A picture is worth a thousand words (#ALoveStory)

It occurred to me about 5 minutes ago that today is Friday the 13th.

And with the luck I’ve been having lately, I feel it’s probably best for me to hide under my bed with a 24 hour supply of franzia, grilled cheese sandwiches (some brownie batter if things get really desperate) and just call it a day.

Because… I’m probably going to get hit by a bus.

or get pooped on by a bird.


Anyway. I thought I might do something a little fun today. A little different than my normal blog post.

I spend a fair large embarrassing amount of time on social media. Mostly because I have nothing else to do, also because I’m addicted to facebook and I should be in therapy and finally because I like to think my obsession is relevant to what I want to do someday. Which is of course, be a professional rich person with no responsibilities other than to check Facebook and lay on the beach. I’m half way to that right now, as I have discovered unemployment is kind of like being really really rich.

Except you have no money.

And if you think about that the right way really hard, it totally makes sense.

Ok, whatever. I’m only saying.

So anyway, having spent an exhorbinent amount of time frequenting social media as of late, I have discovered (along with that of my peers) an exciting (and likewise, time-consuming) site that has brought me some serious joy. And what’s it called? Well if you don’t know about whatweshouldcallme.tumblr.com by now then you’re probably:

A) my mom.

b) my mom’s friends

or C) COME ON! Get with it people.

#whatweshouldcallme is a site where small 3 second clips are used to describe an entire experience.

For instance:




This site is awesome. Mostly because there aren’t always words to describe an entire situation. Sometimes, someone else’s reaction can sum up your predicament more perfectly than your description ever could. Enter #whatweshouldcallme. or as I like to call it #whydidntIthinkofthat

So in honor of this neat new way to waste time, I have decided to share a story with all of you using the brilliant idea of little GIFs to describe something that happened to me recently.

As many of you who know me know, I love giving random men I meet little nicknames. If I meet a new guy and get his number, it’s typically more fun for me to put him in as how I met him or what I associate him with as opposed to his actual name. There are several reasons behind this.

1) A lot of the time, a long term relationship is not in the cards with me and this new friend. It’s a sad but true reality and I get a lot less attached to some guy in my phone when we stop talking who I’ve named “biology boy” than I would if I had let him go by his real name of Andrew. Admittedly, it’s a defense mechanism. 

Just love me ok!

Anyway, this leads me to point number

2) It’s fun. It’s a fun defense mechanism. And 90 percent of the time…it leads to a good story. And if there is anything I like more than boys and having fun… it’s if I can include both with a good story attached.

So when I found this little gem in my phone from two weeks ago (circa approx. 3:30 AM-ish?)…

I knew this was a promising relationship waiting to happen.

And sadly, this is not the first time I have named a guy after drunk food. A few months ago I had several missed calls (circa 2:35 AM) from someone I appropriately(??) named “Nacho Man”. I honestly don’t know what this says about me but we’re not going to give it too much thought today. Oh and don’t worry. I never called Nacho man back. Jesus guys! I have standards. Come on.

.. At the same time….. Burrito guy?!? Um, just how many ways can my drunk self tell my sober self that this is a winner? Hello! I love burritos. It was like inebriated code for “Meg, this is your future husband! Call him back asap girlfriend!”

Which obviously, I did.

So, I decide to shoot him a little text.

The conversation is what follows:

Me: “Hey! We met last weekend. I think we ate burritos together. That’s fun. Did you pay for mine?

Him: “Ha sorry, no I don’t think so. What are you doing tonight?”

Me: “Oh. That’s too bad. That would have been a great first date.”

(Which I 100% whole-heartedly mean. I probably would have fallen in love. And if he bought guac? Yeah. Where do I sign up to bear your first child Mr. Guy?)

Him: “I’m going out in Hollywood tonight. What are you doing?”

Me: “Oh yeah? Me too!”

(Lies.. I had no intention of going out in Hollywood. Unless I’m feeling like feeling up a creepy euro-trash spandex wearing pleather-ized FREAKAZOID, I’m staying the hell out of Holly-weird.)

.. but ok. Maybe he’s cute.

Me: “Come over and pre-game at my place beforehand!”

(nothing like diving right in right?)

Him: “Ok. I’ll bring some friends if that’s cool.”

Me: (I am so super cool.)


In reality:

It occurred to me after this conversation was over that I could be inviting a potential creep and his three (4, 5?) amigos to come chill with me at “my” (thanks for letting me have parties at your place Vanessa) casa. So, logically I armed myself with the only ammo I had.

