On playground politics, regretful hairballs, and being your own story’s superhero

I wish I could say it’s the first time I’ve been here.

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Or the second.

Or the third.

The truth is I’ve probably been in similar positions dozens of times my entire life and I conveniently forget how difficult a previous experience was to make room for feeling sorry for myself in a current situation.

I remind myself of the facts again.

I have talents. I am intelligent. I am articulate and well-spoken. I am manically passionate, recklessly impulsive, fiercely loyal, occasionally quick to anger but equally fast to forgive.

I also know I am flawed and imperfect but unceasingly resilient in regards to improving those shortcomings. I believe recognizing your strengths and acknowledging your weaknesses keeps you humble. I also believe it gives you something to work toward.

My name is Meg and I honestly believe that tomorrow will be better than today.

However, right now, on this super fun Saturday morning, I feel sorry for myself and despite my pathetic scratching feeble attempts to escape, I have concluded sitting down cross-legged in this wallowing dirt hole of NOTHING IS GOING RIGHT is in fact, my destiny.

… For now.

When things go wrong (as they often do), I think it is human nature to first blame the situation. When similar situations happen again, I think it is also natural to find that fault in yourself. Different place, different time, different people, same story, same Meg.

The logic is there. It makes perfect sense. But yet, it’s a slowly growing hairball in the back of your throat and the more you dwell on it, the more you hack and cough on its presence. It’s counter-productive, and ultimately, it’s choking you.

Because it’s only when you let it go and get it out, that you can breathe again.

…Or at least that is what I assume, as I am not a cat and have never hacked up a giant hair ball, and let us all take a moment to thank God for that.

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Did you guys ever watch the TV show, Recess? It was a Saturday morning cartoon about a ragtag friend group and amid all the slap-stick humor that is Saturday morning cartoon television, offered up some (in my opinion) pretty profound advice to the youth of the late 90’s.

A particular episode entitled, “Nobody doesn’t like TJ” has always stuck with me. TJ Detweiler (main character, cool kid with backwards hat) spends an entire episode attempting to convince the one kid at school who doesn’t like him, that they should be friends.

And TJ really chucks his “A-Game” at this bro. He truly throws out his best bag of friend-related tricks. It’s impressive work. As a 10-year-old, you’re kind of watching going woah, I wish TJ was MY friend!

At the end of this particular episode, TJ, in so many words, asks this kid, “Yo, so are you Team Teej or what, homie?” And this guy responds “Yeah, I had a good time. But I still don’t like you.” AND THEN?? HE. WALKS. AWAY. Like… what!!! Damn kiddo, that is some straight-up cold cereal.

At the tender age of 10, I got this adult thematic lesson loud and clear. Not everyone is going to like you Meg. Not everyone is going to want to be your friend. Not everyone is going to have your back or have your best interests in mind. You can put on a smile, compliment, include and welcome them and those same people will continue to do and say thoughtless, manipulative and unkind things just for the sake of pissing you off and getting ahead.

Yet, you have to rise above it. You have to adopt your superhero good-before-evil mantra, imagine you can fly, appear to be invincible, focus on your passion, find your people, turn your ball-cap backward, and shake it off.

At 10 years old, I got that. At 25, the playground of life is a bit more intricate. I like you and I don’t like you are no longer as one-dimensional as Saturday morning cartoons suggested. FYI to all nursery rhymes–no one’s really throwing sticks and stones anymore because it’s not the Middle Ages. These days, we’re all throwing words and yeah, our limbs are just fine, thank you, but our hearts and our minds have seen healthier times.

And despite the lessons I continue to learn as an adult that I thought I understood as a child, I still find myself wanting to be TJ Detweiler. I still desperately want the approval, admiration and acceptance of everyone I surround myself with even though I know in my scarred, bruised and beaten heart, what a fool’s errand that really is. And time and time and time again, I find myself exhausted and defeated, sitting at the bottom of a wallowing hole that I personally put myself in, wondering wait, how did I get back here?

These words are my rescue ladder out. My reminder to myself that the facts above remain true. That I need to continue to work toward being the best version of myself regardless if others like or want to associate with that person. To work toward solutions and not being a part of a problem. To being a superhero in my own story and being ok with being the villain in someone else’s. To always being the main character and not just some anonymous victim stranded in a manhole waiting for someone to rescue me.

