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.