Soapbox Moment

I don’t write these things often, mostly because I don't often find myself this appalled. There are times that I have to jump up on my soapbox though, and this is absolutely one of them. 

The #uglygirlsarenotallowed tag on Twitter is utterly disgusting. I’m not going to insult or swear at the people using the tag either, because where would that get me?

Honestly, with the type of visually focused society that we spend millions of dollars following, this doesn’t surprise me at all. We buy magazines that wear headlines about who has the most cellulite, and articles that demean or even pity the poor soul with a BMI higher than 3. The same magazines then turn around and write articles about who is too skinny, just to narrow the pool of acceptable body types to only the most impossibly perfect varieties. Worse, even the pretty ones are subject to being photoshopped beyond recognition, because even perfect isn’t perfect enough. 

This hashtag is so inflammatory not just because it’s spawning the kind of misogynistic drivel that has reduced people, not just women, to surgically altering their bodies and injecting toxins into their skin. It’s so infuriating because it says that this kind of defamation and negativity is a commodity for public consumption. You just have to log into a website to publicly humiliate and demean those that society don’t label “pretty”, and you’ll get a pat on the back because you’re just following what is trendy. We have now literally made public humiliation and defamation trendy. 

You know what I think? I think that:

#uglygirlsarenotallowed to be subject to this kind of drivel.

#uglygirlsarenotallowed to be called ugly, because “ugly” is not skin deep. Ugly is the kind of person who starts a hashtag like this. 

#uglygirlsarenotallowed to be told what they can and can’t do based on the fact that someone else had deemed them “ugly”. 

#uglygirlsarenotallowed to consider themselves part of this tag. They should look for the #youarebeautiful tag.

Better yet, we can outlaw the words “pretty” and “ugly”. We can deem them no longer applicable to someone, because worth is not decided by what you look like. And if someone ever asks me if they are pretty, I will look them in the face and say no. 

I’ll say that they are not pretty. I’ll say that they are pretty intelligent. They are pretty amazing. They are pretty capable. But they are not just pretty.

It's Easy To Say "No Hard Feelings" When You're Talking To A Robot.

Yeah, I know. I've posted at least three times saying about how I took a blogging break and didn't accomplish anything amazing, and that I'm back to stay.

I didn't want to admit this and hurt anyone's feelings, but I LIED. I lied like a liar on lie-o-ween.

Well, I didn't actually lie. That insinuates that I wrote the words while giggling to myself and knowing full well that I can get to sleep before 3 AM about as effectively as I can keep a steady blogging schedule. Which I wasn't.

It just sort of happened. I got so busy while I was sitting here doing nothing that I logged onto Tumblr and never looked back once.

Here I am though. I make no promises about future posting frequency because apparently I'm no good at keeping such promises. Unless we all pinky swore, in which case I'd be here every day. Everyone knows that breaking a pinky swear is such a catastrophic breach of trust that I still haven't recovered from that time in third grade when Tanya said she'd share her cookies with me the next day and DIDN'T.

I need a moment. 

MOVING ON.

So. I have something very serious to talk about today. It's a deeply scientific phenomena that I am kind of an expert on, so I'll try to treat the less educated gently and tenderly while I explain it.

Basically, it's that weird phenomena where you know you probably shouldn't like something, but holy blonde cheerleader batman you're like a fourteen year old boy with the magazines he found under his dad's side of the bed.

And the whole time you're about to start watching/reading/thinking about/looking at/smelling/poking/cooking/chugging whatever it is you know the rest of society would frown on you for, you're just like:

"ANYONE HOME? HELLO? NO?"

And then, like the badass you are, you go on YouTube and you blast that Selena Gomez song like the only thing keeping you brain in your head is the sound waves flying in your ears. You may even dance, because holy mother of pearl, you effing love this song.

And yet you know that if someone walked in at that moment, you would prove that denial ain't only in Egypt. You weren't listening to Selena Gomez. You were watching a video of people falling over and just so happened to youtube surf all the way to "Love You Like A Love Song", duh.

Or you'll be listening to your iPod and someone'll be all, "LOL what cha listening to?"

And you'll quickly change the song and be all, "This hard core Rolling Stones song. Not Selena Gomez, don't be stupid."

