I am jack’s resilient slinky


 am a human slinky.


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.


The mountain is calling and I must go.- JM



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. 


So fresh, so clean: laundry day with Meg

I’ve been feeling lately a lot like that scene in the movie Looper where the guy’s life is on a reel and he does the same thing over and over and over and over again. And he gets older and slower but the routine remains the same.

( because I’m a P.I.M.P gangsta like JGL. Actually just conceptually, not like plot wise. Whatever. Read this.)

photo 4

a sample template:

I wake up every morning saying I am going to go running.

I don’t go running.

I lay in bed.

I read my email.

I check my facebook.

I check my twitter.

I check my instagram.

I check my work email. (slave to the man, yeah I am.)

I look at the clock.

I still have enough time to go running!!!

….I don’t go running.

I finally get up.

I eat oatmeal (insert banana! maybe some blueberries in that biz if I’m feelin’ nuts)

I get ready (bed head chic– pronounced sheeek)

I drive to work. (like a BAMF)

I work. (super efficiently, diligently and energetically I might add)

I drive home. (to Ke$ha. Everyone listen to this song if you want to rock.)

I eat dinner. (microwaved eggs FTW)

I sit on my couch. (or bed. or floor.)

I clean my room.

I put on my workout gear. (PUT ON YO SHOES!)

I think about running.

I think about running.

I think. about. running.




….And I’m RUNNING!!!!!!!!!!

I die. (can’t breathe. can’t fucking breathe. Oh! There’s a hot guy. This shit is a breeze. I AM SUPERWOMAN! and he’s gone. As you were. I can’t breathe. I can’t feel my pinky toe. I hate everything….)

photo 1

..I revive.

I sit on my bed. (lay really. I am defeated.)

I look at the time.

I have enough time to write. 

I don’t write.

I shower.

I sleep. 

And. I. repeat.

How do I break the cycle!?!?

I sound like a 90’s grunge band. Shout out to Pearl Jam. You guys inspire me. No not really, but I do like some Foo Fighters. David Grohl, babe. Dave Freaking Grohl. Hey by the way Dave you get free lunch at some place on Venice Boulevard. I read it on a billboard. It said, “Free lunch if you’re David Grohl.” So if you’re reading this… 

Today during the drive home bit, I called a friend I haven’t talked to in ages. And she actually (imagine that– how vintage!) picked up.

And we talked and it was friggin’ lovely. McDeese I miss you and I know you’re not reading this because we talked about in our phone convo how you don’t read. Which you should! Especially to support me asshole. Just kidding. I love you. Visit me. Read this. Dammit. 

But anyway– then, I thought about how when people call me and I screen their calls and I’m like well if I’m going to talk to them I really want to talk to them and I don’t really feel like catching up right now, so I’ll call them back later.

And later turns into a week, a month, two months.. etc. And so instead of giving them a little time, I give them no time. 

And instead of catching up then, I let more space sit between us, more life events that I’m not taking a part in knowing about. And then when we do catch up an entire crucial scenario in my life, something that has absolutely rocked my world and changed who I am becomes nothing more than a couple of sentences.

Like “Oh yeah. It didn’t work out. Were not talking anymore.” or “Yeah! I got that job. It’s going well.” or “We grew apart, it happens.”

Just a vague, flat-lined one sentence description of something that may have totally turned your life around and left you for dead but now months later, catching up over a 30 min conversation, you don’t see the value or benefit in rehashing the whole thing and so this person will never grasp the magnification of just how complicated these few simple sentences really actually were.

Because that’s what catching up is when you put it off. It’s like trying to do weeks and weeks worth of laundry in one load. It gets kind of clean but mostly it just gets wet.

Anyway. I thought… I mean.. I just wanted to say I’m sorry to my friends who I’ve let our friendships just get wet in the washing machine of life.

Also to say maybe I’ll start writing little things like this so that my writing doesn’t just come in giant loads either. Though the thought of people reading this all getting wet with my giant laundry load of words.. makes me LOL as I write this. Alas, maturity isn’t my strong suit. Thank god for good grammar and a large vocabulary.

Looping this sucker out, I got some laundry and running and writing to do. 

photo 3

Enjoy your Wet (and wild?? I hope so.) Wednesday. 


Juicy: By The Notorious M.E.G.

