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.)

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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.

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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.

Anyway.

Back to Girls.

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

Oh thanks guys.

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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!”

and

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

and

“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.

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