And it's all because of that part of your brain that looks at you like:

And you're reduced to a simpering wad of denial.

Also, don't look at me and be all, "OMG MEGAN I'M NOT A VICTIM OF PEER PRESSURE LIKE THAT." That is a neon sign saying, "HOLY PADALECKI I'M REPRESSING SOMETHING."

Whatever it is, just know that you're not alone. Everyone in the world in embarrassed to say that they've watched A Walk To Remember during a bad break up. Embrace it, and remember to lock your door.

The other phenomena that I have to talk to you about is one that just happened to me in very rapid succession . It involves involuntary emotional reactions to songs when they unexpectedly crop up while you have your iPod/iTunes on shuffle. You'll be walking down the street one day and jamming to a bit of Ke$ha (which you'd never admit to doing), when all of a sudden the song flips.

And depending on the song, it can have a few reactions. I've called upon my expansive library of Supernatural gifs to help illustrate me point, so I hope you don't mind the sudden influx of beauty. You may take a moment to grab some sunglasses before we proceed.

Good? Okay.

So, I have an MP3 of Jensen Ackles singing Crazy Love on my iPod, and whenever it comes on I immediately do this:

Followed by this:

And I think you know why. If you don't, youtube the song and then tell me you didn't do the same thing. Safe room, folks. Safe room.

Unspeakable lust is not the only reaction these songs can have though.

For instance, play Carry On My Wayward Son for a Supernatural fan, and you'll watch this happen:

Or play Into The West for a Lord Of The Rings fan, and you'll see something similar.

For me, play All Of The Lights (yeah, the Kanye song) and it's all systems:

But we all have at least one song that incites some unspeakable emotion in us. Just like we have problems with admitting we totally love that Judas song by Lady Gaga, even after we've been singing "Juda Juda-a-a" for three days straight.

Basically, we're all repressing something.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go listen to Selena Gomez.

I mean... here, stare at this and forget what I just said:

Adieu!

Love,
Megan

Lady Gaga Is My Spirit Animal

Oh hey there internet, didn't see you there. Step into my office, which is adorned with tasteful yet inexpensive knick knacks, and some diplomas I bought off the internet to make me seem smarter. There's also one that says I'm licensed to operate heavy machinery, which is pretty cool if I even need to use a bulldozer in my office.

On that note, did I mention that I'm legally able to conduct a wedding?

No, srsly. I'm an ordained minister. I can wed people now. Classy, I know, and I don't even need to wear that uncomfortable plastic priest collar thing. I'd google what the hell that thing is called, but I don't think either of us care enough.

Anyway. I took extended an extended blogging vacation for my health AKA I was too busy drowning in grade 12 work and was too busy talking about confederation. Which naturally left me in a constant state of

And it's hard to be funny when you've found yourself wishing that the rapture would come a few days early just so you can stop reading about confederation and how the rail road was a symbol of Canada's identity and sovereignty.

Yeah. I KNOW. I get weepy just thinking about it. So let's move on, shall we?

I wish I could say something about being more worldly, or better looking, but really, not much has changed. I'm still two fries short of a happy meal and I still have a thing for Jensen Ackles, so everything is essentially the same. Next time I take an extended blogging break, I'll be sure to accomplish something awesome. Like learning how to juggle, or an equally as marketable skill.

Actually, that'll never happen. I'm so thoroughly a righty that I basically don't have a left hand. Juggling requires some coordination with the non-dominant hand, so I think I'm out.

And just like that, my life long dream of becoming a clown will never come true. Excuse me while I express my intense sadness.

Annnnnd I'm over it. 

Okay, so. Obligatory catch up is done, so let's keep moving shall we? 

So, I was walking down the street the other day. I know that sounds like a song lyric, but go with me. 

Okay? Okay. So I'm grooving, listening to my iPod ( and a song by Porceline and the Tramps, just so you know), and walking along like the boss that I am. I don't need to public transit or personal vehicles for transportation. I walk like all the cool kids do. 

As I'm walking, I see two things. One, for some reason there is a police officer on a horse walking a ways ahead of me. Already, I'm all, 

Because, really? You're trotting around in the middle of traffic on a HORSE? You're not the old spice dude, so let's all just put our big kid panties on and leave the ponies alone. 

