126,720 inches

So did I tell you I am moving? Kidding, I won't make every post from now until September about how I am moving. Just, like, 80% of them. The other 20% will be about the evils of palm oil, the importance of Planned Parenthood, and why I want to adopt a kitten and name it Yuki Noguchi. But for reals, I am looking forward to being in an area which is, according to the trusted Google Map, two miles to every HOT SPOT depending on which direction you are facing. For example, I am two miles from Liberty Park, two miles from Red Butte Gardens, two miles from REI and a parking lot full of Subarus with Bernie Sanders bumper stickers, and a weeeee bit over two miles to Trader Joe's. I know, right?! I better actually take advantage of my close proximity to "cool shit" this time around because I sure didn't when I lived on South Temple. I mean, I did go to City Creek every once in awhile with my dad, but it filled me with so much deep sadness and frustration and I always got lost/frightened of the Mountie-looking security officers. They really are awful, aren't they? ENOUGH! Enough about malls. Why must all of my thoughts lead to shopping centers? The vast wastelands of America.

Anyway, MOVING. I figure I'll just chill out now and then pack like a maniac the week/night before I move. That's fine, right? Sure, as long as it gets done. I ain't gonna be graded on this move, okay? My grand exodus out of Utah County isn't a midterm. And it's lucky for me that I am currently on this minimalist kick. I own nothing but a robe and a notebook and a tube of Chapstick! Follow me! <--- Not true, but maybe one day.

I hope that with my move I'll be able to become more involved in organizations that are important to me, groups that are committed to making a change. I won't overwhelm myself with activities and obligations, though, because then I'll do NONE of them. Plus (and this is a very big plus), I kinda sorta really have to find a job first. You know, I've lived a fairly reeeeelaxed existence for awhile now, pretending like I am not an adult and do not have very many responsibilities. Hahahahaha, how very untrue that is. Time to step up to the plate, Meg! And, uh, swing at all of those pitches! And maybe hit a home run! And run backwards, confusing the officials! Time to publicly humiliate yourself on national television by not understanding the basic rules of baseball, yet somehow you still win the game! You did it! MVP!

Okay, moving on and leaving the topic of moving behind, what's up? Like, what do you guys and girls want to talk about? Let's have a discussion! A discussion about police brutality, a discussion about drilling in Alaska, a discussion about the election and resurrection and fungal infection and point of intersection. Let's discuss it all.

ahhhhaaahaha

What to write what to write what to write OH! I know. No, I don't. Let me go scrounge up something from the back of my mind.

So you remember how way back in the olden days doctors would prescribe "a winter in Italy" for things like a cough? That was awesome. Nowadays docs prescribe all sorts of corrosive medications, which usually need other medications in order to get off of the initial medication, which ends up being more expensive than a winter in Italy. It's, like, Italy and pasta and scooter rides through vineyards > addiction.

I will be moving in September. Ahhahahahahahhhhhhhh. That looks like I was laughing. "Ah! Hahahaha!" But I assure you I am not laughing. I am not not laughing, either. Wait. So I am in some gray space of not LOLing, but also not not LOLing? What would that even be? Anyway, I am sincerely PUMPED about moving, but late at night the sadness creeps in with his pal doubt. I wonder (often), "What the hell am I doing?" Am I being selfish? Why, exactly, am I paying $$$ for a place when I am paying no $$$ for a decent place right now? Shouldn't I have a job before I move? Am I an adorable idiot with her adorable head in the VERY adorable clouds? Please oh please answer all of these questions for me right now! I miss having someone/something telling me what to do and how and when and leaving me to not have to stay up at night with those buzzkills Sadness and Doubt. But alas.

In somewhat related news, I will hopefully be taking swimming lessons this fall/winter! At some rec center. I'll probably be the only student. I will wear floaties and a swimming cap. I will be the star student and everything will be beautiful and I will become a professional big wave surfer and nothing in life will ever hurt or be sad or empty except for the good, Buddhist kind of emptiness.

Going back to me moving, I want to reiterate that I am PUMPED. Sadness, Doubt, and a billion questions are normal, at least for me. Any change brings uncertainty and a tinge of regret. But change also brings with it a Mary Poppins bag of experiences, people, perspectives. I am ready to be the baby Bambi and try walking on my own two wobbly legs. I CAN DO IT. I can be a swimmer instead of a sinker in this pool of life! High five me! Right now! Through the Web. Love you.

cabana banana

A great man once said, "Cold pizza is just as good, if not better, than hot pizza. Go to the fridge in your mind and there you shall find the pizza of your dreams. I have a dream that one day my four little slices of pizza will one day live in a stomach where they will not be judged by the temperature of their cheese, but by the content of their crust." Anyway, my point is ---> I have pizza in the fridge.

