greetings from the couch.

So, this will have to be short. Like a movie preview.

But last night, I made a vat of cookie dough while watching an X-Man movie marathon on my couch and I was legitimately 2 chicken nuggets short of a McDonald’s happy meal. That’s how much joy I felt at what my night held.

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Just me, my cookie dough, my couch and my mutants.

And I hate getting all Liz Lemon up in here, but is it so wrong that I saw no problem with that situation?

Actual thoughts that crossed my mind:

-This is fun. I’m having so much fun right now.

– If I ever seriously date anyone ever again, I sincerely think that not liking X-Men might be a relationship deal breaker.

– On that note, of all the X-Men, minus Wolverine (who is the cliche obvious choice) I think I would date Professor X because I feel like he is sensitive and engaging intellectually (obviously) and has an unexpected and wicked sense of humor but also a kind heart.

– … I would date myself right now.

Is it so bad to like your own company so much occasionally, that you think this? I vote no. With all the self-loathing negative energy we surround ourselves in on a seemingly daily basis, a rare moment where I think I am the greatest person alive (in a completely humble way), is (in my opinion) a welcomed and healthy distraction. Much like an entire bowl of cookie dough. 

And I know that I’m supposed to want to be out at various happy hours delightfully gabbing about the latest and greatest up-and-comings with the hot single co-eds of Los Angeles, but every so often, I honestly just want to meditate in the glorious loving rays of unproductive doing nothing sunshine.  Very simply, I want to actively embrace my inner loser-loner-dom.

I want someone to ask, “Hey Meg! What is your crazy kitty cat butt doing tonight? Getting wild!?”

And I will respond with zero guilt whatsoever, “Oh. FOR SURE. I am monopolizing my couch in the fetal position while hanging out with with my main men, Magneto and Iceman. Kendrick Lamar MAY even make an appearance in the form of my new ringtone. I will also be endorsing Paula Dean‘s stance on butter, pre-diabetes. Pants will be optional. Cheese will not. Invitation only and sadly, you’re not invited.” 

Just saying, but a night that could have been devoted to a lot of “woe is me and my nerdy lame lifestyle choices (open mouth, insert cookie dough)” was instead turned into, “but what if I was a mutant and in the event that I wake up as one tomorrow what would my preferred power be (persuasion, but used in a non-creepy way. Like just for free concert tickets and entry into VIP sections).”

Because as you can see guys, it’s all about the ‘tude. I choose to enjoy the time I spend with my couch. Save the self-loathing for Monday afternoons in your office chair. For the after-effects of the cookie dough. And whenever you’re feeling down about about not being out, just remember: Meg’s doing it.

And look how good she looks.

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Couch ya later,

M

I am jack’s resilient slinky

I…

 am a human slinky.

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But more about that in a moment.

I was driving to work today thinking (a dangerous pastime indeed) about an old relationship I built up in my head for years and how I’ve finally reached a certain peace with the past tense of it. I used to think all this suffering, all this pining, all this wanting and missing and hurt has to be for SOMETHING right? All the pain from the past can’t mean nothing for the future. But there’s also that little voice saying, ..But what if Meg? What if it does? What if it was all for nothing? You are never, ever, EVER getting back together. And HOLY SHIT, just like that Taylor Swift, That’s finally ok with me. 

And maybe I did build this mountain that I seem to be climbing. Like I constructed this thousand foot tall shit pile and then I nodded at myself and was like yo, sappy freak, better start walking moron, you got some emotional mileage to cover. The mountain doesn’t even exist for them. They saw a detour where I saw a wall. They kept walking and I kept climbing an obstacle I devised in my own head. And maybe that knowledge still kind of feels like realization version of chugging an entire carton of milk. Like it will make you vomit but it won’t necessarily kill you. Maybe it always will. But on another hand, to say it was all for nothing, wouldn’t be necessarily true. You occasionally look down from your metaphorical potentially made-up mountain climb and realize, I’m a little closer to the sky than I am to the ground. And I like it here in my head, bitches. I like the person I’ve become in your absence.

