Blogalicious: (definition- make them readers crazy)

I have one hour.

diy-wall-clock

 Let’s do this.

We don’t have a kitchen table and for some reason I do my best writing sitting in a chair at a table. Not a desk. Specifically a table. I tried sitting on the floor, my bed, my couch– nothing. I blame my lack of kitchen table entirely on my lack of writing.  It’s not me, it’s the absence of very specific furniture needs within my household.

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I’m not a couch girl.

It’s like sports players who have a ritual before a game. My lucky socks routine. My special game day breakfast. I MUST SLEEP WEARING THIS PAIR OF UNDERWEAR. Yes, precisely.

But right now, I don’t have an excuse so let’s do this.

I’m at a table sitting in a chair writing at a coffee shop that closes in approximately one hour.

As with most things in my life, the answer is usually “it takes time” and the solution is endless waiting. I’m going to go ahead and drop this previous sentence into the wishing well of why I haven’t written recently as well.

I’m not really that good of a “blogger” as it turns out. If I were to give a definition to the terminology blogger, I would say they write about ~1- 3 times a week. They talk about  cute things like recipes and exercise and it’s usually a pretty short read and asks questions at the end like, “what did you do this weekend?” and “how will you reach your 2013 goals?” and “what bad mistakes did YOU make on new years eve?” and “Where is my dignity?” and… sorry. Obvious side tracking.

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..I’m a terrible cook.

I made some shrimp scampi tonight!! … but it’s a recipe I found on pinterest that you nuke in the microwave. Prettttttyyy fantastic. I’m a culinary goddess.  I thought it was pretty gnarly step up from the normal cooking I do which involves frozen stir fry vegetables and string cheese. But I look good in an apron! It’s all about appearance.

It’s possible to make terrible health related decisions.

In June of last year, in a moment of health and fitness related insanity, I bought a year long membership to the MOST EXPENSIVE GYM IN ALL THE LAND, and have been pretty much regretting this particular choice every 15th of the month since about September. I was blinded by their eucalyptus infused moist toilettes and the beautiful men on the treadmills. They do this on purpose you know. I think they date raped me with gym related rophynol. AND In an effort to hide from my decision, I rarely go because being there makes me feel like I’m paying alimony for a child I’m not sure is mine. Like I like it and everything but also I feel like a line in Gold digger and that Kanye West is making fun of me behind my back and is there any worse feeling? The logic here is flawed. I admittedly have a problem.

Relationships. Let’s discuss.

Ahhh, my love life. HA-larious material for blogs! Too bad you all read it. I’m forced to write about personal trainers and burrito men and boys with no first or last name, and the worst kisser I ever met last week at the Victorian who I also told to read my blog so SORRY if you are reading this but dude. Come on. Be thankful I told you.

Anyway. Wouldn’t it be fun if I could just say who I’m talking about Taylor Swift?! You’re the only one who understands me.

I tried to explain cryptically in lyrics too but felt that “we are never, ever, ever getting back together” was still a little force-fed obvious for my liking.

So maybe a more mature alternative comes in the immortal lyrics of Don Henley regarding a deadhead sticker on a Cadillac. What’s it say again?

Oh yeah.

Don’t look back. You can never look back.

Eating cupcakes before bed is probably a bad idea. Doing it anyway. 

I bought a dream catcher last week and hung it over my bed. Last night I had this terrible dream where the rapture happened (see: last chapter in bible) and my mom disappeared right in front of me and I was on the beach and I was squinting really hard trying desperately to believe in God so that I could go up to heaven too but then I was too late and I got stuck and scared and I saw some cupcakes sitting next to me so I started eating them. It was terrifying. What the hell is wrong with my brain? Also, it reminded me of an episode of girls but with like severe religious undertones.

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I. hate. the. word. blog.

I don’t really care how you reach your 2013 goals because most of them will be vague and unattainable and broken by next weekend anyway. I think that gives you much more anxiety than you need so I am going to do everyone a favor and not ask.

I could tell you that I’m going to learn how to cook. I could tell you I’m going to go to my gym more. I could tell you that I’m finally, finally going to move on from relationships from my past and take control of my future and stop being so heady and finally  immediately halting all eating of cupcakes directly before bed. But instead, I’m going to tell you this.

I can’t tell you when I am going to write next. I can’t keep to a schedule. I’m a flaky, random, spontaneous, emotional, weird, awkward person. And I’m not a blogger. I just like to write.

And my goal in 2013- I’m going to finally do something with that. Something much longer and better than you’ve read here. I don’t know what that means yet but I’m going to spend the time that I don’t spend writing little short anecdotes about a new pumpkin bread recipe you have to try! or selfie shots and where to buy my outfit! for the real bloggers. And in the mean time, I’m going to start writing something that means something to me.

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I don’t want to write for a magazine. I don’t want to write for a newspaper. I don’t want to work my way up, fact-checking and doing some beats column regarding things I don’t care about. I don’t want to ask celebrities what they are wearing or “what inspired you for this very important oscar nominated role?” Or “Just how do you manage it all and still have that booty?” I don’t want to do a story about the latest and greatest beauty treatment. I don’t want to half-ass how much I love to write. If I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it my way. And my way is on my own time in a chair at a table somewhere in Venice, California staring at a cute barista who is going to kick me out of here in oh, about 10 minutes. (but not before I get his name. See? I never learn.)

So yes, I’ll still be writing in here. As spottily and randomly as I’ve always been. You’ll get to tune in on my life from time to time and see where I’m going and where I’ve been.

Hot Barista says times up. Bummer.

What did you learn? What do you think? What is my point?

Well….

Last year, I moved to California…..

This year?

..I’m going to show you why.

To 2013!

M

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4 thoughts on “Blogalicious: (definition- make them readers crazy)

  1. ellen sheftel says:

    meg, im at work trying not to pee in my pants/let everyone know that i’m not actually working whilst reading this. it’s totes hilar and i miss your face.

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