Pizza! On a Sunday? I don't think it can get any better than that. The only thing that would make this scenario better is if I was eating said pizza on the beach with a spiked green smoothie (kale, cucumber, three shots of vodka, collard greens, a hint of lemon) and some cabana boy was rubbing my calves. Yes, calves. What? They are so tight. You know what they say -- tight calves, cold heart. So there I am, lounging on the beach, drunk as high heaven, stuffing stuffed crust pizza into my face, and planning my TED Talk. Oh yeah, did I mention I am giving a TED Talk in this fantasy? Because I am. I am talking about, I don't know, the Apple Watch and/or cleaning teeth in Africa. This is the worst fantasy. This fantasy just gave me a hangover.

Okay! I'm back from the creaky corners of my mind! I did not intend to write all of the above, but here I am. What's been written has been written. No turning this ship around.

Yesterday I looked at a few apartments aahhhhahahahahahaaaaaaaaahhhhh. I actually found a place that juuuust might be perfect. Okay, nothin' is perfect (except for that cabana boy SCHWING), but the place would be very sufficient for me right now. Which scares me. Of course it scares me. Any change scares me. I am a Cautious Little Scumbag ("scumbag" was just a joke! don't worry! i like myself! i accept myself! i am worth it! i am only a scumbag 49% of the time!) and change is something I crave and need and totally run away from. Yep. I know I need to "move on to the next chapter," but I am glued to this page because I'm too afraid I'll get a paper cut if I turn it.

But I don't want to let this opportunity to pass me up. And I need to remind myself (over) (and) (over) (and) (over) (and) (over again) that any change, no matter how massive or minuscule, will eventually be... Not a change. Ugh. That was a lazy way of putting it. But do you get what I mean? We become accustomed. We find our new comforts. We see things differently and, fingers crossed, become better because of it. I hope this will be the case for me. Although I am a Cautious Little Sometimes-Scumbag, I am also a Brave Little Toaster-Girl. I can handle more than I realize. I am a strong mother effer. Trust yourself, sweetie. You'll be just fine.

Well, it's time for me to take a slice of pizza to the church of my mouth. I pray that you are able to do the same.

compose

I am a gruuuump this morning. What should I blame it on? It always seems to be the same three culprits: lack of sleep, weather, other people. Blame! Blame! Blame! But guess what, Meggie dear? Living in the world means that you must let go of your idea of perfection. You can't live in a completely controlled environment your entire life. Sometimes you'll stay up all night, sometimes it will be slightly warmer outside than desired, and sometimes -- a lot of the time -- other people will do and say things that are the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. But who even uses chalkboards anymore? It's all white boards. No, it's all computers. No, it's all smart phones with apps. Who's the smart one now? You or the phone? Probably the phone because you are too attached to it and will end up developing a handful of tumors from always having that brilliant phone in your lazy hand. Hey! Just kidding. I got off on a tangent. And that "you" is actually just me. I would never speak so harshly to you. Maybe I should try not speaking so harshly to myself. THAT'S AN IDEA. Okay, I got off on a tangent, but now I'm back on the highway of the mind. Highway, freeway: What's the diff? There is so clearly a difference, but I sincerely know not what it is. Let's see... You do not have to pay a toll on a freeway and life is a highway. That's correct, no? No. I mean, yes. I mean, why are you still reading this?

Why am I still writing this? And why did I decide last night, impulsively, to write a novel? Because it will give me a sense of purpose, as if I am doing something with this vast wasteland of time? So I can claim to be a writer at family gatherings, which just really means I am unemployed and directionless? I would give a fairly confident "yes" to all of those questions. But the real question I have to ask myself is: Do I have a story I need to tell? I cannot answer that just yet. I do not know. I do know that I feel like I should know. And if I don't know, then maybe that answer is no. If you have a story that needs telling, wouldn't it be achingly clear? Wouldn't it keep you up at night, your thoughts consumed with plot and characters and setting and words that will flow when the sun rises and you drink your 8th cup of coffee? Isn't this what happens to "real" writers? Sometimes I wish I was just a simple farmer.

I gotta stop trying so hard. And thinking so much. And worrying and apologizing and doubting and leaving broccoli in hot cars. There are a lot of things I have to stop doing, but there is only one thing I have to start doing: Writing. Write away the worries, the apologies, the doubts, the broccoli. Write until I figure out the answers -- If this is true, I may never stop writing.

refraction

Hey! I'm really happy right now! I am glad I never finished the post I started this morning because it was pretty bitchy and it was all about why I cannot stand a certain girl from my past. Blah blah blah blah blah blah and so forth. I should still finish writing it, but in a private journal. A private journal! Sounds so scandalous, but it's really just a cheap notebook mostly full of to do lists and the occasional philosophical musings by a part-time philosopher KIDDING I'm not a part-time anything, not even a part-time Tweeter. I am full-time. I am definitely a full-time Tweet machine.