But then I see a police officer on a bike, and I'm quickly moving towards being all, 

Disclaimer: I'm not making fun of police officers. I respect them, and I've even watched a T.V show about them once of twice (AKA Police Women of Broward County. Don't judge me). You're all very badass. Even the one in the back with one hand on his coffee and the other resting on his giant beer gut. You're badass too, Mr. Police Officer. My love of police officers has been a solid thing since a police officer gave me a coupon for a free happy meal just for wearing my helmet when I rode my scooter quite a few years ago. Really, I love and respect you all, and I regularly seek you out when I'm walking home by myself. 

I just happen to find police officers on bike to be exorbitantly amusing. I can't help it, it's just something that's written into my genetic code. It exists right along with a a strange tendency to stay up until 3 AM even when I know I need to get up early the next day, and an intense fondness for the way guys loosen their ties. Y'know, the little tug on the top of their tie and the neck wiggle? Makes me all, 

Oh shuttup, you know you think it's adorable too.

Anyway, I digress. So, cops on bikes.

Can I just throw it out there right now that they are less intimidating than most babies? No disrespect or anything, there's just something about the idea that makes me want to pat them on the helmet and give them some candy.

What do cops do when they arrest people while on a bike?

Are they like, "FREEZE, SUCKA. Now, I'm gonna handcuff you to my handlebars and you can run alongside me while I take your sorry ass to the police station!" It just doesn't seem very economical to me.

And then there's the issue of the police chase. What happens if a fugitive hops a fence? Mr. Police Officer is screwed, unless he wants to backtrack and find a bike rack to safely store his police issued bike while he tracks down a bank robber.

And if they catch wind of a crime, what do they do? "TEN FOUR. I'm on it. Let me ring my bell as I go down the street to inform everyone I'm on SUPER IMPORTANT POLICE BUSINESS AND YOU BETTER MOVE YO' ASSES OUT THE WAY BEFORE YOU GET RUN OVER WITH MY BIG SCARY TEN SPEED."

I'm just not getting the scary of the whole situation, frankly. All of this applies to the horse thing too, except most horses don't come with bells or handlebars. Well, none that I've seen anyway. If I've offended any police officers, or horses that indeed come with handlebars, then I am genuine sorry.

But I'm still going to do this:

When and if I see you ride past me on the street. I don't mean any offence. I just think you're painfully adorable, and I will totally help you put a playing card in your bike spokes so you sound more intimidating. 

On that note, I need to begin a project on the long term effects that a divorce might have on children. 

Adieu!

Love,

Megan

BLAM

I don't know why I'm typing all my titles in all caps lately. Maybe I just like making you yell in your head when you're reading. LIKE THIS. You just yelled in your head. And. When. I. Type. Like. This. You. Pause. Between. Each. Word.

Basically, I control your mind. No worries. I won't use you to rob any banks or anything. At worst, you'll have to be the one to get up and get me a drink. It's not so bad, promise. I take my water with ice cubes imported from the Swedish Alps and blessed by a left handed Irish priest though. Hope you don't mind.

Did I really just go on a full tangent about mind control and how I like my water?

I did, didn't I? Well, that's pretty much my week in a nutshell, and this week HASN'T EVEN STARTED YET.

Made you yell.

LOL. Anyway.

Now that I've made it a little louder in your head, I must say farewell. I'm buried under a mountain of school work so daunting that for the past twenty minutes it's looked a lot like this in my head,

I'm all out of firearms though, so I'm doomed to slog through the mountain. Somebody remind me why I'm going to pay thousands of dollars to put myself through an unnecessary 4 more years of this, because I frankly can't remember why I thought it was such a good idea.

Go ahead. Tell me I'm luckier than half the planet. Don't be surprised when I punch you in the face, and then do this,

Adieu!

Love,
Megan

CROSSDRESSSING.

Well, not quite.

It's been a while, I know, I know. Come, lay your head gently on my shoulder. We'll slow dance a little and the pain will fade, I promise.

Anyway. I took some time off of blogging because I'm lazy and had nothing witty to say to concentrate on my schooling. You understand I hope. If not, then feel free to slow dance a little more.

So, since it's March Break, I've been doing a whole pile of nothing. Like, really nothing. Like, bump on a log nothing. It's been awesome. I like being able to laze around and pretend like I'm a hermit. It's pretty pro, especially since iTunes is such a whore.

That last thing needs a little back story, I know.

So, I'm going to university. And in university, a laptop is kind of a key part of not getting carpal tunnel from writing so much. Instead, you get it from typing so much, with the added bonus of also getting the worst neck cramps known to man. Higher education RULES.

My laptop, affectionately named Elvis, was getting a little... worn down. He was slow, and really, really disliked loading things quickly. So, seeing that it wasn't going to work for university, we AKA my mother decided to get me a new laptop, and she'd then own my old laptop. It's a pretty sweet deal, I know.

So, I've got my new laptop, and I'm undergoing the painful process of moving things from one computer to the next. All is well until I start on iTunes. Yeah. That little shitshow ended with me on the floor screaming, "FINE DON'T LOAD ALL MY CONTENT I DON'T EVEN LIKE MUSIC ANYWAY."

Maybe not that dramatic, but iTunes has been effing with me royally for three days now. Don't email me any iTunes support links. I've read them all in English, Spanish, and my new favourite language Severe Hysteria. Needless to say, though I will continue to stick with iTunes, I harbour a deep hatred for it that I suspect is mutual.

That's not even what I came here to talk about. Are you excited? I AM.

So, I'm cruising the dark side of the internet. It's called Tumblr, and legit, don't even go near the site if you don't want to spend 16 hours straight going from one blog to the next. Seriously. It's like a free supply of never ending lines of cocaine.

So, I'm on tumblr, and I'm looking at random stuff. Then I come across the blog that's all about Supernatural. Thinking that I may have met my soulmate, I'm cruising. Then I come across this thing called Destiel. I'm like, the hell is that, now I wanna click it. So, I did.

And then this happened,

And I was all DEAN SHOULD NOT BE WITH CASTIEL HE SHOULD BE WITH JO. NOT LISA, NOT PAMELA, AND ESPECIALLY NOT AN ANGEL OF THE LORD.

But then I got curious. So I started looking for all the odd parirings, naturally. I stopped when my eyes beheld something called Wincest. Or Dean paired romantically with his BROTHER Sam. Now, I'm not positive, but I think that's illegal.

There were images though. Ones that I may never be able to unsee. So, then I was all,

So my point today is not to go on Tumblr, because you will find something that you will never be able to scrub from your brain. Oh, and that iTunes is a dirty, toothless whore.

Once March Break is over, I'll have things to procrastinate over, so back to our regularly scheduled programming then.

Adieu!

Love,
Megan

FLASHBACK

Are you having one?

Perhaps you're in one.

Are you angsting over a lost moment in time that you desperately wish you could change/take back/redo?

Are you reminiscing about an old flame that you never really got over?

Are you thinking about an old friend who've you've lost contact with?

Are you thinking about an event in your past that would explain why you're a vampire?

If you answered yes to any of the above questions, you're probably having a flashback.

So, I'm having a flashback or twelve today. Now, I'm going to tell you something internet, and you have to promise not to laugh at me. Actually, come to think of it, I've mentioned Jensen Ackles and polygamy in the same sentence at least thirty eight times. You've probably laughed at me quite a bit already.

Alright, laugh. Do your worst internet. COME AT ME, BRO.

Anyway. So, that thing I was going to mention. Now, when I was a young warthog (when he was a young warrrrthoooggg), I was into this thing called anime. And when I say "into", I really mean "obsessed with". I went the whole nine yards. Cosplay, conventions, studying Japan. I went there.

My first cosplay was Rukia from Bleach, by the way. I went the awesome way and made her white kimono from when she was gonna get executed. Just sayin.

So, anyway. That obsession trickled off, and I haven't watched anime in probably two years now.

Flashforward to me sitting on the couch watching Supernatural. All of a sudden, I get this brilliant idea and I'm all,

And I turn excitedly to my poor mother who graciously puts up with all of my insanity, and I'm all, "OMG LOL I'm gonna watch anime!" 

And she's all,

But I get that reaction from her a lot, so I trucker on anyway. I'm like, "OHKAY. Let's finish watching Dean torture Alistair and be ridiculously gorgeous and then turn the anime dial up to ten shall we?"

And she's all, "Okay, daughter. Don't hurt yourself."

And I'm all, "LOL Dean is pouring salt down his throat, what a badass."

And then it's over and I'm like, "Anime timeee!"

So I throw in Inuyasha, a show I loved back in the good old days. It starts and I'm all,

But then as I'm watching, I start to remember just how cheesy anime is. Like, Keanu Reeves cheesy. Cheese Barn cheesy. So then I get all, 

And that, kids, is why flashbacks suck.

Moral of the story: say no to drugs, but yes to puppies. Especially if it's a stranger that offers you the puppies. Nothing can go wrong when puppies are involved, remember that.

I have to go pretend like I care about pre-contact Canada now. 

Adieu!

Love,
Megan

Shit just got real.

"Megan", I can hear you say already. "Shouldn't you be composing a 1000 word essay on the effectiveness of the British colonies?" 

"Yes," I say to you gently. "But I'd rather stab myself in the eye with my own orbital bone than do that right now." 

"Gory imagery there. Shouldn't you have put a rating or some forewarning that today's imagery would be so grotesque? I mean, what if a kid read that? They'd surely be traumatized." you say back. 

"No." I answer. "Kids can handle it. I mean, have you SEEN Ke$has new video? A little stabbing with an orbital bone is nothing compared to that." 

"Touche," I hear you say. 

"Did you know that spellcheck says that the spelling of touche is incorrect?" I mention. "It suggests that maybe I meant to type douche, and in retrospect, that would probably been a funnier word to use there." 

Are you uncomfortable? I am. Enough talking for today. 

So. I've noticed another strange phenomena that has occurred in my life recently. I call it the "Calender Blindness", or C.B for short. This sad condition has a few symptoms. 

First, you may lose track of the day. You may even find yourself turning to a trusted companion and asking, "What day is it good sir/madam?" This is stage one of C.B.

Stage two is the denial phase. This usually occurs after the question in stage one has been answered, and you reply, "No way. It was January first like... four days ago." You will usually encounter the "concerned shoulder pat" here. 

Stage three is the most dangerous. Because you have completely lost track of time's subtle passage, you will begin to pretend you know what day it is. This brings me to the stage I'm at right now, and I blame the government for my case of C.B, and all other maladies that I am currently stricken with right now. It's easier to blame everything on the government because Harper is one silly looking biznitch, and it makes me feel better. 

Anyway. Story time. So, I'm discussing my school due dates with my mother last night. I know, a teenager who actually talks to her mother. Take a moment to still your thundering heart. 

Stilled? Good. So, we're discussing one of my projects. I tell her it's due on March 1st, so I'll start working on it this coming Tuesday or Thursday. My stage three case of C.B has decided it's still February 18th, so I'm thinking that March 1st is still a ways away. That's when my mother politely informs me that March 1st is this coming Tuesday. And then I'm all,

And she's all, "You didn't know what today was, did you?" 

And of course I'm all,

And I say, "LOL, no seriously, is the 1st really next week?" 

And she looks at me all,

And she's all, "OMG you really didn't know what today was."

So, I'm all, "Could you help me break my orbital bone and stab myself in the eye?" Because now I realize how bad my case of C.B is, and I need to start on all those projects that I had wrongly assumed I could put off for another day. 

Then, like the good little student I am, I shuffle off to the computer to start my essay, among many other projects. But reading turns quickly to this,

And my future quickly turns from me graduating university to living in a cardboard box in a smelly alleyway with my dog named Russ. 

On another note, I wear glasses. That information will be important in a moment, don't fret.

So, I'm typing away a few minutes ago, and I notice my neck has begun to hurt. I work on my laptop, so it's not uncommon for me to sit improperly and wind up with a sore neck. Naturally, I ignore it. 

Then, as I'm typing, I realize why my neck has begun to hurt. I realize that my glasses are so dirty that I've begun to try and look AROUND all the specks. Funny enough, my neck stopped hurting after I cleaned my glasses. 

Not funny? 

Guess you had to be there. 

On another note, no Katy Perry, I've never felt like a plastic bag floating through the wind, because I'm not on drugs. 

Adieu.

Love,
Megan

Excuse me

So. I was out shopping last night, and I've noticed something.

Go with me on this journey. You're standing in the aisle of a bookstore. You're looking for one particular book. Maybe it's Twilight, maybe it's Apocalypse for Dummies. Either way, you're on an epic quest. Then, in a flash of blinding white light, you see your book.

But, it's at the other end of the aisle of which you are in the middle of, and standing between you and your literary prize is a hoard of people all flipping through books and not paying any attention to you whatsoever. In your head, you weigh your options. You can turn and take the long way around that will hopefully be less populated, or you can "excuse me" your way through the pack.

And like the fearless person you are, you choose to split that group like the Red Sea.

"Let's dance, bitches," you say, but you say it in your head, because otherwise you'll look nuts. You lift one foot, and march towards the crowd.

Being fearless, but polite, you say aloud, "Excuse me". And then you realize you should have taken the long way around, because this little dance battle is not going to be won by you without some damage to either your dignity or your brain.

You see, the response to someone saying "excuse me" is never, "Let me get out of your way". It's, "Let me make this even more inconvenient and uncomfortable for you."

There's the Non-Mover. This one glances up at you, then looks back down at the book their reading and don't move.

There's the Snob, who moves, but begins to breathe like an angry horse at the fact that they had to move a little to allow you passage to the book you probably won't even buy after being so badly traumatized.

There's also the Underestimator. They laugh nervously and open up a nice little space of three inches in which they expect you to pass. While I'm flattered that they think I only take up three inches of space, I'm also horrified because they just opened the door to something dark and unpleasant. It's called the Shuffle, and your dignity and innocence is about to die a little when you take your next step.

To complete the shuffle, you'll have to arrange your body and whatever purse/bag/man bag/disco ball you're carrying, and contort yourself to fit into the 3 inch space to get to your damn book. Sidling up to the rows of books, you try and scoot by without incident. You aren't so lucky, because the universe doesn't work like that, bucko.

It's now that your innocence dies, and your dignity shuffles to a back corner in your brain to dress it's wounds, mostly because your butt just grazed the other person, and shit just got rough. You did the Shuffle, and you got burnt. Sorry, insert one token to play again.

There's the Bulky One. These lovely people move graciously out of your way, but their numerous shopping bags/body bag of a purse still has it's fists up. You smile and thank the person, and prepare to be punched in the face and beaten mercilessly by the forest of bags. At least they didn't make you do the Shuffle.

Bruised, bloodied and violated, you stumble your way over to your book. This victory is papery, but short lived. You still have to get to the cash registers.

When you do, you see that there is a line up. It's not an organized one though, so you're going to have to ask whose in line to find the magical pattern that makes up the line. Pulling your big boy pants up, you ask the person nearest to you, "Are you in line?"

And a whole new shitshow starts.

The person will do one of a few things. One, they'll look at you like you just punched a baby, and say nothing. Two, they'll shake their heads and continue standing there looking like they're in the line. These are the decoys, and they'll get you every damn time.

Finally, you find the end of the line. You think your ordeal is over, but fate is not that kind. You're stuck behind a Floater. They float out of line and to look at all the little trinkets and stuff by the registers. You never know if you should take their place in line, or wait for them to dance back over to the line. Still traumatized, you let the Floater continue and hold your tongue.

Then, a phenomenon happens that boggles the mind. If you're like me and on the short side, you become the doorway through the line. Every single person that needs to cut through the line will choose directly in front of you for their cutting place. You're going to walk back and forth so many times that by the end of it, the floor under your feet will be worn away. Finally, you get to the register. You pay, and run out of the store. Your battle is over, but only for now. You'll be back.

That last part was totally meant to be read in your best Arnold voice. Though it doesn't sound like "I'll be back" when it's in his accent. It sounds more like, "Ahhhhhl be baaahhhccckk". The last word should sound like you have a head cold and are trying to clear your throat. That's the official "talk like Arnold" tutorial.

On that note, does anyone else find it hilarious that Governor Arnold is doing his best to keep foreigners out of California? Last time I checked, the governor was from I'll-be-back-istan, not Cali. Just sayin.

Anyway. I have to go write an essay on the effectiveness of the British colonies. Yeah. I fell asleep just writing that sentence.

Adieu!

Love,
Megan

Perks

No, not that kind.

So. I've been 18 for almost a month now, and I'm learning some of the perks of my old age.

In the eyes of my younger sisters, I am now an even bigger badass then I was before. Now when someone is mean to them they can say that they can get their 18 year old sister to find someone to beat them up. Perk +1.