I have a 25-35 minute commute every single weekday morning and about a 40 minute commute every single weekday night.

I’ve resigned myself to this despite the fact that when I think about how much time I spend by myself, in a car, doing nothing, I get kind of depressed (bored).

photo (16)So in an effort to be above the commuting curve, I now make myself learn something new every time I’m in the car (Don’t worry Mom. At stop lights. Duh.) Or sometimes, I write songs (about current events. Like Hurricane Sandy and Lindsay Lohan) And sometimes, I have awesome ideas (Example: Dip Food Truck, because everyone loves dipping various edible things into various delicious dips).

It helps me at least kind of convince myself that maybe I’m not completely wasting my commute with just run of the mill sing-a-longs into bananas and calling various people to complain about various current events within my own variously entertaining and strange life. photo 1

Because I am an above average commuter. I am not just a body in a car! I am a mobile-learning-song-writing-idea-stress with a fantastic vocal range for Disney show music and anything by Taylor Swift. I’m not sorry about this. Even though my bitchy barely literal friend Siri (love ya girl!) rarely knows what I am talking about, she’s definitely no stranger to my inquisitive commuting over-caffeinated brain.



Some other examples of Siri questions:

  • “Who is Neal Peart?” (The drummer for the 1970’s rock band, Rush)
  • “Give me some articles to read about Anna Wintour.” (Vogue Editor that Devil Wears Prada, character Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep) is based off of)
  • “make me a reminder to create a flow chart about the ways Justin Timberlake is more successful long-term than Britney Spears”
  • “Remind me to entitle it Karma: What goes around comes around (an interlude)”
  • “What does ‘stalemate’ mean?” (Any position or situation in which no movement or progress can be made. ..HA! Oh, traffic-related irony.)
  • “Make Adam Levine dump his Victoria’s Secret girlfriend and fall madly in love with me.” (Sorry Meg. I do not understand.)
  • “Yeah. Well. Screw you too Siri.”

So yes, I am drone on the road just like every one of the rest of you sorry 9-5 son of guns. But at least I’m trying to be proactive in my pursuit of intellectual and creative awesomeness as I sit and wait and wait and wait and wait.

Traffic, as it turns out, is a necessary evil in this part of my life. Maybe in my life forever. Who knows. I put myself through it every day because I have a job and I am a grown-up and I like money and I’m a materialistic bitch. It’s the circle of life. Hakuna Matata. (which coincidentally means no worries and is not exactly the attitude of my fellow commuters if you know what I am saying)

photo 2 (1)

Bear with me. I have a point.

There are things in life you do because you have to.

  • Like paying taxes (or you go to jail Ms. Lohan)
  • Like separating your red underwear from your whites before washing them
  • Like eating mac and cheese at 3 am on a Friday while watching the Justin Bieber part of the Victoria’s Secret fashion show on repeat

You do these things because it’s part of life. You do them because there are consequences to not doing them. You do them because sometimes you got your redbull vodka on a litttttle too hard and now it’s 3 am and you’re drunk and WIDE AWAKE (and not in the way that Katy Perry speaks about being wide awake. I mean like literally you are a caps lock button in a keyboard made entirely of lowercase z’s)

I get it. I get this part of life. The journey part. The part in between a and b. The and. And why we do it. For the paycheck, the clean clothes, the no jail time, the excellent hangover result. We do the things we do for results. The outcome. The ending.

One of my favorite movies (of all time!) is The Girl Next Door. It’s highly under-rated because it’s one of those hybrid chick flick man movies that has enough naked girls and drugs and bad language with just the right amount of an under the surface romantic plotline to suit both genders in perfect rom-com-man-flick tranquility.


I can not speak enough on how much this movie speaks to me. Despite it’s incredibly irrelevant unparalled plot line to that of my life (see: ex-porn star pursues boy next door character in an effort to have sex in the back of a limo on the way to prom), it moves my mind in a way that movies rarely achieve.

And here is (mostly) why:

There is a scene where the pimp (Timothy Olyphant) is beating up said boy next door character (Emile Hirsch.. oh baby) and then gives him ecstasy and he goes to a school function and I die of laughter and ANYWAY…during this particular scene, he says,

You wanna be president? Lemme tell you the first rule of politics; Always know if the juice is worth the squeeze. You know what that means?”

