All adventurous women do

Man, I freaking love Girls.

…The TV show guys, not the gender

(though in honor of same sex marriage, let’s hear it for girls who do love girls! We ARE pretty great and so is equality in domestic relationships.)


Random political statement complete, back to that popular HBO television hit series.

In the final episode of this season, the main character (Hannah) types out several medical-related (?? possibly not) google searches such as “normal tongue” and “at what age does one’s body start to melt” and “how to know if you have a ruptured eardrum”. And if you had been following the show at all, you would know this is just another instance in a long train of examples of how she is slowly losing her grip/composure and regressing back to an Obsessive Compulsive problem she had in her youth brought on by excessive pressure from her first e-book contract and a difficult break-up.


And shit gets admittedly weird. But the google search thing? Am I off in saying…Not that weird? Have you ever looked at your google search history on your phone? Well, I have. And maybe I’m alone in this but my google search is similar to an episode of girls in that it’s kind of embarrassing, kind of weird, kind of awkward, kind of sweet, all awesome. In fact today, for your reading pleasure– here is a list of my recent google searches:

  • How much is a juicer (.. too much. sigh.)
  • pie day
  • snatchly (Don’t go here. I read about it, it’s like pinterest for porn and pretty graphic. I just wanted to see if it was a real site and it is and I’m now blinded forever.)
  • KU Michigan game time (4:37 PM PST, TOMORRROW)
  •  little girl from at&t commercial (I SWEAR I have babysat one of those kids.)
  • rare shiny pokemon cards (also called holograms, I kept calling them hieroglyphics)
  • When is labor day (I meant memorial day)
  • wig shop in la (I WAS JUST CURIOUS)

I spend a lot of time wondering if things I think about are normal or crazy.

Like the other day, I was in the shower and I was thinking about when I die and how it will be really sad and how people will miss me and then I got really sad and almost cried and then I was like you weirdo, you aren’t even close to dying. And when you do, you won’t care, obviously you will be dead. Why are you even thinking about this? How morbid and unnecessary.  Is this normal? I just shampooed my hair with body wash and now I’m crying about my imaginary funeral. Face to palm.

I also think about winning the lottery a lot. Or what super power I would have. Or if I could change one thing about me what would it be (Most likely my hair, and it would look like Connie Britton’s but with Katie Holmes color) Or if I had to live without one of my five senses. And what dogs think about. And what kind of shoes I’d wear if I was 5’2. And what people think about my butt. And if I was a sim, what I would use all my personality points on (Niceness, neatness or cleanliness, outgoingness, activeness, and playfulness), or what celebrities think about before they go to bed.

When I have down time between all my normal/non-normal thinking, I think about if what I am thinking about is what crazy people think about. Or if I’m just thinking the same thing as everyone else. And which is better? And which is worse?

I heard once that people expect artists to be a little crazy…so don’t disappoint them. Which is comforting. At least I’m not letting you guys down.

Some of the most talented and genius creative people throughout history have been absolutely peanut butter and jelly NUTS. Van Gogh cut off his own ear. Emily Dickinson never left her house. Tilda Swinson is currently sleeping in a large glass box at the Museum of Modern Art. Now, I’m no where near cutting off my own ear and living in isolation in a box for a cultural exhibit)  but if I like to pretend sometimes that I have an accent and that I’m an heiress for the successful infomercial product pillowpets and that it’s all in the name of art, I think both Romy and Michelle would be proud. And I think Dickinson would support it too. Actually, I think if Dickinson lived now and was in the ghetto, she would constantly be telling everyone to fly their freak flags. And then she’d write a poem about the anti-dougie. Or she’d be a total hipster. But like the leader of the hipsters.


Back to Girls.

Everyone tells me. Meg, have you ever heard you’re just like Hannah? You guys are so alike.

Oh thanks guys.


You mean the girl who rarely wears pants, is slowly going insane, binge eats cupcakes in the bathtub, cut her own bangs, and regularly makes ridiculous broad statements, like:

No one could ever hate me as much as I hate myself, okay? So any mean thing someone’s gonna think of to say about me, I’ve already said to me, about me, probably in the last half hour!”