Remember why you’re here. To laugh. To smile. To learn. To grow. To adapt. To change. Not to wallow. Not to choke. Not to dwell on lost friendships, ruined relationships, missed opportunities, stupid mistakes and all the kids on the playground that just don’t, for whatever reason, like you and just never will.

“You can’t have a better tomorrow, if you keep thinking about yesterday.”

To today–

m

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gimme the beat.

Friends, lovers, strangers, random men who are reading this from Tinder–

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(Not to be confused with the hacked app)

Every single day, I have about 300 bizarre ideas pop into my head. Most I keep to myself. Some are far-fetched entrepreneurial plans that I know I will never put into action. Many are songs. Some are stories. Often, it’s an outfit or a food that I desire. (Just now even, I left this post to make myself some pickle toast. Which is toast with pickles on top. No, I am not pregnant or high. Yes, it IS delicious!)

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I have book ideas, and television show plots, and intricate plans to win the affections of Evan Peters from American Horror Story (who I know is blonde and that’s UNNATURAL and feminine or something but I’m into it, so buzz off), little lists to read certain books, sad nostalgic letters I write to previous friends, sudden reminders to call so-and-so back, grandeur pitches to editorial heads of magazines and online publications showcasing my writing wit and lengthy, limitless train of ideas. All aboard the Maggie Express, we’re going nowhere, and we’re going fast. 

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Sadly, most of my ideas, never see screen. They are passing shooting stars in the galaxy of my sleepy brain and on the verge of awakening, I quite often lose them to consciousness. It is a sad reality of having a head like a 25-cent grocery store sticker machine. Full of one-dimensional, glittery viscid cursive typography that never get to see the light of day. 

However. Sometimes! I have an idea and it sticks. Actually, it’s more like it bounces. With rhythm. I can tell a really good idea by its bounce. I’ll forget it for a second. A day. A week. But it keeps coming back. To the beat. That beat in my head.

 

 Today marks year 3 of LeftoversFromFriday. It is still the longest relationship I’ve ever had. I read back through old entries, reading 22-year-old Meg, gives me a certain clarity that I’ve made a lot of bad decisions in order to reach better ones. I read her hope that we can keep college alive, by living each day as if it’s a glory day. And I appreciate her near-sighted cliche adorable idealism, but 3 years later, I can confirm she is missing the big idea here. 

And that is that, you really can do everything you want to do. You really can ‘live the dream’. The problem is nailing that dream down. Keeping the sticker stuck. Permanently inking that idea to your forearm and looking at it everyday. Bouncing it again and again off your head until you have a rhythm you never get sick of and never want to stop playing. And eventually putting whatever it is onto some paper (paper of course, being whatever canvas you choose).

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Yes, therein lies the problem for many of us. The whole WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE/WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO seemingly endless limitless unanswerable question that used to keep me up in the middle of the night, burrowing into my brain like a sickening slow-moving ambitious virus that was the reason for and bane of my existence. The unbearable reality that I was wasting my youth, while also simultaneously not enjoying it the way I should be because I was so worried I was wasting it while also acutely aware that there were others my age doing bigger and better and more successful things, while I was simply wondering what it is I should be doing in the first place. 

Perhaps the problem is that our parents told us we could be anything. Maybe they should have told us we would all be disappointed, and therefore we’d all be satisfied. Imagine our ambition and drive and direction, if we all met our expectations by not meeting expectation! It’s economic inception. It’s the career-related matrix. I’ve discovered the loophole! Call Obama! Anyway.

I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve always known that writing is something that gives me energy and a high on a level that is far beyond “traits and skills you might have for -insert this job here-” I’ve always been very aware of my strengths and weaknesses. What I don’t and do want. 

But still, I’ve struggled with what degree I want to pursue my creative side. And how? And when? And where? It’s not so simple saying you want to write it turns out. It’s certainly a big step. But it’s like finishing a flight of stairs and your entire career is the Eiffel Tower and you don’t even know why you’re in Paris and you haven’t eaten and some foreign guy keeps shoving flowers in your face but when you take one he yells at you in french and you’re like ok I’ve definitely seen you on tinder before and you totally speak english, asshole. 

 

…Mass confusion. Everyday. Even if you don’t want to pursue something creative, you know what it’s like. Like I was supposed to be someone by now. I was supposed to have my shit a little more together. A little more direction. I certainly know that feeling well. Has it stopped me yet? Have I hung up my hat and settled for administrative purgatory and just writing in my diary on the side? Hell no. 

I have a lot of ideas. A lot of creative thoughts that surge through me every single day. But recently, I’ve been noticing a pattern. A distinct beat. A rhythm for a particular idea.

And that is that I’m very skilled at not only believing I’m on a path of finding my own dream and pursuing it, but also encouraging and believing that you all will find yours. If that’s really what you want. I think we are a generation that despite economic and employment disappointment, despite absurd outstanding debt from the colleges that were supposed to get us our “dream jobs,” despite being supposedly surrounded by others who society would have you believe to be doing and making more, refuses to settle. I think the previous generation often sees this as laziness and entitlement but I disagree. 

I believe that more than any generation before, we can achieve big things. We can make the big ideas in our heads our reality. You don’t have to take the first job you get out of college. Or keep the second job. Or stick with the third. Or screw it, even go to college. If you have the drive and the passion, history has shown us through successful person after successful person that a college degree and a resume of experience can be irrelevant. 

You just have to have an idea. And make that idea into a beat. And turn that beat into a rhythm. And keep creating that rhythm until you find a stride that you never get sick of and never want to stop playing.

And then one day, you’ll wake up and ask yourself that same question. The one question that used to wake you up in the middle of the night.

What do you want to do?

And you’ll answer, well.. I’m doing it.

And the beat goes on…

Happy 3 years-

m

There’s no business like show business

Oh hello.

Did you think I’d forgotten you?

Have you been waiting for this one?  I guess I’d like to think you have. If there’s been a certain vagueness to my response rate the past couple weeks, maybe you can understand I was waiting for the exact right moment. Nothing like a little time and a lot of caffeine to give your thoughts some legs and walk them out into the spotlight naked in front of a murky shadowy audience.

But hey, that’s show business folks. So, shall we? Let’s get this circus on the road! Let the games begin! Bring on the monkeys! Let’s come out and say what’s on all your minds. Or rather, I guess, what’s on mine.

Turns out, in terms of big news, there’s two types of people. The genuinely inquisitive and the nosily intrusive. Luckily for you, it has finally ceased to matter on what side of the audience you sit on. Because after a drumroll in the form of 2 weeks notice, I’m about to tell you the truth.

But first, I’m going to tell you a little story…

Act One

Slow fade into a close-up of ten fingers meticulously (rhythmically even) clacking on a keyboard. Gradual zoom out to a row of these fingers, then hands, then arms all in their own little percussion section symphony of clicking, clacking, tapping on collective home rows. (ASDFGHJKL). The silence in contrast to this rapid cadence is somehow much louder. Deafening, even. A row of young bodies, button-down shirts, pleated khakis and work-appropriate heels, hunched and squinting at little glowing glass orbs in front of them. Every few seconds someone pauses to answer their phone. The uniformity is military. Even the greeting is the same.

“One moment please, let me see if I can reach him.”

“Don’t have her right now, can we leave word?”

“We will return, thank you.”

Narrator (Voice Over):

 40 days. 960 hours. 57,600 minutes. I won’t even bother you with the seconds. It’s not worth our time. 

We see our lead, directly in the middle of the row, 3rd from the left, 3rd from the right. Visibly struggling, uncomfortable shifting in her chair though we don’t know quite why just yet. She is glaring directly ahead with a determination that might burn holes through any solid barrier, though something tells us that it’s a little more than just a drywall in front of her. At this point we also realize the lead and the narrator are the same, though the narrator speaks to us from some vague time in the future. Maybe 2 weeks ahead. Just an educated guess.

Narrator (Voice Over):

This is me living the dream guys. THE. DREAM. Because this is what you do you know? This is following the dream. This is the coveted spot you wait for on your way to your quote, unquote, the dream. …This is what I wanted.

Our lead stands up. Taking off her head-set, she walks purposely into the office two doors to her right. She raps on the door. Click. Clack.

Narrator (Voice Over):

Or at least.. I thought it was. 

She enters.

A woman sits in the office, visibly annoyed by her presence.

Girl-

Hey. Do you have a minute?

Boss-

No. I don’t. 

Girl-

Ok.. Well good thing this will only take a second then! 

She closes the door. Emphatic. Final. Click.

Outside, the keyboards maintain their droning march. The phones continue to lightly twinkle, the robotic greeting echoes. Every once in a while someone hacks or sneezes, but above all the silence resonates.

Narrator (Voice Over):

40 days. 960 hours. 57,600 minutes. That’s not a dream. That’s a coma. And today.. I woke up. Found my place. Spoke my lines. Took my bow. Exit stage.

We now see a side angle of all the arms, then hands, then fingers clicking and clacking. Cut to Girl’s empty computer.

Narrator (Voice Over):

 But you know what they say in Hollywood…the show must go on.

Fade out to black.

END OF JOB/story

I’ve been reading a lot scripts recently. Can’t you tell? That was my favorite part of my job. It’s pilot season right now after all in the world of entertainment. And what does that mean? Well, it’s like 4th quarter in the Superbowl. It’s the last moments in championship game of March Madness. The rose ceremony of the Bachelor. Where boys become men and girls get a ring on it. Ok enough pop culture/sexism.

It’s the time of the year when talent agencies and talent management companies are flooded with opportunities to get their clients (budding hopeful actors and actresses) in the creme de la creme of Fall 2014 TV Pilot line-up. It’s a numbers game. X many pilots + X many potential roles= X many opportunities to become the next big thing. However, it’s also not a numbers game at all. You could get into every single room. Get in front of every single casting director. Do your very best job and still wake up 2 months from now and be just as unemployed as you were when you first started. That’s not the dream. That’s the reality.

It’s funny how life imitates art like that.

Yes, it’s more than numbers. It’s about relationships. It’s about personality. Sure, it’s even about talent. But mostly, I think above all, it’s about luck. I think every actor or actress who have quote, unquote, made it, if they were really honest, would tell you.. they just got lucky. They met the right person, at the right time, at the right place. And the stars aligned and the stage lit up and the crowd cheered. And just like that, zero-to-hero, billboard, bright lights, big city, fame.

Boom.

But I’m getting side-tracked. This isn’t about some other person’s dreams and ambitions and luck, it’s about mine.

I was told for so long that taking a job at a talent agency would change everything for me. It’s how quote, unquote YOU-GET-A-JOB-IN-A-WRITERS-ROOM, after all. You could be the next Tina Fey! The next Lena Dunham! And I guess they were right. It did change everything.

I sat down, shut up and did my best to fit in. But unlike that of my peers, the ones I sat next to, the ones I passed during lunch– suits, ties, hair gel, haggard but hungry, I just couldn’t fake enthusiasm for something I’m not, anymore.

I realize that makes me a little alternative. After all, tons of people dislike their current employer. They hate their jobs, and they despise their bosses, and they stay because they are saving up for some dream in the future. All the things they want to do when they have the money, the time, the clout, the power, the influence, the WHAT HAVE YOU to do so. They stay because they’re scared. They stay because they’re comfortable. They stay because they truly believe they have no other choice. You do something so long and you start to think it’s the only thing you know how to do. It’s the only thing you are good at. You power out 40 years, and then like the holding your breathe through a tunnel on a highway you reach the end and you take a deep exhale and go AHHHHHHHHH…. retirement.

Yeah. That’s America! That’s the dream.

But that’s not me. I didn’t need 40 years to know that. Hell, I didn’t even need 40 days. This job wasn’t making me a better writer. And it certainly wasn’t making me a better person. I don’t deny the definite benefits. The networking potential. The information I would learn and be privy to by just being a part of the company. The skin-thickening, sink-or-swim life skills I’d learn along the way. Sure. But more importantly, what would I lose?

I felt artistically drained, creatively bottomed out, a sad little shell wearing neutral colors mindlessly checking for double spacing between sentences in formulaic emails. Eating breakfast, lunch and dinner at the same desk getting home long after the sun sets and happy hours ended. Helping others pursue their dreams, while pushing mine aside.

And so I took a deep breath. Put down my headset. Stood up. And resigned.

I exhaled. And I called my parents and told them I was moving home.

And well… if you’ve ever worked really hard for something you thought you wanted, and then you get there and realize it’s not what you thought, you kind of just go to Narnia. And I don’t mean you go crazy. I mean you start thinking about life outside the wardrobe. Outside the quote, unquote dream.

And for me I realized– if this job isn’t going to make me a better writer or even a writer at all, is staying in Los Angeles going to make me one? What could I do if I just let myself let go?

And then I just knew. What I need, what I’ve been granted is, perspective. The opportunity to be limitless. The chance to get away from what is expected of me, to do what I want to do, in the way I want to do it. So I’m selling all my possessions, everything I own– that I worked so hard these past 2 years to call mine, saving up some cash, and going off the grid.

And tha-a-a-a-a-attt’s all folks. That’s the show. That’s the curtain call. That’s what you’ve been waiting to hear. The punchline. The season finale climax. This is what actually LIVING THE DREAM looks like. Not saving up for the dream in the future, not the dream when I can get my money right, right here, right now, living. That I’m not waiting 40 years before traveling. And I’m going to write, and create and make something of myself on my own terms.

So.. what’s next?

Well. As I said, as in Hollywood and in life, the show must go on. The plot doesn’t stop here. A really good story merely changes, catches you off guard, keeps your own toes, makes you pause, gasp even, consider what could possibly happen next. Pushes you to leave your own reality for a second and live someone else’s. Make believe for a second it’s your own. Get lost. Escape.

This is my story.

This is my show.

You’re welcome.

Now get back to work.

theatre curtain

M

Wingin’ it

This morning:

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Running and juking around homeless people like a spy on a mission to destroy the carbs I ate at 2 AM Saturday morning. Carbohydrate, the spy. Seek and destroy. Mission FEEL THE BURN. Ok. I’m done.

Like any good multi-tasker, I used this time to think about important things in my life. For example: the other day I read that pigeons have a large memory and actually remember if you scare them and if you attempt to approach them again will run away from you in fear. Or fly I guess. Because they are birds and have wings. You understand.

At first I instantly believed this because whoa cool, pigeons are actually smart who knew that..? But then the more I think about this I’m like ok, really? This can’t be true. Where did I read this? Uber facts on Twitter? I think that account should be audited for factual accuracy. Because in this case– IF ANYTHING is coming at you full-speed and thus, potentially risking your life, you instinctively move. Even a pigeon brain could figure that one out.  This logic seems flawed. You know? Just hypothesizing. But hey…your move, Bill Nye.

Anyway, I’m running thinking oh these pigeons know me as fast-running-empress-with-awesome-hair (apparently, I have a native american tribal name) who will kill me if I get in her way. And I’m like that’s right pigeon peasants. Move yourselves. I am a powerful human who will crush you.

And this is a feeling that I wish carried me throughout the rest of my day. I wish certain situations and people and decisions were pigeons. I wish they would just get out of my way and bow to my power. But alas, life isn’t always the sidewalk of empowerment we hoped for and people aren’t pigeons and honestly thank god, because pigeons are pretty much rats with wings and gross.

Anyway– among other things I think about on my morning run–

Want to know what I did for Thanksgiving last year?

Well first, I ate my face off.

Like all of America.

Because that’s what we do.

Go Chiefs.

But then, despite my food triplets (Curly, Moe and Larry respectfully) , I ended up going over to see this guy I liked at the time. He was cat-sitting at his extremely religious newlywed co-workers house and invited me over to “chill”.

This is the part where I should have been like, chill huh?? OH HEY GIANT RED FLAG…. But of course instead, I agreed because he was hot and I was weak.