He goes on about taking his girl (ex-porn star) from him and blah blah blah whatever. That isn’t what’s important here. Because what’s important is how epically relatable and relevant that particular quote is. What is important is what that means for you. For me. Right now.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve been squeezing some metaphorical lemon with a vulcan death grip trying to get a couple drops out of it, assuming the effort made will make it taste like the nectar of some fruit made out of fairy tales and rainbows by the Gods themselves. It’s going to be the best damn juice I’ve ever freaking tasted. And I’m so focused on squeezing I forget it’s only a lemon.

Because I’m queen of the squeeze. I will laboriously dedicate myself to squeezing the shit out of something I care about. Or I think I care about. Or I thought I cared about? Wait what am I squeezing again?

I think that’s what some things become. The squeeze becomes more important than the juice. And we’re so busy stuck in traffic to get somewhere that we forget really why or where were going. Or we’re so dedicated to maintaining a relationship because we’ve put in all this time and energy that we can’t see that it has become more toxic than healthy. And we want so bad to follow our dreams that we can’t acknowledge we don’t even believe in them anymore.

Traffic. Bills. Rejection. Laundry. The Treadmill. Working overtime. Cutting the lawn. Drunk text messages. All-nighters. Facebook friend requests. Painting my nails. Chugging Redbull. Online dating. Tying my shoes. Rihanna’s instagram page.

We put ourselves through things for the outcome. And we do it for various reasons.

Love. Fame. Clean underwear. Wealth. Paychecks. Killer Legs. Acceptance. Chris Brown’s… whatever.

So here’s my question for you. My point. The end result. Why The Girl Next Door should stick with you the rest of your life. A virtual stoplight in the commute that is your life.

Is whatever it is worth it? The job. The money. The guy. The stress. The frustration. The letdown. The rejection. The time. The energy. Is whatever you are putting yourself through truly worth it?


You tell me.


Go suck on that lemon, Siri.

photo (1)


RIP Biggie.


I tried to do handstands for you

I moved into my new place this week.

It’s a little surreal. I can’t remember the last time I moved somewhere with such an indefinance. Maybe never. Like I’m moving and I’m going to be there and that’s that.

It’s going to be HOME.


It’s different things to different people. I still call my house in Colorado “home”, but I haven’t lived there for years. And then of course, there’s KU, which will always be home on some level. And then there’s where I am in the present. And there’s the feeling I just get from being with certain people. Like you’re so comfortable it’s like the relationship version of grey sweatpants on your couch on Saturday. And then there’s memories. Memories can be home too. You can live in the past so long, that the present is a stranger and the future is like window shopping for something you can’t afford and you don’t really want anyway.

For me, home is mobile experience. i don’t really like the indefinance of the word. So I like to think of it as a moveable experience.

Sometimes, when I watch destination commercials, I get restless. Like what am I doing? I need to be living in Tahiti barefoot and brown as a surf instructing mermaid with just enough clothing on to be in public soaking up sun until I become just a beam of light and float into the atmosphere.

And I need to be in France, talking in a silky accent as I casually stroll through Jardin des Tuileries eating nutella in a subtle sophistication that you can’t really get from your tongue just sucking a spoon.

And I need to be New York! Where writers and artists flock like directionally challenged birds flying south for the winter.

Despite my gypsy attitude toward being home, I still occasionally feel like I play it safe. Like I’m wasting time. Like there’s all these things I need to be doing and here I am just weekend after weekend and day after day, not getting after it.

Because who needs home when I have all this shit to do in these destinations that I’ve never been to? Now’s not the time to settle! I can’t settle. I’m scared of settling.

I feel like I have this pressure on me. I need to hurry up and write scripts and books and gather a following and start chasing down some dream that I haven’t even nailed down the logistics of yet. And I get nervous when I see people my age who are doing amazing things with their lives, who are already going after all the things they want to do. Especially because for me, sometimes I find victory in a day that I successfully paint my nails and don’t spill down the front of my shirt and make it through a twenty-minute run without tripping.

I’m scared I sound like a broken record. Like look at me! Cute little naive midwestern girl who wants to write moves to California and eats oatmeal and makes it through each day with a cute little moral of story tied in a bow. I’m restless with my own image.