You realize the difference between want and need when you are forced to pick between the two. I think that’s also the difference between hope and faith. Hope suggests the ever-so-slight chance of doubt. Of failure. Faith suggests that no matter the course, success is inevitable. Because you believe, that whatever happens, happens with a greater plan. Failure becomes merely another lesson in learning who you really are.

I like to choose faith. I want to have faith. I want to believe that there is a bigger plan for myself out there. I envy those who just believe. For me, it’s something I have to remind myself everyday. Have patience. Be persistent. Fail with dignity. Learn to be humble of your success. Find the light where there appears to be only darkness. Keep pushing. Keep smiling. Keep trying.

I’m not a religious person. I WANT to believe in God in the same way that I want Santa Claus to be real and for X-men to secretly exist and that I can still somehow, some way go to Hogwarts and become a wizard. I don’t say that to be funny, but that the way I wish these things were real is the very same way I HOPE there is a God. I have hope. I want faith. And I can’t force myself to believe when my hope is rooted in logic and logic always seems to have priority in my head. But I keep hoping one day, faith won’t be something I have strive for, it’s just something I’ll have. That believing in a higher power will become part of me and not something I have constantly try to achieve.

Kind of like waking up one day and realizing, you actually just ‘wanted’ something you thought you ‘needed’. The difference between moving and waiting around. The defining realization that you actually believe you are better off. That moment of crazy clarity, where you’re like HOLY SHIT. This is what I need to do. I don’t want that. I need this more. I believe it. Santa Claus is real!

I keep saying I’m going to write. But the truth is, I’m already doing it. I’ve been doing it. You’re reading the tip-top of my iceberg of success. You’ve read for over two years now, how I’ve gone from writing casually about my sadness of graduating, the pain of post-grad existence, the frustration of not knowing what the hell I want to do, the acceptance of moving on, the decision to announce that something that started as a hobby could become my career. You’ve read how I’ve grown as a person, with the security that I may not know the exact path, at least I’m moving down one with the confidence that I’ll figure it out along the way. We’re looking down from my mountain together. Look at who I’ve become guys. Seriously, look at who I’ve become.

I. Am. Mother. Freaking. Resilient.

Your faithful writing neon-colored slinky.

Clumsy and constantly falling all over myself, but dammit Hasbro, if I’m not a timeless and classy little creature despite all this.

So yes, I’m going to make my 6th grade English teacher proud that when I got a 100 dollar scholarship from the local bank for my essay, “When I grow-up, I am going to be a writer”, I meant it.   And despite my occasional lapses about my grand plan, religion aside, I have faith in that. I know I need it more than any guy I’ve ever fallen for, more than any disappointment I’ve ever experienced, more than any insult I’ve ever let get to me, more than being rich and more than caring about being poor.

And I sit here with nothing but nothing waiting for me, but the faith that something is coming. And that the people and situations that have failed me in my past, are merely the steps along the way.

So… welcome to my mountain.

I’m your slinky tour guide.

I’m not really sure about my purpose

..or my plan

..or even really where we’re going.

But at least you all can have faith…

…that I’m going to entertain you in the meantime.

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The mountain is calling and I must go.- JM

m

PAYDAY SYNDROME (a short story)

I wake up to an email from Bank of America.

Normally, this is an email that I either:

A) delete

or

B) ignore with dread and despair.

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But today is different. Because today, this particular email marks a monumental bi-weekly experience which can only be summed up with two words.

Two words that bring such elation, such satisfaction, such pure unadulterated JOY that just typing them brings an involuntary flutter of happiness to my heart.

I’m talking about..

DIRECT. DEPOSIT.

It’s Friday and more importantly, I just got paid bitches.

I get ready with a smile. I actually do my hair. This is rare as I work with a bunch of women and gay guys so my desire to impress them usually hovers around “maybe next week” and “HAHAHA right”. But today is different. Because today, the world is my oyster. I don’t know what that means. But regardless, it doesn’t matter, because my hair is direct reflection of temporary and seemingly infinite wealth.

