define

Webster's defines "opening sentence of a blog post" as "a line which is difficult to write so you resort to the embarrassing 'Webster's defines...' opening." Who is this Webster asshole anyway and what makes him assume he and Merriam are the experts on words? Okay, I just got back from doing a little research on Merriam and Webster and it turns out Merriam is not one person, but two brothers (George and Charles) and that Noah Webster was actually a kinda cool dude. He was opposed to slavery and a bit of a freethinker. A bit. But a bit is better than not at all. And why the hell am I going on and on about Merriam-Webster? Yet again, I've wasted both my time and yours.

"Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time." The formerly all-knowing Internet credits that quote to about a billion different people, from Bertrand Russell to John Lennon. I'm sure somewhere someone credits it to Mr. Noah "Not an Asshole" Webster as well. I already wasted my time reading the Wikipedia pages for the Merriams and Webster, so NO WAY am I going to get to the bottom of this who-actually-said-it mystery. Not right now. I will later. Later when I am wide awake until 3am for no apparent reason, yet too drained to read a book or be "productive" in any way. Yes, I spend the hours while the rest of the world/house is sleeping in the deep abyss of screens. Is it possible to be in different abysses at the same time? I am lost in television while also lost in the Internet, both in an attempt to not get lost in head. Sometimes I need a break from being in my head. Sometimes I need to step out and step down into the abysses. Abyssi?

I actually did have an idea for something I wanted to write today. I wanted to write about how I feel so crummy. Not all the time, no. But the past few days I have just been feeling and acting crummy. Noah defines "crummy" as, well, I don't know how he defines it. But I define it as reacting over and over and over again to any slight or imagined trigger rather than calmly and mindfully responding to it. The reactions are never good, never helpful. Reactions are mere walls and armor where walls and armor are not needed. What's usually needed in these situations is space and openness and vulnerability. And compassion. Always, always compassion. I can't stress it enough just how vital compassion is to all of our lives. So I can't stress it enough, but do I live it enough? Or at all? Sometimes it doesn't seem like it. And for that I sincerely apologize.

Who am I apologizing to? I could list off at least three dozen names. But would my name be one of those dozens? Probably not. I am an afterthought to myself, which is probably the root of all this crumminess. Can one be simultaneously self-obsessed and self-loathing? Because that's how Webster would define me.

But I have the power to change this definition. All I have to do is write my own definition and paste it over the old one. Nothing in life is permanent, not even definitions, not even words, not even crummy feelings and crummy actions. Words and actions, however, hold consequences. I am beginning to sound like a moralistic asshole, so I'll stop. I don't feel as though I quite finished my thought(s), but that's okay -- it'll just give me something meaty to think about tonight before I select my abyss of choice. Thanks for listening/reading/scoffing. Wait, not scoffing. Stop scoffing. It's crummy. (But you aren't. You are more than okay. I promise.)

embrace

I am about to write perhaps the most depressing sentence I've written in months: I think in tweets.

What I mean by this is that none of my thoughts go further than 140 characters. And what I mean by that is that my attention span has gotten even shorter, which none of us thought was possible. I have done the impossible! I am superhuman! But I might actually be a robot! I am superrobot!

So this Twitter Brain I now possess makes it challenging for me to write worthwhile posts. I sure know how to promote my blog! <--- Sarcasm. I'm not here to promote anything, okay? I am here to be self-deprecating in a totally relatable and charming way. I am here to dump out my various 140 character thoughts for friends and lovers and strangers and haters to read and be puzzled by. I am here, take me to your leader. Twitter Brain Thoughts (Some May Exceed 140 Characters) (Don't Count the Characters, That's Just Weird): *I finished my Tolstoy book! HOOOOORAY!!! And also dammit! Dammit because it was great and I love Tolstoy and I don't think he's coming out with any new books anytime soon. I could be wrong. Oh yes, and I read Resurrection by that damn man. Damn! Damn! Damn! Now I am reading The Mill on the Floss by MS. George Eliot. Floss... That reminds me... I forgot to brush my teeth today. Don't sue me! Just don't come too close to my mouth! Or to my face or my body or my soul or my feet. Definitely not my feet. My feet are in some serious need of a little TLC. Look, I'm joking about not coming close -- kind of joking. I do enjoy my solitude and find it hard to "let people in," but I also kinda sorta totally miss human interaction and connection. I might have to start making an effort to be social, huh? And that means I'll have to make an effort to brush my teeth occasionally.