I sit down to write and I think, I’ve said this before. I’m saying the same thing I’ve always said. I’m becoming irrelevant. And then I let my head hit the key board and type gibberish. I think about posting it because wouldn’t that be funny? You all go to read my blog and its all just letters and numbers and symbols and nothing makes sense and you’re like Meg what’s going on over there? And I’m like Guys! It’s a metaphor for my life. And there’s this awkward internet pause and then I laugh and type a frog emoticon. Ribbit.

Because that’s what I feel like sometimes. Like I’m just going around in little caffeine induced circles, begging everyone to follow their dreams and get off their couches and move on from their exes and live on the edge and dammit, don’t you know you’re never fully dressed without a smile?

Do you get sick of hearing it? Have you stopped believing me? Do you ever actually listen?

I like telling people that my blog is like a mini-chick flick. A little chick-flick post. Where there’s a cute little lead-in narration and then conflict and then in the end I live happily ever after. I like my life to follow that formula. Don’t we all?

But people who believe in chick-flicks are petty and delusional right? Those girls who want Ryan Gosling from the Notebook, are a straight-up squirrel related version of nuts. You roll your eyes at them and think, good luck sweet heart. Hollywood makes a fortune off your silly little fantasies.

English: Ryan Gosling at the 2010 Toronto Inte...

English: Ryan Gosling at the 2010 Toronto International Film Festival. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So do I really want my writing to be something synonymous with the ridiculous antics twinkle town boxes up and sells for a few months at 20.99 before immediately becoming irrelevant because another one (following the same exact formula) surfaces?

I don’t know.

I really don’t.

I don’t want to be irrelevant. I don’t want people to read what I have to say and think it’s a load of superficial unrealistic crap and then immediately cast it aside and forget it. I don’t want to keep saying the same thing and never doing it. I want to resonate! I want you to think about me in the middle of the night. I want you to think about my words for the next several days. I want to strike some chord deep down inside of you that inspires you to act. That’s the kind of writing I aspire to create. I’m moved by other words. I want you to be moved by mine.

I don’t want you to settle down. I want you to have this same lightning bolt up your ass that makes you scared to get stuck. That makes you scared of rolling over 10 years from now in the same spot because you were too scared to move. I want you to stop watching reality tv and get involved in your own reality. I’m scared that you’re not. I’m scared that I’m not.

Sometimes, I go through an entire day and I do nothing that scares me! How can I possibly live life on the edge if I sit at a desk all day? One time, I came home from work and spent the entire night trying to figure out how to do a handstand. It was terrifying. And I injured myself several times. And I wasn’t successful. But I bet no one else did that! And so isn’t that enough? I’m living life on the edge.. right? I’m being different.

It’s like this: watch?v=MBopFmu3yAg

And that’s it.

On the nose.

I’m scared of being unoriginal and cliche and saying the same thing over and over again. And I feel super lame. And I need to be kind of weird for a few minutes so I can be original again.

Or do something really crazy to prove I still have it. Like moving to Tahiti or France or New York. I get restless with normalcy. I get restless with averageness. I need to pick up a weird hobby. Like harmonica playing. Or insisting on bringing back quilts. Or date a guy with a mustache.

You ever feel like that? Because I do. All the time. And I can’t make myself write when I feel like my words are some refabrication of something I’ve said before. Like I’m plagiarizing myself.

So like I said before.. I moved into my new place this week. And it’s different. I feel home. In a different way. I feel a little less restless. Because there’s lots of room to be weird in a place you’ve never lived before. There’s bare walls and no furniture and lots of space for handstands. There’s room for stories. There’s space for adventure. And so that pressure to do things before my internal ticking clock runs out subsides for now. Tahiti and France and New York and my book can momentarily wait.

And at least for a little bit,

I give us all permission to stop chasing down the need to be someone and do things and stand on mountain tops and scream.

and for once just enjoy that feeling of finally just being home,

..Whatever that means to you.



To my person…

I’m going to say some things that are going to break a few people’s hearts but I feel like if you don’t know this by now.. well, I can’t really help you.

Since I moved to California, a short 9 months ago, people always ask me the same thing,

“Meg, when are you coming back?”

The truth is guys, if my life goes as planned (which HA! When does that ever happen… but seriously.) I don’t plan on ever moving back to Kansas. I know that’s hard to hear, and moving on isn’t easy but for me, Kansas City represents a – very hard, confusing, sad but beautiful in it’s own way– time in my life, that I have no desire to go back to. Don’t get me wrong, I had a lot of good times at my little apartment off of the plaza, maybe a few too good times but I think I can say mostly.. I spent my time in Kansas City– holding my breath for something better.