Tonight there was a rainbow. Faint, but it was there. Tonight there were clouds which I have dubbed "Jesus clouds." Sometimes they are "Jesus, clouds!" Tonight there were flashes of insight I forgot to chase down and capture in a Mason jar. Darn. That's okay, though, because tonight there was also forgiveness. Forgiveness to myself for myself. Forgiveness for my forgetfulness, my very frequent moments of head-in-the-(Jesus)-clouds. Forgiveness that never needed to be given, but was, and it was what I needed in order to fully be there with the rainbow, the sky's flirtation with rain, the closing of what was a pretty emotionally stable day. I feel open, or at least beginning to open. I feel a connection I thought I had lost long ago. I guess all things are bound to return, hungry to make their way back home.

access

I began writing to you, Blogger, while on my vacation. I can't remember exactly what I was writing, but it was probably something like, "Greetings from the coast! I've had soooo muuuuch caaaaaffeine!!!" Something like that. Unfortunately I did not get to see much of the coast... Or Portland, like planned. I did, however, get the opportunity to sleep on a motel floor for two nights, letting the sweet scent of stale cigarettes lull me into a deep, deep sleep where I kissed exes in dreams and wore elephant tusks as an accessory. I had all of the feelings yesterday about my trip. All of the feelings and all of the mascara tears. Today? Not so much. Why is that? Did I dissociate that quickly? Am I just tired? Am I just going to use tiredness as an excuse for the rest of my life? Who's to say. God only knows. The nose by any other name would smell just as sweet. Sweet or salty? I'll take salty any day.

So maybe I'll write more about my trip when/if the feelings return. OR NOT. Maybe writing about it in a highly emotional state is not the wisest decision. Then again, who am I to make wise decisions? I'm beginning to suspect that I make decisions based on how mortified I will be later upon reflection. Like, "What were you thinking cutting asymmetrical baby bangs two days before your sister's wedding, Meghan?!" or "White platform flipflops may have not been the most practical choice for that nature hike." Nature hike! Hahahaha. I guess there are hikes through cities. The city is nature, in its own perverse way. Speaking of perversity, a drunk professor of mine told me 11 years ago that my writing was "so perverse." I am still trying to figure out what she meant by that. I take it as a compliment, though.

Okay, going back to the trip. Here are a few thoughts I thought while trying to maintain my sanity in the great state of Oregon:

*I should dedicate my life to surfing. It's not too late! I'm not too old! Uh... Reach for the stars! I'm desperate. All I need is LASEK and swimming lessons and then I'm set. Look, I don't need to be Laird Hamilton. I just need to be able to stand up and ride one single wave in my lifetime. That's all. And look really cool and effortless doing it as well.

*I have grown very, very fond of my Twitter friends. This may not be healthy. This may be borderline delusional. But I really think of them as friends! They are tiny little pictures on my screen, but I follow their words and their lives everyday and I feel as though they "allow" me to be as grossly open and honest as I want to be with only a little bit of judgment. I believe these things add up to a fine friendship, folks!

Well, those are only two thoughts. I have run out of steam. I know I had more substantial thoughts on the trip, but I'll get to those later. I'm always getting to things later, aren't I? Problem is, I never get to them. I get too distracted by surf videos shot by drones and my own perversity. Hang loose.

sitting

I am still in the depths of the past, which is just a fancy way to say I am still cleaning the shit out of the basement. Okay, I only clean it about 20 or 30 minutes a day because that's about the maximum amount of time I can spend wandering around in Nostalgia Land. I am not even that nostalgic looking through these boxes from eight or so years ago. Nostalgic isn't the right word. I am more... Heavyhearted? A little ashamed? Embarrassed? (I am usually embarrassed about most things relating to me, truth be told.) Heavyhearted is a good word. That's what I feel above all else. The people I left, the people who left me, the person I was, the person I never became. All compacted into a forgotten shoebox in the corner of a dark basement. Needless the say, I have placed most of these relics into the recycling bin. May they be reincarnated into something beautiful, like an empty shoebox. (My goodness, if you want your brain to feel slightly weird right now, look at the word "shoebox." Or just the word "Shoe." Or look at a photo of Elisabeth Shue circa Adventures in Babysitting and try to tell me you aren't super attracted to her, especially when she sings the babysitter blues.)

Three images I love today, right now: