State of the Meg — May, 2010
- Sweet & Sour Chicken. Why do I do this to myself? I always see Sweet & Sour Chicken on the menu at Mei Wah and think to myself, "Well I like chicken. And I appreciate the east-meets-west juxtaposition of sweet and sour flavors in my mouth at the same time. I should order Sweet & Sour Chicken!" And then I do and it gets here and I see what it looks like and remember that I don't like at all and it ruins my night. Much like this night. It's all fried and you have to add the queer sauce with the peppers and the cherries yourself and feh...if I wanted to cook, I wouldn't have ordered in, now would I? I should have gotten Sliced Pork in Plum Sauce. I regret this decision. So, I guess that's the first order of business.
- FYI: A 2b1b merchandise store is absolutely going to happen in the near-future, so get excited for that! I've already designed the sorr about the bag-bag and two different logos for shirts, hoodies, mugs, et al. Now I just need to find out which online store situation will yield me the most money because that's kind of where my head's at these days. I actually told someone yesterday that I was quote, "hurting for a fiscal squirting." I've never wanted to hop into a Delorean and gun it to 88 so badly in my entire life.
- I had drinks with Billy after work tonight. His leg hair seems to have grown back nicely.
- I made an important life decision that might shock you: I don't want a pug anymore. BEFORE YOU FREAK OUT, HEAR MY REASONING. I still love pugs and would kill a hooker to stare at one in person for five seconds, it's just that they have so many health problems and I really am
- Instead, I'm all about getting a Shiba Inu! I actually wanted to get a Shiba Inu way before I ever wanted to get a pug. When I was 14, I had an after school job at a bookstore near my high school and one day a woman came in with a dog that looked like a straight-up fox. Now, as we all know from the embarrassing (yet not embarrassing at all because I dare you to hug him and not fall in love) fact that I sleep curled up with a giant stuffed fox named Jason, I love foxes. So I obviously freaked out about how ungodly adorable this little dog was and the owner told me that he was a Shiba Inu. Years later when Ex Co-Blogger Chris and I lived in Brooklyn, we discovered that one of our neighbors had a Shiba Inu and I was pretty much physically incapable of not peeing my pants and shrieking "AWWW, FOX DOG!!!!!!!!" every time I saw him walking around the 'hood. It then became my dream to get a little Shiba Inu and name him Steve The Fox Dog. This dream was put on hold, however, when I decided that I wanted to get Ichabod the Rasta Pug instead. But when you think about it, Steve The Fox Dog would probably be much more conducive to living in a warm city with a broke-ass ho for an owner than a pug, right? So, new goal: July 2010. Steve The Fox Dog and Meghan McBlogger. Ghetto Superstars. Coming to a district near you.
- Something embarrassing happened to me Saturday night. Well, that's obviously a lie—many embarrassing things happened to me Saturday night, but three things happened that are specifically worth noting:
1.) Before going to Anna & Talia's party, I cut my shin shaving in the shower (alliterations!) and it would not clot for the life of me. Seriously. Like, I've gotten little nicks on my legs that have taken a while to clot before, but this was on a whole other level. This was some Romanov shit right there. It bled when I was in the shower, through doing my make-up, through doing my hair, through getting dressed, through pregaming, through the metro ride from Dupont to Grosvenor, through the cab ride to Anna and Talia's house and probably like five minutes into the party. I mean, what the fuck is that? It was a tiny-ass cut. But it was bleeding profusely. And because it was bleeding profusely, I had to carry my quote, "blood rag" on the metro to occasionally dab with so blood wouldn't trickle down my leg and make me look like a 12-year-old girl getting her period for the first time.
As I was standing on the metro chatting with Ex Co-Blogger Chris and Alex and trying not to lose consciousness, an attractive guy wearing an ironic neon 90's hat got on with his bike and stood in front of me. A few minutes into the ride, I glanced down and noticed that a significant amount of blood had accumulated on my shin and it was time to give it a good old-fashioned dab with my blood rag. However, I didn't really want Irono-90's Guy to see this going down, so I did an oh-so-suave little, DOO-BEE-DOO-BEE-DOO, don't mind me! whistle and kicked my right leg over my left so I could discreetly bend down and dab it. Unfortunately, not being an oh-so-suave person to begin with, I blatantly kicked the guy's bike and drew way more attention to myself than I would have had I just bent down and dabbed it like a normal person. It also didn't help that after this happened, I loudly moaned, "GOD DAMNIT! I HATE BEING ME! ALL DAY. EVERY DAY." Sigh.