And now, I can say with absolute certainty, I made the right choice, leaving when I did. I look back and see not much has changed since I left, the same people do the same things at the same places (which is fine) but also comforting to me that it’s no longer home for me.

And it makes me think of the first time I convinced someone of ever just up and moving to California with me.

It’s the reason Dylan and I were ever roommates in the first place.

We sat in the Bourgeious Pig in the dimly lit bar drinking coffee and talking about things abstractly like maybe and someday and not really believing it but still talking about it like it gave us some direction because we NEEDED some direction. California was the answer to my impending misery that I knew graduation was going to bring me. And I remember that was the first time we really talked about it like it was a real thing.

And then we kind of got lost in our senior year. And I really got lost. By the time I came up for air, it was the day after graduation, and all of a sudden, someday and maybe was now. I didn’t plan for some of the things that happened during my second semester. I didn’t plan to get even more attached to the place I knew I had to let go of. To certain people.  But you can’t plan these things. Ce La Vie and all that shit.

I  held California at an arms length. No way in hell was I ready to move yet. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I was staying in bed until someone removed the sheets  and dragged me to the floor.

Right after we graduated, we sat on the front steps of her porch in Lawrence and talked about our plan. I skirted the issue that I was scared as shit for the rest of my life and the clear-cut answer here was to stay as close to Lawrence as possible because ripping off the bandaid of college would kill me.

So with the somedays and maybes of California as our blessing, we moved into a postage stamp apartment off of the plaza in KC. I painted us a chalkboard wall. We got pottery barn shelves. We watched greys anatomy on our couch and pretended our lives were a little more together than they actually really were. I spent my nights in a variety of peoples homes befriending their children and eating leftovers from their fridges. I got horrible food poisoning on Halloween and was forced to be DD. I was pulled over and the officer made me do a sobriety test in my Little Red Riding Hood outfit. Dylan dressed like a carrot.

We were a family.

A sad little confused family.

But hey, it worked.

I remember the night I decided to move. It was so deliciously crazy. I was so sick of being immobile. Of being stagnant. Of being half of myself. Of waiting on people in my life who weren’t ever coming back. I’d finally hit that wall. I was ready.

But I hesitated for 2 major reasons.

1- I was pretty sure my parents were going to kill me. Hey! Mom and Dad? I am going to go ahead and move to California and be a nanny for a family in Malibu. Ok? Soooo, see ya later ok? Mom? Why are you turning blue!?

And 2- Dylan.

See the thing is, we had an agreement. We were going together. We were in this sad little weird  in-between awkward stage together! We had eachother’s backs. We had seen each other at our worst. I would say we had seen eachother at our best.. but let’s just say we knew the best was in front of us. So telling this person in my life, who had become my sister, my other half, that I was ditching her for my own thing– that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

We didn’t talk for like 5 days. It felt like a year. But there wasn’t anything to say. I was leaving and it was selfish and painful and there weren’t enough words on the planet to explain myself. I knew I was doing the right thing but it didn’t change the fact that there was a feeling of abandonment just hanging in the air between us.

We had a final dinner at a place saturated in the color orange. It was delicious. The food.. not the color.

We were full.

And sad.

The day I left I gave her an orange pillow. She gave me a scarf. And I cried the second she closed the door to go to work. I knew it was the last time I would live in Kansas City. This place was a tomb to the part of my life I wasn’t proud of. It wasn’t the person I liked or wanted to be, it was just me trying to be someone before I could become myself. I stared at my chalkboard wall willing myself to just fall into it until I was ready to resurface and maybe I wouldn’t hurt people with my actions.

But it was what it was, and I shut the door and brought the key to the leasing office and started up my car.

I stopped at the med school and said goodbye to my friend Julia, and gave her probably the best monologue of my life about being strong and doing things because it’s her life and heartbreak and god it was right out of a movie! In reality– I probably scared everyone else in the lobby but GET TO WORK, YOU’RE IN MED SCHOOL!

And then?

Then, I really, really left.

I can’t even remember the song I listened to as I did. I felt emotionally raw. I was hopeful. And terrified.  But it felt right.

