- Shit went down, I decided to give up on writing, I watched an inspiring video on Facebook, I changed my mind, I'm back. GUNS BLAZING. I was actually supposed to be back Monday with guns blazing, but then I realized it was Columbus Day and no one would be in the office, and Tuesday my Internet was shut off for the majority of the day because I hadn't paid my bill in a month of Sundays. Specifically three months of Sundays, which Comcast has become increasingly less cool about. But! I paid my bill and now I have $9 left in my bank account to get me to next Tuesday. If you'd like to put a tip in the tip jar, that would be awesome. If not, I've got some yogurt in the fridge and a salmon fillet in the freezer leftover from the one time I held book club in 2010, so something tells me I'll be fine.
- AHH, WAIT! BEFORE ANYTHING ELSE HAPPENS AND/OR I FORGET TO TELL YOU FOR THE 6,000TH TIME...our book, The Misanthrope's Guide to Life, is now available for The Kindle. So go download it, or upload it, or interface with it, or however that witchcraft and wizardry works.
- Re: yesterday's post:
IT WAS SO BAD, KYLE. So, so bad. Realistically speaking, I was probably hungover from Friday morning to early Saturday afternoon. I was so hungover I felt homesick. Like, there was that same lump in my throat and waves of sadness kept washing over me and I just wanted a hug from my mom. If I had a gun and a roommate, I would have asked to be taken out back and put out of my misery. On a related note, I'd like to apologize and/or say you're welcome to my Baja Fresh delivery guy, Jose. (I don't know if his name was actually Jose. That's just pure racism right there.) I finally got the energy to go online and order food at about 3:30ish, immediately fell back asleep, and woke up 45-minutes later to angry banging on my door and six missed calls on the phone I had whaled myself on top of. I then proceeded to answer the door in a negligee that in no way housed my breasts, extended a single shaking paw out the door, took my food, mumbled thank you, and shoved pork tacos in my face while
watching old episodes of Wings on Netflix. And that's how it was for quite some time. So. Mr. Lethals. Not just a cute name for a drink. More of a lifestyle.
- While I'm issuing apologies, I'd like to apologize again to my Twitter followers for that obnoxious virus I got last week. I normally know better than to click on those virusy links that are like "LOL! I saw a picture of your dick on TMZ last night! Oh my god!!!! Look~!" because I've always got one eye on my dick and one eye on TMZ, but this one was practically tailor made for me:
GAHHHH! You got me, you bastards! You got me good. Given how Christ-awful things were going that week, it only made sense that someone was talking shit on some blog somewhere and I completely fell for it. I'm sorry. I lost a crap-ton of followers because of it, if it makes you feel any better. But you know what? That's your loss because you people are missing out on classic Evie/Meg tweets like this little gem:
Yeah, that's me and Evie. BFFs^max. Gettin' ready for bed. Making Blingees. Doin' face masks. I spent the last two weeks house/Evie sitting for my parents while they were in Santa Cruz and Napa (must be nice...) and Evie and I became freakishly close. We were inseparable. And I know you're interpreting me saying we were "inseparable" as like, "Oh, cool, they got a good snuggle session in here and there," but I what I mean is we were inseparable. Like, by the strictest definition of the word. She would not leave my side. I would have to walk her down to the kitchen to eat her meals or else she'd just stay in my bedroom with me all day and not eat. Typically sitting directly on my laptop. Here she is obstructing my view of the classic 1994 film Airheads:
Here is her paw:
Every time I went down into the basement to work out, she'd follow me and jump up on my chest and want to snuggle at inopportune times, like when I was climbing a particularly steep hill on the bike:
(I know I'm not anonymous anymore, but I'm sweating profusely in that picture and the Internet is forever. What do you want?)
So, yeah. No big deal. NBD, if you will. We're just two of the best friends this world has ever seen. Although it did get weird one night when I dreamt that I was back in college and couldn't remember my schedule and was stressing out, so my dream boyfriend and I snuggled on the couch and I was like, "God. This is so nice." Then I woke up and realized I was full-blown spooning Evie. Shit got a little too real, God bless me.
- My dad asked me to do two things while they were away: call Comcast and fix the Internet and set up their wireless printer. Because I already have an established relationship with Comcast (albeit a dysfunctional one), I took care of fixing that problem first. (And because I wanted to watch Airheads.) While I was on the phone with the Comcast tech, I had to go down to the basement, get on my hands and knees, and reach behind the router to unplug it. After unplugging it, I withdrew my hand and realized that I had just inadvertently grabbed a fistful of spiders. Just a whole handful of spiders and spiderwebs. I then managed to do the following without making a single noise or dropping the phone: gag and come dangerously close to vommitting, frantically wipe the contents of my right hand off on a Longaberger basket, jam the receiver between my ear and shoulder, and rip my shirt off with my left hand. I don't know why, but every time I realize there's an insect on me, my natural reaction to rip my shirt off. Even when it's not even on my shirt. This was particularly embarrassing during The Summer of the Cicadas when I was at Best Buy and thought I felt something on my back. "Megan, is there a cicada on my back?" I asked the friend I was with at the time. "Yes Meg, there is," she calmly replied. But then instead of batting the goddamn thing off me, she booked it in the opposite direction, I freaked out, hurled my purse into a rack of candy, and ripped off my shirt in the middle of Best Buy. I swear to God. Then, as I tried to regain composure and get my shirt back on, I heard this little "It's gone!" from halfway across the store in office supplies. Thank you, Megan. Ass.
Anyway, my whole point being, Chris and I worked off and on again for about a year developing a reality show with a few of dat dem der big time Hollywood producers, but they backed out a few months ago. Which is fine because, my God, the weight we'd have to lose. But every now and then a moment like that happens and I'm kind of sad I can't make a gif out of it. So much of my sadness is gif-related. You have no idea.
- I'm speaking at Hood College later this month about blogging ethics and when I told my mom the topic, she laughed-out-loud for a depressingly long amount of time. When I told my sister, she recoiled.
- Fitness First on L and 19th is on my shit list. Hot and heavy. First and foremost: we have to sign out hand towels now and they're limit one per person? Seriously? Where are we—Communist Russia?? Do you want me to till the fields and share my apartment with six of my closest comrades while I'm at it? Second and secondmost: they closed at four on Columbus Day and I walked all the way down there at 4:30 because I didn't know that and was all emotionally ready to work out and was instead faced with the harsh reality of two locked doors. Seriously? Columbus Day?? What is the point of a gym closing on Columbus Day? Do your employees need to go home to be with their families and eat their Columbus Day turkeys and sing Columbus Day carols and open Columbus Day presents around the Columbus Day tree? Shenanigans. Lazy, gym-related, Columbus Day shenanigans. AND that hot guy who's always there when I am didn't ask me out when I told him the score of the Cardinals/Brewers game the other day. I know that's not your fault because I was the one struggling to breathe and wearing six layers of sports bra at the time, but you certainly didn't help.
- While we're on the topic of policy changes, I have a new policy of my own: if you don't lock the door behind you when you go to the bathroom and I walk in on you, I refuse to be embarrassed. It's your fault, not mine. I am so sick of walking in on people in bathroom stalls and fitting rooms and having them treat me like I'm some kind of pervert trying to sneak a peek. I just have to pee, OK? I went to the bathroom, I saw a door ajar, I naturally pushed it open, and lo and behold—there you are with your pants down all, "UM, EXCUSE ME, DO YOU MIND?!" Yes! Yes I do! I don't want to see your junk anymore more than you want to show it to me! And the thing is, this happens to me more than it should. It happened to me twice this past weekend alone. Why aren't you weirdos locking the door behind you? Are you insane?? There's a lock on every public bathroom door in America—use 'em. And let me just address the obvious comment I know I'm going to get: "Oh, Meg, what barn were you raised in? You obviously knock before you go into a bathroom." Fuck that noise! Why should I knock? I'm not coming over to your apartment with a nice bottle of Merlot for an intimate gathering of friends and colleagues—I'm trying to piss at the bar. I can't hear shit over the Wilco that's inevitably being blasted anyway. Just lock the fucking door. And if you don't and I walk in—I will no longer be embarrassed. Effective immediately. EAT IT.
- Alex, Helena and I were supposed to go camping last weekend but it started pouring as we pulled into the campgrounds and we had to throw in the towel. Speaking of towels, I should have known the trip was destined for failure when I realized that I forgot Hat. (Let that speak loudly. Forgetting Hat, forgetting Larry Hagman's birthday...God. Get your shit together, Rowland.) We got drunk on boxed wine in an Olive Garden parking lot instead, so, I mean, the night wasn't an entire loss. More to the point, en route to camping, I made Helena and Alex try my Clear Eyes Cooling Relief drops and they LOVED it. "I know! It's amazing, right? That's why I blogged about it!" Helena was then essentially like, "No offense, but I thought that post was just some bullshit filler and disregarded it. I stand corrected." So, in summary, that post where I recommended you put Clear Eyes Cooling Relief in your eyes and run really fast down a hallway? It wasn't (entirely) bullshit filler. Try it. You won't regret it.
- Speaking of blog posts that didn't get the appreciation I felt they should have, I'm going to re-post the Vance Vance Revolution graphic I made. Not only do I think it's clever, it took an embarrassingly long amount of time to research and create it, and it only got like one comment that was just someone telling me to go fuck myself. So, JIM VANCE: the revolution will be televised.
- I should go fuck myself.
Current State of the Meg: Hanging on by a thread. Slash incredibly aroused by this crisp Fall weather! Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
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