And so somehow, in a strange yet also (let’s be honest) unsurprising chain of events, I found myself making out with him while also subsequently watching Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter (which I confess, I personally brought over to defuse the very situation I was now in) AND ALSO while this is happening– found myself being stared down by several extremely grotesque (no offense God) Jesus’s dying on the cross while ALSO being observed by the cat whom I was quite sure was magical/evil and could talk and was going to tell on us to it’s disapproving and guilt-tripping from a far distance wherever they are-parents. 

Not that I really need to explain much more, but this was pretty much the height and extent of our relationship as it ended shortly after, something I will always blame on the cat.

#MyLoveLife

…I’m still at a place in my life where I look at engagement and marriage of my peers with wonder and awe. Oh, you are going to spend THE REST OF ETERNITY TOGETHER? Wow. That’s really nice. What’s that even feel like? I made out with a guy who was cat-sitting for Jesus last Thanksgiving. Yep. And right now, it’s still in the winning for MOST ROMANTIC THING TO HAPPEN TO ME SINCE 2012. Things are going a-ok! Hold on, let me distract you with this picture of a sunset on the beach! Anyway, love right? Swell. Gotta get back to my big gulp. See ya later!

I’ve kind of adopted a live-on-the-fly lifestyle. Stretching my paycheck as far as it can go. Work with what I have, until I figure out something better. Can’t find a tissue in my car, so blow my nose into my Triple A membership papers. (Note: It was an emergency, and I had no other choice. Sorry Dad.) Moving 6 times in 2 years, 5 times specifically within the confines of Los Angeles, California.

I know you guys. You’re thinking 6 times? Holy cow Meg, you’re nuts. Chill out. You sound like an unstable gypsy! Someone put that girl on a leash. Stop shouting. I assure you all, I simultaneously have also held down a 9-5 job in a reputable company for almost 2 years (Humble Brag/Pregnant Sigh)– so it’s not exactly like I’m living out of my car (which for the record, I could totally do as Honda Elements are extremely roomy and versatile creatures, perfect for the modern-day box-car child)

Still though, it can be exhausting. Did I plan to move this much since August 2011? Would I prefer to be in a more stable, more settled, this is my house these are my things part of my life? Sure. I mean do pigeons fly away when you run full-force at their faces? Absolutely. But it’s also probably because they’re scared of the alternative, not because they’re smart enough to know better.

So I’d be lying if I didn’t say, I didn’t envy the other side of the stable fence sometimes. The side where you are an accountant, and you know how to appropriately wear J-Crew accessories (a skill I’ve never been able to master as every time I try any jewelry from that store on, I just end up looking like a plastic lawn gnome) and where you watch hit tv shows on your west elm couch with your boyfriend and both drink wine and don’t spill on yourself once and talk about marriage in a future adult way that welcomes it but doesn’t rush or force it. And you’re happy where you are, and satisfied in your settling because for you it’s enough and it always will be.

You know you want to live in this place for the rest of your life. There is nothing else, there is nothing more. Your family is here, your friends are here, your life is here. That is all.

And I bet your car is clean and you keep kleenex in the glove box. And you would never get a runny nose with 12 sneezing fits as you go down the highway at 70 miles per hour. You would never go hang out with a guy who was cat-sitting for his weirdly religious co-workers. And you certainly wouldn’t move 6 times for the hell of it.

And that’s right for you. That’s better for you. That’s your story. That’s your choices. I constantly remind myself there’s not a life jello mold, and my path is a completely different one than every person I come across. And to compare myself, is merely wasting time, instead of enjoying it.

So that’s where I am at today. That’s what I’ve learned to thrive on. To not knowing what’s next and to welcome it with open arms. To be ok with the fact that I’m building a story that others will only ever read about. To be single from here to eternity, to move maybe 8 more times, to never being an accountant, to not really living out of my car but also sort of sometimes living out of my car, to usually always saying yes to impulse, to very often pursuing solo the places where I know I personally need to be.

And this morning:

To running head first at a large of entourage of pigeons, thinking I don’t care if you remember me or not, you better move bitches…

Because I’m rocking this Monday.

And I’m going to rock my entire life.

Pigeon 1a

..Or I’ll just wing it until I do.

🙂

m

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

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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Just saying.

I live in Venice, California.

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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. 

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  • 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. 

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  • 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.

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  • 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.

Anyway.

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. 

M