 To herself in the mirror: “The worst stuff you say sounds better than the best stuff that some other people say.”


“So, I’ve calculated, and I can last in New York for three-and-a-half more days, maybe seven if I don’t eat lunch.”

ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, alright. Yes. Slightly similar.

Hannah and I both are cut from the same crazy cloth. On paper, we’re both confused, lonely, half-insane writers who like to frequently frequent boys who ruin our lives and our sanity.

I can see Hannah crying in the shower about her hypothetical demise. I can also see myself eating a cupcake in the bathtub. And this makes me feel better. Because though Hannah is a crazy, fictitious, unattractive character made up by a talented writer and actress, there’s a kind of comfort in crazy company.

So if I occasionally talk to myself and make spontaneous random outbursts like how I’m concerned my hair hasn’t grown in a year and why I think my life is similar to my google  search history and would it be weird if I started going by Margaret? It’s a comfort to know that it’s ok to be a little of center. That it can be a refreshing thing. It can be a desirable thing. 

But above all, it’s an artist thing.

And every time I get a little weird?

Well at least I’m not disappointing you.


Just saying.

I live in Venice, California.

photo 1

You may see a homeless man casually juggling in front of an elaborate mural of Jim Morrison. You could run into Elijah Wood smoking a cigarette.

Last week, I bought a bag for 40 bucks next to a place that you can get a smoothie for 15. Sometimes, when I’m feeling crazy, I’ll walk down the boardwalk and immediately feel a little more adjusted and normal. Sometimes, when I’m feeling rich (rarely), I’ll walk down Abbot Kinney and immediately feel poor and under dressed.

Venice to me is both wildly over-priced and arrogant and yet on the same parallel, a place that I can exist on nothing but sunshine, miles of sand and a couple of clueless guys with larger bar tabs than brains.

(As John Wayne says, life is hard. It’s harder if you’re stupid.)

So as someone who immerses herself so fully in a place as random and glorious as Venice, California– it pains me to see sub-par journalism on a city that is anything but average. And lately, I’ve read more than one piece on, “places to go in Venice” or “my favorite Venice hot-spots” that were clearly nothing more than a shoddy version of a potentially good idea.  Because all of these so called “hot-spots”? Are very often located on the same street. One restaurant has been closed for at least a month (article posted two days ago), and 2 weren’t even open at night for an article entitled, “Friday night in Venice“. What?? That is lame. That is poor work. Mostly though, it’s misleading because though I love Abbot Kinney Boulevard in Venice as much as the next Westside girl, if you think that’s the only place to go here, you are sadly misinformed and even worse than that.. you’re a pretty lazy writer. I’m looking at you Refinery29 and Daily Candy. 

Just saying.

I’m just saying, we can all afford to be a little more in-tuned with the place we choose to live. With the city around us, whether that’s expensive 5-star restaurants or the local hole in the wall. You live where you live for a reason, so get to know the place you call home. Don’t go to the same bar every weekend. Eat the same food. Get out of your routine. Just saying.

  • Get to know the city you live in. Get to know the world you live in. The other day I was reading Vanity Fair, and I read this article about a short daily email newsletter called theSkimm, which delivers the top news for the day right to your inbox first thing in the morning. The cool (and different) thing about theSkimm though, is that it reads like a conversation, so it’s not only informative, it’s engaging, interesting and actually makes me feel like I understand the news that is happening around the world. Living in Los Angeles, I feel like I get inundated with celebrity gossip, and it’s interesting no doubt, it doesn’t make me feel anymore intelligent about the world outside my little pop culture bubble. I challenge you to do the same. 
  • This past weekend, I ate this MOIST (sorry), creamy carrot cake in which we debated about whether 4 dollars for a delicious concoction was, or was not, something we wanted to spend. Then, we ate it in less time we took deciding if we wanted it in the first place. Also standing up huddled in a circle. It’s fine. Sometimes, you need dessert for lunch. 

photo 2

  • And ok, obviously Justin’s new album is amazing and everything (personal favorite: pusher lover girl) but can we briefly talk about Nelly’s new little diddy, Hey Porsche? Sorry not sorry, that shit is catchy! Not in a “Hot in Herre” kind of way either. In like a jump up and down whip my hair back and forth on my bed way. Possibly guilty, once or twice. 
  •  Has anyone else seen Michelle Obama on the cover of Vogue? Has any other first lady been on Vogue? I mean Good Housekeeping, sure. Time magazine? Obviously. But freaking Vogue man. Michelle, you’ve peaked dude. You can’t do any better than that. It’s over. You presented an award via video camera at the Oscars, you’re on Vogue, you probably have blogs out there entirely dedicated to your bangs. What’s next woman? Inventing negative calorie nutella and challenging Kate Middleton to a pull-up contest? Stop! Our heads are going to explode.