…Facebook. Duh.

Turns out Mr. Burrito Guy (and no guys, I am NOT going to tell you his real name so don’t even bother asking) is a law student at a distinguished university in the area

(I told you drunk Meg was good).

And I remembered he was cute. So. Law student, cute, likes burritos..


wrong. so so wrong. 


So he was fun. The friends were fun.

Fun, fun fun.


Note to all men everywhere. Fun does not equal a golden ticket to any girls bedroom. NOR does it give you the green light to whisper the weird, creepy shit into my ear.

The following conversation.. is real*.

(*excuse me while I go throw up thinking about it.)

Him: “censored censored censored” wink 😉

Me: ….


Him: “Do you want to censored censored censored?”

Me: …

Him: “Do you want to come back to my place?”

Me: DRAMATIC YAWN. “…I think I might go back to mine.”

Him: “Can I come?”



Me: “I’m going to make pizza.” 


Him: “censored censored censored. Are you sure?”

Me:… Yes. 


Burrito Guy, I’m sorry I let you down. If it’s any consolation.. you kind of let me down too. So much promise, so much potential. But alas, just another common creep. 

Anyway, the weekend is upon us yet again. I’m not going to Coachella, and if you’re reading this right now… my guess is you aren’t either. Wah, wah. oh well. It’s still flyday.

And as they say on #whatshouldwecallme….


This one goes out to the one I love

It has been almost 11 months since I started writing Leftover from Friday.

fun fact: meg, freshman, watching national championship game at the hawk. Chalmers just blew my brain with that buzzer shot. BAM.

So first of all, I’d like to say…..


(This is the longest relationship I’ve ever had.)

Which begs my second point,

In my free time (which recently, is sadly often) I tend to psycho-analyze myself. This is also the very reason why I don’t think I’ll ever need a therapist. If I’m feeling sub-par in any regard, I make myself sit down on my metaphorical therapeutic leather couch cushion and then I charge 50 dollars an hour as I force myself to come to terms with various truths about my inner psyche.

And then typically, for all my hard work and effort, I’ll go shopping.

So, on the average, I think I’m pretty great. Not in a conceited way. Just in a, “I am normal functioning happy adjusted human being kind of way”. I have crazy moments. But I’m not bachelorette insane and I don’t have any ridiculous addictions to bring to the table. Minus chewing gum and red bull. But as Miley Cyrus (the resident expert on the matter) would say.. nobodys perfect. And I personally don’t think there is anything wrong with saying that. I think people waste too much time bringing themselves down like some broken record on repeat about how they aren’t good enough. And I’m not that girl. There’s plenty of them out there, I’m just not her.

But I’m also not one of those people who aren’t aware of their flaws. Or choose to ignore them. I do try to improve on where I fall short. which is often. But I’m working on it.

So, in an effort to improve upon my shortcomings, I thought I would share a few things I could probably be better at. Also, I’m kind of bored. And the coffee place I’m currently at, Intelligentsia in Venice, while having an overall  pleasing laid-back vibe and modern industrial layout, has some of the shittiest seats I have ever had the displeasure of sitting in. Honestly? If I wanted to sit on a tree stump, I would go into the woods and become a squirrel. My butt may never have been this numb before. And I’m sitting like a weirdo right now because I already committed to this place but if I ever come back here, I’m definitely bringing a pillow to sit on. I can’t work like this! Anyway.

5 things I’m working on

  • I am terrible with numbers/math. I also have a crippling fear of math teachers. (Mr. Reisinger, you old, angry ex-military man- This is all on you.) I get stage fright when counting change for anyone which usually forces me into having to re-count 3 more times to make sure I am correct. This typically results in having someone get really frustrated and then conversely they feel the need to spit out the correct amount at me from merely calculating it in their head. What they don’t know.. is that this is what I am counting on (no pun intended). It’s not just that I am bad with numbers. I’ve learned if I’m bad enough, I’ve never really had to be any good. (it’s ok though, because I’m really, really good with words.)
  • I can’t remember the last time I paid attention to someone lecturing me for more than 10 minutes. I’m pretty sure I’m listening-handicapped. I listen for a short amount of time and then I find myself starting to think about what I’ll have for lunch, or if so and so emailed me back or some song I can’t get out of my head (Screw you Jason DeRulo). And even when I know I should be interested or I should be grasping what someone is saying, I just can’t, if it’s too many straight words thrown at my face for a certain amount of time. I think that’s also why I love to write. I can read anything and grasp it. You want to lecture me? Ok. But I’ll probably be thinking about the fact you have a stain on your shirt. …What is that?  Or..  helllllo cute boy to your left. Yuck, terrible jeans. Why do guys think its alright to wear embellished denim? Tragic. Never mind. Right. Focus. Make eye contact, show remorse, maybe frown a little? Wow, I am hungry! What time is it?
  • I’m impatient. Horribly, horribly impatient. I want what I want right freaking now. This has lead to life lesson after life lesson. Starting at the dentist office as a small child.