*Okay, that first thought far exceeded the 140 character limit. But who's the jerk who's imposing these limits? C'mon, maaan! (Assuming it's a man.) (It's always a man.) Break those chains or whatever! Live on the edge! Speaking of living on the edge...

*...I want to join a motorcycle gang. Not true. I do, however, want to take up some hobbies, join a few clubs, maybe even volunteer somewhere sometime someplace somehow. I want to do these things because I, well, just do, but also because it would help me to break out of my rigid routines and strict schedules. Breakin' those chains again, you know? Trying to, at least. I have never been a spontaneous soul -- and it's not as if I have to suddenly do a 180 and become the poster child (WOMYN) of spontaneity, but maybe I can try to do a 45? Did that make sense? I don't know how numbers work. Basically, I will try in my own small ways to jump in without obsessively thinking about and researching and examining the metaphorical water.

*Metaphorical water. Psssh.

*I lied about not knowing numbers. I am damn good at numbers and math and pole vaulting.

*I lied about pole vaulting.

I never know how to end these non-post posts. (What makes a post, though? I am holding myself to unrealistic expectations and imaginary rules. Typical! Also not productive or necessary!) I'll end it with pictures. Always pictures.

secreto

My thoughts are all over the place, yet at the same time they are focused because I ate a peach. Yes, there I go again, professing the power of the peach. Hold on. My thoughts can't be both focused and unfocused simultaneous, right? That makes very little sense, yet at the same time it makes all the sense in the world. Kidding! But also not kidding.

Cults are appealing. Well, they are. They are appealing to me because they include strict routines and rituals, extreme devotion without that pesky "doubt" I've dealt with my entire life, and secrets. And who doesn't love secrets? I don't love secrets, actually. I will obviously keep your secrets, but I don't want to keep my own secrets. I want to lay it all out on the table, the operating table. Yes, I want to perform open heart surgery on my secrets. Scalpel, STAT! Spork, STAT! Salt and pepper, STAT! THESE SECRETS ARE DELICIOUS.

I am trying to write this as quickly as possible because if I don't write now I won't later and I want to post something and I also want to get outside soon because I have been trapped inside (by my own choosing) for hours and I have forgotten what the clouds look like and you know how much this bitch likes clouds. So, uh, I guess I'm just offering an explanation for the frantic feeling of this post. Just offering explanations, left and right. Just offering up my secrets to anyone who's willing to listen, left and right. Just forgetting which hand is left and which hand is right. Can't my hands be bipartisan for once?

For once I'd like to have a PB&J sandwich for dinner. This might very well happen tonight. I have my own secret reasons for wanting a PB&J. I will tell them if you ask nicely/in German using a cockney accent.

And there it is! The brick wall. I've crashed headfirst into the I can't-possibly-write-another-sentence wall. I am not complaining, though. It was good while it lasted. Was it good for you, too? No? I apologize, but I secretly don't care. I amuse myself quite frequently and maybe, just maybe, that's all that matters. That and peanut butter. And peaches. And clouds. Always, always clouds.

pêche

I am about to take you on a thrilling ride through the dark passages of my mind. And by "thrilling" I mean "rickety." And there won't really be any dark passages. I have those dark passages, sure. We all do! We are all weird humans with weird psychological issues! But today, right now, I feel pretty A-OK. I also have a massive amount of energy for some reason (I know the exact reason -- will explain later), so that is why you are about to get strapped in to this roller coaster of a post and take off on a ride full of loops and dips and abrupt stops that cause whiplash and what the hell am I even typing? I was lost from the very first sentence, as I imagine you were, too. Hey -- at least we're in this together, riding the same wavelength, the rickety wavelength found in this amusement park I like to call the universe...