(Edit: Apparently, according to Conde Nast digital archives, this is Michelle’s SECOND cover on Vogue. Seriously.) 

  •  And I hate to put Kate Middleton and Kim Kardasian in the same sentence but those baby simulator generator things that show what their kids are going to look like? Uh, weird. And creepy. Despite this, I kind of hope Kate’s kid has red hair. Ginger babies are the cutest nuggets ever. Yes, I refer to all babies as forms of food. Nuggets, dumplings, muffins, pumpkins.. mmm I’m hungry.
  • What is with this new tapas trend? I know it’s the cool thing but I also kind of think it’s a way for restaurants to serve less food for more money. Here Meg, enjoy this plate of 4 carrots garnished with a radish stem and a slice of avocado. It’s beautiful. It’s art. It’s 25 effing dollars you ignorant fool. And maybe it’s because I’m at the time in my life where going out to eat is an expensive rarity, but when I sit down for a meal at a restaurant, I want to leave with a food baby named “FULL-FOR-THE-NEXT-TWO-HOURS”, not with stomach pains and the desire to go home and chow down on some hummus that I’m supposed to ration out for lunch the next 4 days.

— oh and for the record, if a place ever calls one of its desserts “gorgeous”? Make sure to instagram the shit out of it!… because it’s going to taste like a wax painting.

  • On the same culinary trend thought– I’ve been wanting to possibly try a Juice cleanse for kicks and foodie fashion-forward giggles. That is, until I put a potential 5-day cleanse in my hypothetical shopping basket on Pressed Juicery’s website and nearly developed an ulcer. Uh I’m sorry, when did it ever become culturally ok to spend 325 dollars (PRE-TAX FOR GOD’S SAKE) on 5 days of Juice!?! What will I look like when I am done with said cleanse? Heidi Klum? I sure as hell hope so. If not after 5 days then definitely after the 5 weeks of starvation from lack of groceries because that’s how much this supposed juice made from God’s sweat glands is going to cost me. Juice-sus Christ.
  •  I’ve started communicating entirely through the art of text message emojis. On Valentines day, my dad texted me a bouquet of emoji flowers and I have to be honest when I say I was a little offended. Like is this what our world is coming to? Little pictures of monkeys and flower bouquets and hand gestures throwing up the peace sign? Am I going to have a future boyfriend end things with me entirely through pixel graphics? Perhaps propose? Here’s a freckle sized clip art picture of a ring Meg. Me love you long time. This is absurd people! But yet, I can’t stop. Because absurd as it is, it is massively entertaining and occasionally time-saving. Alas, I am a slave. 


  • I don’t understand people who never say yes to sweets. There are people at my office that every time I bring in (delicious, may I add) baked morsels, they politely decline. I’m less offended and more confused. More like: BUT WHY!? Why wouldn’t you at least try it!?!? I even feel bad for them sometimes. Kate Moss was wrong you know. That whole, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” quote. Kate clearly never ate Banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery. Or a Sprinkles cupcake.

Or anything I’ve baked.

Just saying.


  • I’ve decided I’m going to stop wearing sweatpants and t-shirts that say “suck my duke” and “I wish I knew someone who had a mother F*Cking boat” to bed. Like maybe I’ll buy some matching pj sets so when I wake up, I will feel less like a sophomore computer nerd from Cal Berkeley and more like a well-adjusted adult. Do matching pajamas help with this? Will another Ikea lamp be the answer to all my problems? This is fight club people. Let’s talk about it.