Can I have a sticker now?


Can I have a sticker now?


Can I have a sticker now?


…..Can I have two stickers?


So. Much. Disappointment.

And family roadtrips. And shopping excursions. And life milestones. And curfews. And Christmas (always, always Christmas) And so on and so forth. My life is full of things I have been physically and mentally forced to be patient for.

  • And because I am really terrible at being patient, I’m also really, really impulsive. Which has lead to some of my greatest decisions…

please see:

-moving to California

-roadtripping to Mt. Rushmore

-tackling my high school rival mascot

-using my book buy-back money on buying a fake ID

-my recent brush with fame on reality tv

-the “sure I’ll be your last minute date to your party even though I don’t know you at all” conversation

– any and every dance party directly related to Justin Bieber

…and some of my worst:

-basically every shot I’ve taken after the first 4 before it

-typically any decision made after midnight (Thank God pet stores aren’t open late, as I could see drunken pet adoption being a real problem for me)

-the “screw it, I probably won’t get a ticket for parking here” mentality

-The “I have no money, but damn. I look really good in this dress/shirt/tutu” purchase

this one time (ok…. never happened. But..thought about it)

-a certain curtain incident my sophomore year

-every time I felt the need to flaunt my masculinity and have a Margarita/ Long Island chugging contest (…who does this?)

-pretty much anything I’ve ever bought from the dollar store

– and finally, the bakers dozen (which will never be spoken of or mentioned ever again.)

  • …And because of my impatience and impulsiveness, I have a really hard time with commitment. Because I’m so busy living in the moment and doing things RIGHT NOW and wanting it RIGHT NOW that I occasionally have trouble committing long-term to about 62 percent of the things in my life. The 38 percent remaining is reserved for Christmas (as I am now a 22 year veteran of learning how to wait for it), family members (they are stuck with me FOR LIFE. Suckers.), friends I’ve collected through the years who put up with (and occasionally participate) in my antics, my dog/boyfriend Daisy (no explanation needed.)….and finally, my love of writing.

Because I’m not kidding when I say that this is my longest relationship. As long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a writer. (Actually for a short time, I wanted to be a mail man so I could read everyone’s mail….Mom and Dad were proud.)

I still remember my first major piece of work (circa 7 years old) entitled, “the hopping bunny” (of which my brother stole the show as the lead character of “the bunny”, a role that he still has yet to live up to).

I never once swayed what major I should be in college. For me, it was more than, oh you don’t do math in Journalism? sign me up. (…though, it was that too.) but even more than that, when I’m writing, I know how to make people feel what I feel. How to make someone see things (if only for a short time) the way that I do. And even now, through a shit storm of uncertainty and instability in my life, it’s the one thing I know I won’t sway on. This is who I am. At the end of the day, and at the very start, I am a writer. And this is kind of like my little window to the world. Not to see the world out of.. but to let others see into mine. When I write, I’m that person I can’t always be face to face. I’m a better person behind a keyboard, a piece of paper, a pen.. whatever.

So, no, I’m not perfect. Not even close. I’m impatient. I’m impulsive. I have the attention span of a 5 year old strung out on pixie sticks. I’m terrible with numbers. With directions. With money. With confrontation. With a long list of other things. But I’m working on it.

I’m working on it. On figuring out what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.  On who exactly I’m supposed to be. On being a little better than I was yesterday.

And sometimes, that’s really all you can do. Work on it. Realize you fall short pretty much in every way imaginable. But also be unabashedly proud of the things you don’t fail at! Because above all else, I believe that every person is a better version of his or her self when they’re doing what they love.

So this one goes out to what I love doing more than probably anything else in this world. The one thing I’ve never once swayed on. Never once questioned my commitment to.

If only everyone could be so lucky as to be so passionate about one thing in their life.

I don’t have it all together, but I’m working on it. And in between now and then, I’m just going to keep writing.

Happy 11 months!