Thanks for your patience! I promise to not waste your time anymore. Okay, I can't make that promise. But I can promise that about an hour ago I forced myself to eat before I let ED completely dictate the rest of my day. Eat without thinking about it too much. Just get some sustenance, girl. So I ate a white peach. A perfectly ripe and juicy white peach, a gift from the peach tree gods, a spiritual and slightly sexual experience in the form of a stone fruit. I have tasted the light, I have been saved, I am born again. In other words, holy shit that was a good peach. I ate the peach, I savored the peach, and then I ate a lot of nuts. And I swear my mood lifted immediately. Food is the healthy heroin, I suppose. I don't even have to inject the food. I get to taste it and discover different flavors and textures. AND most food is entirely legal! Food rules, drugs drool. (There will always be exceptions.)

So yeah. Remember to eat, Meg. I promise those daily things you find obnoxious or overwhelming will seem less so when you nourish yourself. It truly is that simple.

This hasn't been as thrilling or as rickety as I assumed. It was basically me just letting the world know I ate a peach. I do have other things on my mind, however, and here they are, quickly:

*Pecans rule.
*Tolstoy rules. He really, really does. Or did. Does. Authors are immortal. His writing fills my soul with joy.
*I wish I had a job that required me to go to Wyoming for one week every month.
*Reminder to self: Take a shower, brush your teeth. It's 3:24 in the afternoon. These things should have been done by now. But that's okay! You still deserve love and respect!
*Maybe I'll cut my hair into a bob?
*Another reminder to myself (and everyone else): Be kinder. Respond more, react less.
*Start painting again, Meggie.

LOVE YOU. Go dive into a peach. You won't regret it ever ever ever.

rest

Hey! I decided I'd write a post simply as an excuse to sit down. Funny how I still feel like I need to make excuses when I want to, you know, rest. Funny how I associate "resting" with "failure" and "guilt." Funny how I associate a lot of pleasurable and often necessary aspects of life with guilt. Funny! Funny! Funny! A laugh a second, a second of laughter, laughter is the best medicine unless you have irritable bowel syndrome and then maybe laughter should be lower on the list of medicines to take. Although not too low because guess what? IBS is often a side-effect of anxiety and stress. And laughter relieves anxiety and stress. And so I guess you can say that laughter is a fairly effective medicine when it comes to chronic gas/bloating/constipation/diarrhea. Why am I writing so much about irritable bowel syndrome? Well, only because I am almost certain I have it and this is my blog and this is my brain and the words you read here are the thoughts that are going through that aforementioned brain.

"Aforementioned." Look at me, an IBS sufferer and occasional guilt-ridden rester, using fancy college words. Is "aforementioned" a college word? What even are college words? I assume more college-y words would be kegger and dreadlocks and crippling student debt.

Yeah, I didn't stay sitting for long. But I only got up because I had to pee. I got to sit down to pee (in case you were wondering), though, which was nice. Yep. Just telling you far, far too much. It was not my intention to mention details of what goes on when I go to the ladies room, but then again, I'm no lady. I am a sexless alien trapped in the body of a lady.

I am also so freakin' tired. I don't think I realize how tired I am because I am always tired, thus tiredness is the new norm. (Don't worry, mom! I will work on getting to bed earlier! No need to be anxious about this! Love you!) Those parenthetical exclamations were humorous, yes, but they were also a window into why I struggle with food and the body -- because I am a people pleaser. A perfectionist. Always trying to be everything to everyone, glossing over any problems or issues, forgetting to pay attention to my own needs and desires. I feel like I just described most women I know. Sigh. Let's knock down this patriarchal system, ladies! And men! And gender fluid humans! And, yes, even you sneaky aliens.

I got up again. I can't remember why. It's unimportant. What IS important, however, is that I venture outside and lose (and find) myself in some clouds. I can -- and should -- do this while freely lounging in a damn hammock. It is National Lazy Day, after all.

peach

There are a lot of thoughts floating around in my head right now, thanks to the energy received from actually ingesting food, and I am trying to figure out a way to connect them all and place them on the page. And by "place them on the page" I mean type them up on my keyboard. I did, however, place many words on the page while I was in Wyoming. In a simple red college-ruled notebook that cost $0.19 at the grocery store, I took a pen in my hand and wrote out my thoughts for the first time in what felt like forever. And it felt nice, like a deep sigh or the moment when you take your hair out of that stupidly high and tight ponytail. Seriously, why don't we all just shave our heads and wear wigs on occasion? Logically it makes the most sense.

So anyway. Thoughts. I don't think I want to put in the mental energy attempting to connect them, so let me instead just dump them out right here, right now (watching the world wake up from history):

I want to go to Cuba. I want to go to Alaska. I pretty much want to go anywhere, even the sticky, shitty parts of Mississippi. Basically, I just want to travel and somehow do it for free.

I have a lot of meal ideas planned and I wish I could cook and eat them all right now without exploding and having diarrhea for a million years.

Turns out I love pecans. I bet I love a lot of other foods and flavors I never allowed myself to experience. I want to experience it all now. And yes, I want to experience it all right here, right now (there is no other place I wanna be).

I need to be nicer. I want to be nicer, sure, but I also need to be nicer. I say this often. I should start walking the walk, ya know?

Speaking of walks, it's probably smart of me to start taking walks again without a phone glued to my hand or my nose glued to a book. Leave the glue at home. Step outside and watch the sky (and occasionally the ground so you don't, you know, trip or step in some shit).

I promise there are 18,769 (69!!! nice.) more thoughts in this physically large head of mine, but I have the attention span of a flea and must flee to another activity. You see? You see.

key

IT HAS BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE I'VE POSTED SOMETHING HASN'T IT??? Okay, just a week or so. But seven days is a long time! Anything can happen in seven days! And a lot has happened in the past seven days! Lotsa stuff occurred while I was on that Wyoming dude ranch. For example, I ate pizza and smoked salmon and roasted chicken and a sandwich the size of Delaware and approximately 17,000 bananas and a frittata and mugs full of Grape Nuts and I would have most definitely had a burger if we would have been in a place that served burgers. In other words, I ate. I ate more than I have in, oh I dunno, seven times seventy days. Maybe even longer. AND THE REAL KICKER IS I didn't even exercise. I guess I just let go and let god, you know? Kidding. But I did let go. I definitely let go of the need to control and restrict and deny. I relaxed. I allowed. I enjoyed immensely.

So now I am back and completely surrounded by reminders of old, unhealthy habits and routines. Will I be triggered? Will I return to what is comfortable, despite being harmful? Yes and yes, because I already have. But -- BUT -- that is okay. It's disappointing, sure. It's frustrating, sure. It's to be expected, sure. I do not think assuming I will fail is necessarily a pessimistic view. I believe it is more of a realistic view. Recovering from any illness is bound to be messy. Recovery will never happen immediately, overnight. Setbacks will happen; it's how I handle these missteps that count.

IN OTHER WORDS, DON'T WORRY! YET! I am still mostly pumped about my new attitude and my new outlook. And my new food in the cupboards and fridge that I purchased today. The keyword is "I." I purchased them, not my eating disorder. Fist bump times 1,000.

I want to write more. I need more sleep first in order to write more. Although maybe that's not true. I can't write in my sleep, can I? Plus, didn't old wino Kerouac write On the Road while on a drug-fueled three-week frenzy? I'm sure he didn't get much sleep during that time. Then again, Jack is kinda meh. Sorry, man. Haunt me if you wish.

Love you, dudes.