want to live in a place both empty and full. Empty as in clean. Empty as in bare. Full as in inviting due to its simplicity. Full as in it only contains pieces that bring me completely and utter joy. Pieces that inspire. But very few pieces -- not that a lot doesn't inspire me (hell, borscht inspires me), but if I am surrounded by too much, my brain shuts off. I want to be able to focus. I want to absorb a single object, a single place, a single idea, a single person -- let it/them seep into my bones and reveal itself/themself to me. Satiate me, please.

Snow den. Yeah. That was a good one.

beetroot

I have been bingeing for over a week now. No, not on beer, bourbon, bread, or borscht, but on books and apparently alliteration. What if I had been bingeing on borscht? I had to google it to see what it was exactly. Looks kinda like post-birth gunk. Like, that's what comes out of you after you have a baby. Not that I know from personal experience. But maybe you might? Was there anything resembling borscht that came out of you after giving birth? If you answer no, I will not believe you. If you answer yes, please do not go into great detail. If you do not answer at all, I will assume you have no children and are deeply relieved because of it. <--- I shouldn't joke about that. Some people want children so badly and here I am joking about how awful they are. And they aren't! I mean, they're awful 89% of the time, but they are almost worth having in order to experience that 11%.

Oh my. I've become too sidetracked. I can't go back now. I have legitimately ruined this post by disgusting everyone and turning them off from ever eating borscht again. I'm sure it's not bad. In fact, it's a borscht kind of day today. Do yourself a favor and enjoy a nice, not-at-all-resembling-post-birth-gunk bowl of Ukrainian soup. Do it for your future, mostly awful but occasionally okay children.

Back to my binge. ALL I was going to say is that I have been bingeing on books. Big deal, no big surprise, big whoop. But it is a big deal. It is a big luxury. When I enter that world and pour myself over those pages, parts of me I didn't know were broken are healed. Or at least begin to heal. Other parts of me crack open and are exposed, leaving the flesh raw and tender. Both add to the formation of Self. Both add dimension, color, shade to the hour, to the day, to the life. In short, I am creating a life through the lives of others, but it still comes out as my own. I claim who I am through the discoveries I make on each page.

At some point, however, I need to tear myself away from my books and take what I've learned outside. Remaining within the covers is too seductive. Let me let go and let other, non-fictional souls in. Let me trust that it's not just a black hole out there. It's an entire universe with comets and stardust and the possibility of other lifeforms. I think I'm ready to explore.

But first -- borscht.