Now, when I talk about the many celebrity men I would become a polygamist for, no one can give me the old, "A little old for you, sweetie? Oh ho ho, I bet you've never heard that joke before." This is especially useful because I suddenly have a thing for men in their thirties, apparently.

I mean, really.

Jensen Ackles? 32.

Michael Buble? 35.

Ewan McGregor? 39.

Leonardo DiCaprio? 36.

Ian Somerhalder? 32.

Need I say more? Also, my spellcheck is going into an epileptic seizure with some of those last names. No, his last name isn't bauble, it's Buble. Or, bubbly, as I may have said in the past AKA yesterday.

Anyway. Now, when I get that response, I'm all, "I'M OF LEGAL AGE, BITCHES."

Oh, except Logan Lerman. He's 19, which is definitely not in the range of 30-39, but still okay with me. If I had a sleazy face gif, I'd put it here.

Oh, and six degrees of separation: Logan was in a movie with Jake Abel, who played Adam Milligan on Supernatural. Mmhmm. Jake is also adorable, and 23.

I had a point, I'm sure. I've forgotten entirely what I had intended to talk about, so let's have a rousing chat about how I have to do an online orientation course for the 90th time. Yeah, I have another teacher that is all, "Just do the course so we're sure you want to do the course". Uh... I need this credit, or I don't graduate. I think my wanting to do the course is kind of a done deal, genius.

On yet another note, I learned where the phrase "Jump the shark" came from yesterday. Y'know how most sayings aren't meant to be taken literally? Yeah. That one started out literally, when the Fonz jumped a shark while water skiing. For the record, don't youtube that. That is so much more of the Fonz than I ever wanted to see it's kind of scary. 

I have to go back to pretending like I'm being productive now.

Adieu.

Love,
Megan

Don't be a drag, just be a queen.

So. I watched the Grammys last night. Grammies? Grammys? Spellcheck doesn't know what to think, OH THE HUMANITY.

Anyway. I expected the Grammys to be another festival of canned music and singing to tracks. It was, partly. But, right off the top they had their tribute to Aretha Franklin, and good lord there were actually people singing live. As if that wasn't amazing enough, they had Florence mother-effing Welch there. 

I have such a girl-crush on that woman it's a little ridiculous, just sayin. 

So, the show starts off with Florence. I suddenly have hope for the rest of the show. Then, Gaga preforms. My head was aflame the entire time. Then Muse preformed in sequined jackets. It was almost too much for my little heart to bear. Specially that little shout out to Charles and Camilla. It was bloody awwwwesome. 

So, Gaga preformed her new single "Born This Way", and I'm sure it's obvious by the title what the song is about. Naturally, I loved everything about her performance. 

Now, this post is going to be a little different. I'm not going to mention Supernatural, nor am I going to joke about how flippin' awesome Nicki Minaj looked in her balloon legged leopard print outfit.

So, I'm not going to be coy about it. I'm a vocal supporter of the GLBT community, and gay rights. I even asked our church minister why gay marriages weren't performed at our church, because I have a nutsack the size of Russia when it comes to things I really believe in. I'm a chicken all other hours of the day, but I'm like an intolerance bloodhound, though sans droopy ears. I can smell intolerance from 14 feet away, and I speak the hell up when I can. It's one of my idiosyncrasies, my inability to grow a pair unless I'm defending someone.  I'm pretty adorable, I know. 

So, that Gaga segue was to get to my point. If I hear another person use the phrase "That's gay", my head is going to detonate like a nuclear warhead. 

Seriously, that phrase needs to be ousted. It's rude, and it's discriminatory. No, it's not just a modern slang phrase. It's hateful, and it needs to stop.

I can hear the argument already that it's not as bad as I'm making it out to be. Really guys, it is. It's taking a situation or object that is unsatisfactory or uncool and associating the word "gay" to it. I know it may not seem like a big deal, but it is. 

I actually haven't heard someone use the phrase in a while, but just recently someone used it again. I thought it had died off, but I guess not. The worst part of it was that it was the parent of two little kids. I get the trickle up phenomenon. My mother knows plenty of slang phrases because me and my sister use them, and that's cool. 

But, what message does it send for a parent to use the phrase "That's gay"?

