port of entry

So here I am, fine readers, a Girl of the City. Yes, a true urbanite (who does not know how to spell "urbanite" or if "urbanite" is even a real word). I am what some may call "the new mayor of the Great Salty Apple in the Sky." Those people would be wrong, however, because I am not the mayor (yet) and the Apple is not in the Sky, it is comfortably floating in the Lake.

But let's get down to business. How has the transition been so far to Salt Lake City? It's hard to say because any and all transitions are traumatic events for me, even when the change is ultimately a positive, healthy one. You already know this about me, though. Yeah, I'm neurotic! And sure, I may have a little thing called "crippling anxiety"! So be it! Sobe. A Sobe drink from a gas station would taste so damn good right now in this million degree weather. I have no car to drive to a gas station, but I COULD walk to City Creek's food court and buy a fountain drink and go sit by the fountain bra-less and get arrested for having SEXY breasts (by "sexy" I mean "tragically small" and yes, they arrest people based solely on cup size, I googled it and I am also a liar) and fugg it. (I say "fugg" for the sake of my mom, although I DO talk about my sexy breasts - which is worse, mom? Me swearing or talking openly about my private parts? I will only fucking censor one of those two fucking things.)

Anyway, the CITY. Yeah! I feel just like Whitney Port in the spin-off of Lauren Conrad and Co.'s poignant drama The Hills, which was a poignant spin-off of a poignant documentary poignantly called Laguna Beach, which makes me want to poignantly puke in my mouth. So I'm Whitney Port (but actually just Meghan Wiemer), figuring out how to make it in the big (medium-sized) city. I'm completely overwhelmed! Where do I begin? Who do I meet? How do I meet? When and why and can I please get a bottle of Sailor Jerry to calm my nerves on these high seas, matey? I'm joking, mama! But to everyone else, I am dead serious. Let's sit on my balcony sippin' spiced rum and forget all about the resume and cover letter I need to create and the rent I need to pay and the groceries I need to buy and the freeway I need to drive on (I never do! Terrifying!) and the people I need to avoid (just the toxic ones) and the rum I shouldn't be drinking (wanna be healthier, much healthier) and the Kombucha I should be drinking (mushroom tea or whatever the fugg it is is healthy, right?) and let's just forget all of those things for today, okay?

Please, join me. I'll be waiting. And in the meantime, please also tell me what in the hell I'm supposed to do while I wait. Fine, library it is.

fortnights and patience and implications

Has it really been ten days since I've written a post? Ten days (just four days shy of a fortnight, FYI!!!) goes by quicker than quick (and "quick" is pretty damn quick) (and enough with the parenthetical remarks, Meg!) (and exclamation marks!). I have been rather finicky with my writing lately. And perhaps a little lazy. And also distracted by the Big Move 2012, which is happening in mere days (11 days short of a fortnight, LOLZ).

So scary.

Let me remind myself, however, that any kind of move implies change and change is scary for anyone. Even if it's a good change. And I believe this will be, overall, a healthy change. Healthy implies good! There are so many implications in our lives, right? So many implications and changes and parentheses. And fortnights. Hopefully there are many, many, many fortnights in our lives.

Have patience with me during this move, Meghan. Yep, talking to myself. And you, too, but mostly to myself. Trust in yourself and in the universe and in the trees above and the ground below. You are stronger than you think you are. Create a resume. Get lost on walks. Visit graveyards and gardens and abandoned places. Close your eyes at a decent time, but make sure your eyes are open and curious early and throughout the day. You'll be okay.

cobras, nazis, russia, orem, anxiety

Meg's Life, Recently: A Look into the Recent Life of Meg: A Tale as Old as Time: Father Time: Is Time Really a Father?: A Look into Paternity Tests: Tests: Are they Racist?: Yes: A Look into a Positive Answer: Answers: Are There Even Any Questions? No.