Today, I’m not making my normal liquid nitrogen coffee pot either. Nope, I think I’ll feed a major corporation 4 dollars and 50 cents for a LARGE (that’s right folks!) skinny vanilla latte. And yes, I would like an extra pump of vanilla, thanks. Throw in a questionably “nutritious” protein bar too. Here’s my card. Swipe that shit.

And you know what else?? I need some stamps! And some gum. Oh there’s a 50 cent surcharge for not making the 5 dollar limit? Psh, little Indian man what do I look like? ….Poor? LAUGHABLE.

…But ok, how much for those taquitos that spin in the machine and have questionably “edible” meat in them? Yeah. Throw one of those suckers in as well. Normally, I’m a vegetarian for economical and health-related reasons but today, this girl is getting some MEAT. Or whatever is in this thing. Mostly cheese. Down.

I’m at work now. The sun is shining indoors guys. People are like yo bro it’s a summer Friday let’s eat food together in public and I’m like bitches, ain’t no thang. We are all on the “just-got-paid” direct deposit high together. It’s kind of like adderall but instead of cramming for a test you’re like hell yeah I can afford egg whites on my omelet even though it makes zero sense as to why I’m paying for something without the yolk-element for two dollars more. Irrelevant.

ANYWAY.

I’m filling up on gas and getting a car wash and I’m also like oh hey Whole Foods, don’t mind if I do. So I park my gassed up, glorious sparkling beast of a Orange Honda in their parking lot which normally would be referred to as “THE LEVEL ABOVE HELL” but today, I’m like all you crazy gay men and bouchey housewives can totally have a catch-up OMG HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN FOREVA convo right in the middle of the sidewalk. I got money, therefore I got time. Ok, enough chit-chat. Move before I make you fashion-forward road kill.

And I’m inside at the buffet (Side note: Whole Foods pumps weird air into their stores, thus forcing you to think it’s ok to buy 16 dollars worth of vegan gluten free acai kale burgers) and you’re like wait how did I even get over here? I was just going to buy another over-priced coffee. But whatev. i got money in the bank, and that mac and cheese looks DANK. And all of a sudden, you’re at the check out line and you’re like WTF dude why is this 18 dollars!? What did I put in my recyclable 100% compost brown paper carton? (Side note 2: This is referred to as BUFFET LINE BLACKOUT, BEWARE) But once again guys, it’s totally chill. I came here with monetary purpose. And I will prevail.

Also, calories don’t count on pay day. Didn’t you know that? Uhhhh, I know that because usually they involve brunch, day-drinking and impromptu ice cream purchases which include (but are not limited to) waffle cone AND Nutella. Also, nachos. But if you don’t think I look like a million bucks while also being the picture of health well then you clearly don’t know me.

I go to sleep tonight with love in my heart for all of mankind and the knowledge that tomorrow is Saturday and if I want to, I can and will do it all over again. At least until Sunday when I’m brought back to reality by an email from my good frenemy Bank of America, reminding me that my money, much like youth, and Amanda Byne’s Sanity… is fleeting. And thus, the payday Midas touch must come to a sad Monday morning close where I stumble out of bed with my hair looking like a creature and my disposition slightly less sunny.

But that’s Monday guys. Which is THREE (count it) WHOLE DAYS AWAY. And in between now and then, I have a quick therapy session with my good friend CHIPOTLE WITH EXTRA GUACAMOLE PLEASE and DO YOU HAVE THESE SHOES IN MY SIZE?

And that’s your leftovers from friday for the day kids.

M

cupcake alliterations.

Like most weekdays, this started with a cupcake.

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But then, there’s always a cupcake. There’s always some cupcake-like object of affection tempting me from a desk around the corner, begging me over with a mass email message:

CONGRATULATIONS!

CUPCAKES!!

COME!

CONSUME!

….NOW!

 (Subtext: I will make your Monday more magical and marvelous and merry than you can possibly imagine. I promise. Moron.)