2.) This isn't really so much an embarrassing moment as it is an embarrassing observation. The drink of choice at Saturday night's party was gin bucket. A gin bucket is pretty much exactly what it sounds like—a giant bucket full of gin, various fruits and ice that you shoot into your mouth (or have shot into your mouth) via turkey baster.
...My jaw muscles still honest-to-god hurt from holding my mouth open to have gin bucket squirted down my throat. I don't know if that's a reflection of how much I drank or how out of shape my jaw muscles are, but I do know that I'm embarrassed for myself. This embarrassment is second only to when you give head for the first time after not hooking up for a while and your entire neck and jaw muscles kill for like a week afterward. Yes? No? Just me? Blokay, sitting back down. And then getting right back up to go to the gym. Or give more head. Probably neither, if I'm being honest.
3.) When Chris, Alex and I got back to the metro to head home, we were hot, sweaty, tired and covered in gin bucket. When we boarded the train, however, Alex realized that we were on a ghost car (meaning we were the only ones in the compartment) and proceeded to shoot awake, freak out in excitement, race up and down the aisle, provocatively swing from pole to pole and shout, "GHOST CAR!!!!!" at the top of his lungs. I've never seen someone go from near pass-out to 5-year-old-realizing-there's-a-pony-at-his-party-style excited that fast in my entire life. Alex later said of the ghost car, "I don't think I've been that happy in months." And his excitement was contagious! From Grosvenor to Bethesda, the three of us just ran around that car like jackasses, swinging from poles, taking lewd pictures, and shouting, "GHOST CAR!!!!" over and over again. Unfortunately this only lasted a few stops, as a bunch of people got on at Bethesda and we had to sit down in our seats and act like normal human beings again.
However, a bunch of people got off a few stops later at Van Ness and for a second there, I thought we were back in the Ghost Car. I was so excited that I audibly gasped at the thought. Giggling, with eyes as big as saucers and the cheesiest fucking grin on my face, I whipped my head around to see if we were the only people on the train and was instead met eye-to-eye with a drunk girl sitting behind me, tears streaming down her face. No two people have ever looked more directly into each other's eyes in the history of the world. And if you paused that moment, it would seem like I had whipped my head around to look and laugh at this poor girl crying her face off on the metro at 2 o'clock in the morning. But I wasn't! I just thought we were in the Ghost Car again, but how could I explain that to her?
Our eyes still locked, the smile on my face vanished and I awkwardly was like, "GHO—G-G-GHOST...NOPE, NOT A GHOST CAR. SORRY!" turned back around and slumped down into my seat. I started talking to Alex to take the embarrassment edge off and while I was talking to him, he reached down and grabbed my knee like, "dude, check out the girl behind you," which in turn made me laugh, because of the absurdity of what just happened. Which made him laugh. Which made me laugh even more. BUT WE COULDN'T LAUGH because that poor thing was like, curled up in a little ball hysterically crying and it was like the 9/11 mini-flag situation all over again. Because who am I to laugh at her? Crying in public, much like vomiting in public or losing your cell phone, is the great equalizer: we've all done it drunk and have been retrospectively embarrassed by it the next morning. Like I haven't been escorted out of a bar crying to the point where I can't catch my breath about something that the next morning, if not about poached eggs, is of little-to-no importance to me. It happens. And I honestly wasn't laughing at her or her misfortune. I was just SO DAMN EXCITED ABOUT THE GHOST TRAIN! GHOST TRAIN!!!!!!11
- I grossly have to clean my apartment and do laundry. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.
- I really like my job, which although not funny, I feel is worth mentioning.
- Speaking of jobs, I have a phone date with Helena's maybe future employer tomorrow because she put me down as a reference. I recently decided that I'm going to tell them that she founded her own white supremacy group and has a nasty little meth habit. Why? Just as a goof.
- And speaking of Helena! I know this is old news by now, but we watched Precious: Based on the Novel "Push" by Sapphire together the other day before work and that shit is FUCKED UP. Like fucked up in the way that we couldn't hug each other goodbye afterward because it was too much physical contact too soon, fucked up. Shudder, shudder. Never again.
- I need summer clothes. And shoes. And Steve The Fox Dog. Hurting 4 Fiscal Squirting '10. Here we are again.
- The guy in my building who's always an asshole made polite small-talk with me the other day in the elevator and even made a joke! BAHAHA! BOOM! It only took 14 months, but I knew I'd break him down like a racial barrier. Meghan McBlogger: like a drug that's not immediately addictive.
- Hmmm...yeah. That's all I got for you. Slow month.
State of the Meg: sore and sour. Zing!