Did I not capitalize those words correctly? I know a handful of you out there are correcting every little mistake I make and that's okay, if that's what you genuinely like to do. As for me? I like to drink a little Russian drink (wink wink) and listen to rap music when I am angry, which was last night. I was so angry at Orem's Summer Fest! Mostly I was just terrified. I live right next to the park that is home to the carnival and the fireworks and the booths and the strollers and the kids and the teens and the adults and the loud crowds crazy patriot saint angel of the heavenly cosmos hey! look at me, ma! i'm kerouac burn burn burn through the sky to explode into a fiery fuck why they fuck is "fiery" spelled so fucked up. Firey, people. FIREY.

But yeah. Summer Fest. What a bummer.

Thank the heavenly cosmos that Summer Fest is finished, though! I'm free to stop having panic attacks! I was trapped in panic for awhile, but now that the crowd has dispersed and my doctor has prescribed me Klonopin, I can reign king again! I'm actually a female, so I guess that would make me a queen. Ace in the hole! Queen up the sleeve. King cobra down the pants.

I'm sober.

Sometimes I think about how German I am and freak out because what if that means I would have been a Nazi had I lived in Germany during WWII? What if my ancestors are Nazis? I feel like there's a coldness to me and a mean streak in my blood and maybe I'm wrong and maybe I'm actually the next Dalai Lama (he said it could be a woman!) and who's to say someone like the Dalai Lama couldn't become a Nazi? We're all "imperfect" humans. And did I really just call the Dalai Lama a potential Nazi? I guess so. Am I going to get weird people reading my blog now? You know, those weirdos who google "Dalai Lama Nazi Summer Fest Cobra"? I guess I should have capitalized "google." Give me a brrrrreak!

I googled "hip hop clothing" last night because I thought I might want to go through another hip hop phase.

I probably won't go through another hip hop phase, but that doesn't mean I'm not about to say something ignorant and possibly racist and hey look I used double negatives. So here's what I wanted to say: Maybe I was a little bit drunk the other night and maybe I was a little bit logged into OkCupid (I was!) and okay, so maybe I did an advanced search for ONLY black and Hispanic men and maaaybe I was day(night?)dreaming of being in an interracial relationship because I am actually pretty attracted to black and Hispanic men.

That wasn't ignorant or racist. But that's not what I was going to say. But I don't want to say/write/type/act it out in a one-act play anymore.

Well, this has been strange.

forever and ever

Guess which Meghan Wiemer is all panicky panicky about moving?

You are such a good guesser!

I know that in the end, things will be fine. I know that moving is always stressful for anyone no matter what. What is it that makes it stressful? Is it simply the having to clean and organize and do boring shit like that? Or is it more of a psychological thing? Having to say goodbye ("I've never been good with goodbyes!" says everyone ever forever), leaving a comfortable environment, dealing with the fear of the unknown ("Everything could go wrong forever and ever!" says everyone who has ever lived), rummaging through your possessions and realizing you have way more than anyone could ever want forever and that you are the prime example of why our planet is going down the drain because of the junk you have amassed and the junk you are throwing away and the junk that you hold on to despite it being junk but hey come on man it's sentimental junk.

So what is it?

Maybe it's just that I'm an INFP (or so I've been told). That's weirdo psychology talk and basically it just means I am a weirdo with a lot of psychological issues. I think waaay too much. I neglect anything and everything forever unless it's something I care about a ton (and I have to care about it a ton or else I don't care about it at all). So the things I don't care about, I forget about. The things I do care about (a ton), I become obsessed with and it basically ruins my life because obsessions usually, if not always, lead to the ultimate mental breakdown. Living in my world/brain is a constant party 24/7! It's like Pride Fest in my head minus the confetti, sadly, and the loving relationships, obviously.

What was I even saying ever? Forever I will always wonder what the dickens I was talking about in this here blog post. "This here" is super hicky sounding, is it not?

I don't know how to move. I don't know how to pack. I don't know how to say goodbye to and get rid of stuff. Help? How do I do this without passing out from stress? Suggestions?