As a final note, it’s a KU game day. So don’t sit in bed all afternoon with hangovers the size of Roy William’s ego, because it’s 24 hours until you have to work and a March Madness Sunday, and as Ellie Goulding and Digger Phelps would say,

Anything could happen!

Just saying. 


I’m about to come alive

Today, you are reading my diary.


When I was in middle school, the boys in my class used to call me beast because I was so much taller than them. For years, I refused to wear heels because I didn’t want to bring attention to my height and bring upon recognition of a nickname that was so humiliating, the memory of it still makes me sick. My middle school yearbook is full of another nickname, or “The Duck” because I never learned how to walk normal and sometimes, I walk on my toes. It’s cute when you’re a toddler but when you’re 14 and boys quack at you in the hallways, it’s enough to will God to temporarily lend you a sprained ankle so you have a reason for walking a little different.

I’ve never talked about that since that time. We’ve all been bullied at some point or another and we all have our own little humiliations from our past selves who weren’t strong enough at the time to put those people in their places.

The reason I bring it up is because today, I walked four miles for a cookie.

photo 3

Actually, I just went on a walk and the cookie was part of it but in between the cookie and leaving I had a lot of time to think.

I’ve been feeling.. off. A little discouraged, a little run-down, a little like I’m going through the motions in circles for reasons I don’t really know. I’m frustrated and I can’t tell you why. It’s something a cookie can’t solve but dammit if I didn’t try.

I think you’re supposed to go through ruts that you don’t bring upon yourself. Little skips in the playlist of life that you’re not really sure what caused them or how to make it stop. I feel like today my enthusiasm has run a little dry. Like I’m walking and walking and I don’t really know why. Like I’m looking for some metaphorical cookie and all I can find is stop lights and the same faces over and over again. Quack Meg. Quack.

I saw a girl today who looks like someone I know. She looked like a lot of girls. Just pretty but in a normal way and dressed like how I’d imagine her to dress. I wonder what people think when they see me. It bothers me that maybe that’s the way others see me too. Just a girl wearing what girls my age wear. It makes me feel incredibly unoriginal. A normal girl. Like someone you might know.

But trying to be original makes me feel like I’m trying to embody other girls who are trying to be original. Like no matter what I do, I can’t be somebody different. I have to be some version of being myself which is exactly the same as everyone else. I can’t go through my own heartbreak because it’s all been said and felt before. I want to scream into my pillow about how unimportant I feel. But then, some girl has probably done that too. Probably several times. It’s definitely in a movie. Great.

And I’d ask you all if you’ve ever felt the same, but then.. I know you have. And right now.. yeah. I don’t care.

I read this quote from Mila Kunis that I love and I can’t find because apparently she did this hysterical interview with this nervous reporter and it’s all that’s coming up on Google. But pretty much she says whether someone calls you pretty or ugly… you are. It doesn’t matter what they say.. because it’s true. It’s perception. It’s not how many people tell you you look good or bad. It’s not how many people who tell you you look skinny or pretty or what not. You just are.

And despite my overarching theme of apathy today, I love that quote. I am currently attempting to adopt it entirely into my psyche. I thought about it further on my ridiculously long walk.

Today, maybe it actually stuck. Today, I don’t care how many people find me attractive. I don’t care how many people don’t. I’m the same person with 10 pounds on me. I’m the same person if I were to lose 30. I’m the same person with a nose job or blonde hair or if I wear heels or if I decide to start wearing turtlenecks exclusively. I don’t care if people think I have messy hair or chipped nails or if I walk on my toes or if I look weird when I don’t smile with my teeth. I can’t change any of it, and in that, maybe I can be original in my own unoriginality. That I am who I am who I am.

Today, I feel like the human version of a GPS voice. like TURN RIGHT here. And I do. Without much thought or opinion or emotion on the matter. The cookie was delicious but so are a lot of things.

Today is Wednesday, March 6th. My name is Meg. I am 23 years old. I live in Los Angeles, California.

And maybe today I’m just another face in a sea of faces that I see everyday.

Today, I am tired.

I am frustrated.

I am confused.

I am unsure.

I am melancholy.

I am apathetic.

And I am who I am who I am who I am who I am.

And, you know what?

Today, that’s just going to have to be good enough.