And I’m like, DAMMIT. Immediately, I begin weighing in the pros and cons in a figurative scale in my head, like there is a chance I may decline.  And well, if I eat a cupcake for breakfast and I forgot to bring my lunch, then the cupcake can survive as breakfast slash early lunch, there’s an egg in it (dairy) and wheat (grains) and it’s carrot cake flavored? That’s pretty much a vegetable. Ok, whatever, enough chit-chat. THIS WORKS. Breakfast. Lunch.  Delicious. Duh. Done.

And someday, my self-control is going to kick in. But today…I need this guys.

My 24th year of life, the year of the cupcakes. That’s how I’ll look back. Sitting on my exercise ball pretending to be strengthening my core but mostly just bouncing up and down to my co-workers top 40 hits that I actually occasionally enjoy (coughcough JASONDERUUUULO) when I’ve had a little too much coffee and my mind isn’t anywhere but here, staring at a cupcake that inevitably, I will eat. My 24th year of my life, the year I could never just say no.

This is also the year I run more for the therapeutic aspect than the caloric. A cupcake is a cupcake and thoughts are thoughts but if I could write while I run, you’d all be reading cupcake related word vomit a lot more regularly.

I’m house sitting in Hollywood for 2 weeks and the scenery is a little different from what I’m used to.

It’s funny and strange to me that I’m “used to” running by the ocean. I think it’s a rare fortune when people get to call the beach, “home” and I’m not so blinded by my own good luck to forget how fortunate I am to mention that I am one of these people so casually . And besides that, I’m also not one to not explore a different environment than the one I am “used to” just because it’s comfortable, seemingly better or even just generally more preferred.  So I went running down Hollywood Boulevard the other day. To process. Mental cupcakes if you will. Things I couldn’t say no to. Situations that can’t be changed. Mistakes I knew I was making. Etc. etc. Insert emo comment here.

Anyway.

Hollywood Boulevard is, for the most part, Venice boardwalk without the ocean and without a flurry of stoner associates in green scrubs begging you to come in their collective pop-up marijuana shops with shout-outs like, “The doctor is in!” and ” Join the scene, get some green!”. The streets are just as gummy, the storefronts just as grimy, the panhandlers just as greasy, the tourists just as gluttonous. And sweaty. Which doesn’t start with a G. But forcing alliteration is sometimes besides the point. And the point here is that Hollywood and Venice are brothers. In the way the black people use it. There’s no place like home…. boy.  And Hollywood reminds me of it. And thus, my run was oddly familiar.

It’s funny …Not that I thought it was going to be any different. Hollywood, like any other good generalization, is mostly a facade.  Such glamour! Such wealth! The bright lights, big city. The Hollywood Walk of  “Fame“.  About those little stars on the sidewalk.  I’m pounding the pavement and reading each one. Elvis Presley. The Beatles. Marilyn Monroe. Michael Jackson. Lucille Ball. And I’m sure it was a defining moment in their career. A literal star-studded symbol of their success. But there are 2,501 stars on this stretch, and I can probably recognize 250 names, and I don’t know if that’s pathetic on my part, or just a testament to how unimportant and irrelevant most of us become after we leave this place. You made something of yourself, congrats. Here’s a star with your name on it for thousands of tourists to step on and dust and grime and dirt and a montage of other unmentionable substances to cover it. Someday people won’t even know who you are! Ain’t that the truth.

But yet, that doesn’t stop people year after year from moving here to pursue their own little spot on this pavement. It’s like we subconsciously ignore the very basis of humanity, that in all our temporary glory, we still continuously attempt to figure out how to somehow resonate forever.

And I didn’t mean for this to get so deep, so quickly. Really, I just went on a run. Really, it was about more than the cupcake.  But what starts as a run for me, very often leads me to a little peace of mind during my own little quest in my own little piece of the pavement. And today, which might have started with a cupcake, I can at least take solace in knowing ended with a little bit of clarity.

Which is something I also never say no to.

Cupcakes.

California.

Clarity.

Alliteration man.

K.

From my little piece of pavement to your peace of mind, that’s all for today.

M