I stopped in Lawrence.

I parked right in front of the Wheel and bought a shirt. And I desperately wanted someone to be there that I knew.. but it was a Tuesday. And there was only a few people inside. But maybe that’s for the best.  Right before I left, I stood in the doorway and took it all in, in one big sweeping breath, I soaked it all up.  Because honestly, I didn’t know when I’d be back.  And I feel like I wasn’t the first person to do that. Someone else somewhere in the past has done the same thing. That made me feel a little better.

I’m going to wear this shirt the second I get to California. To remind everyone that I’m not going to forget where I came from and what I left behind. And I’m going to take a picture to prove it.

And I did.

And then I drove to Colorado. I hate that drive. But I didn’t really this time. I think it might be the last time I ever make it. I called a few people. I listened to a lot of music. I went a little crazy like I always do. I stared at myself in the mirror and thought I looked pretty good for a crazy person. I thought about Dylan coming home that night and felt my stomach ache.

Friendships are interesting. Proximity is huge. But not necessarily necessary. I discovered right after graduation that I could live in the same city from someone and never hear from them and yet talk every week with a friend who moved thousands of miles away.

I learned that in moving to California too. Certain relationships instantly died. Maybe our friendship was one of convenience and when we lost our physical closeness, we lost our reason to keep in touch. Who knows? All I know is that certain people keep calling. And those are the people you keep in your life regardless of how far they are from you. A zillion things could happen, but when you talk, you pick up right where you left off. It’s effortless. It’s easy. It’s comforting. Especially when relationships here can get lonely. It’s nice to know that person on the other end of the phone will pick up. And still care. And tell you it will all be ok. And they don’t have to physically hold you to feel like they hold a piece of your heart. They got you, You know? No matter what.. they have you.

Now, I’m lucky. I have a few people like that in my life. But one person in particular, has been my no-matter-what-friend.

Which is why I’m so happy and excited to welcome my other half– to join me in the great state of California in just 2 weeks.

You did it Dylan!

I’m so proud of you.

To my very best friend and the next adventure in her life…


some song by the doors

You know that feeling when you know something is finally over?

You can’t pinpoint the exact moment when things started coming to a close. Maybe it was last Tuesday around 4 PM or maybe it’s been slowly losing stability for weeks and you just now caught on that it’s your turn in some sad real life board game that no matter which way you spin it, you’re about to grab the piece that’s the game-ender.

Really though.

It eats away at you. Like this little creepy creature that sits, lurking in some unfortunate dark waiting room in the back of your mind that whenever you grow idle, you’re forced to dwell on. Like oh right. There that terrible truth is. The raw reality. That things aren’t what they used to be. Come on in. Take a load off. Make yourself at home.

And you fall into a routine. Trying desperately to get back to some previous existence. You weakly attempt to not dwell on your own sadness. To focus only on forward thinking, the positives, the good things that are taking place in your life.

But there it sits. The beast of what used to be. The grim reaper of reality. Tick. Tock. Just hanging out. Kicking in the door of your present with the reality that your past can’t be a part of your future.

You push it aside. Again. And again. And again. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Fake plastic smile. Canned imitation laughter. Cross your legs, bat your eyes and then….

Sometimes you  just get to a level where your reality is so scripted that you wake up one day and don’t know what you actually feel and what you just make everyone believe you feel. And you just.. can’t. Anymore. Today is the day  where you let it just eat you alive. You are only so strong for so long. You let it engulf you entirely with sadness and anger and confusion. You let the beast win. You become the beast. You sit on a throne of your own belligerent misery. No one touch me. Talk to me. Make me feel better. I just want to be fucking miserable dammit.

And the funny thing about doing this is that it’s the only way to truly move forward. You have to let the sad beast destroy you. You have to accept misery before you can move on to happiness. It’s Acceptance. That it’s over. That now, after being weaker than you’ve ever been, you are stronger than you ever were. The dawning new realization that if you never leave the waiting room, you’ll be stuck in some kind limbo of what used to be for the rest of forever.

And, screw that.

You’re better for it.

But you’ll never know until you say it’s over. It’s done. Pull off the band-aid. Grit your teeth. Close the book. Seal the envelope. Set it on fire! Answer the door.

Say it.


….And mean it.



“Never wonder what the hell went wrong–
Your second chance may never come along.”