It says that using the phrase is okay. Because, if mom and dad do it, it must be okay. It's a natural thought process for a kid to have. 

It's so far from cool it's almost on par with the Backstreet Boys. Almost.

So, just for the sake of this poor girl's heart, spare a thought and try not to use the phrase? You've heard all the political campaigns. One person can make a difference. 

Except Bieber. He counts for nothing except a really good example of someone who needs to make an appointment at Supercuts.

Oh, and Haley Williams. Girl, you are adorable. Like, really, stupidly adorable, and I totally would be your best friend. But GIRL, what were you wearing at the Grammys? You gave my eyes an epic sad.

I'm Megan, and I approve this message. I also approve of Cee-Lo Green at the Grammys. That was one fabulous acid trip of a performance.

Tomorrow, back to our usually programming of Supernatural references and complaining about school. As you were.

Love, 

Megan

STOOORY Time

Did you read that in your Oprah voice? Good.

So. I have another story, and lots of pretty pictures/Jensen Ackles to illustrate it. Ready to come on a little journey with me? Good.

So. I do all my schooling online. It's pretty awesome, and it works really well in my dingo-ate-my-baby-crazy life. As you may know, first semester has ended. Since it's ended, I have nothing to do while I wait for my next semester teachers to email me and lemme log in to my classes. Naturally, I've been all,

Y'know. Sleeping in late, lazing around. It's been awesome. So today, I'm watching Supernatural. Again, I'm all, 

And before I get off my ass to change the disk, I get the brilliant notion to check my email. So, I do. And what do I see? An email that says I can finally log on to one of my classes and get working. Now, I'm all, 

So I log on and see that I have to do an orientation course. It's the same orientation course I've done for EVERY other online class I've taken, and I've taken quite a few. But, since I've already done it, teachers are usually cool with me skipping the orientation. So things are looking up again. Then, I read something that elicits this reaction,

                                      

The site is all, "Even if you've done an orientation course before, you still need to compete this course." So, because I'm anal retentive, I feel the need to read all the discussion board messages, I take my first look at the  boards. Usually, there aren't more than 100 messages to read in an orientation course. So, I'm expecting that. 

What do my gorgeously colored eyes fall on? The words "1880 Unread Messages". This occurs,


                                       

And then this occurs,

It's not pretty. I still have 700 messages to go. I'm at the point where punching myself in the face is the better option than my current situation. Moral of the story? Don't mix stripes and floral. Just don't do it. 

Love,
Megan

What IS the square root of 69?

Just sayin, if Drake kept asking me what the square root of 69 was, I wouldn't have sexy time with him. I'd hand him a calculator then back away slowly. Just sayin.

Still not in next semester classes. Which means I'm still a lump on the couch. You can't see it, but I've got my arms up in the air like that casino commercial. It's still victory o'clock, so I'm in a fabulous mood. Once classes start again I'll go back to my sour self and the Earth will resume spinning. Dun worry, it gun be kay.

So. Since I've been listening to a lot of music lately, I've got some more to say about the industry. No, I'm not getting on any soapboxes and preaching about the Illuminati, don't worry.

Note, the next time you're on Youtube and are watching a music video, look for the one crazy comment going, "ONG ILLUMINATI!ONE!!" When you find it, and you will find one, trust me, I want you to point directly at your screen and laugh as loudly as possible. It's what I do, and it's very cathartic. Like Shakespeare.

Anyway. So, my observations.

One, Miley Cyrus makes me feel violent, and I take pride in normally being a pacifist. That is all.

Two, I really think someone should inform Taylor Swift that her career won't disappear if she writes a song about something other than her past relationships. I think we should encourage the behavior, in fact. I also encourage her sudden sporting of bangs. As part of the fringe club, I agree with her choice of bangs. I'm talking about hair, you sicko. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Three, Emily Osment did a good job going from Miley Cyrus sidekick to someone much more tolerable than Cyrus. The whole, "Lovesick" video is admittedly, kind of cool. Good on you, sidekick girl. Though, you lost all credibility when you sang a song with the chorus "Let's be friends so we can make out", but your use of blacklights is helping you gain back cool points.

Four, Black Eyed Peas. Tsk tsk tsk.

Five, Pink. Stop making me want to cut my hair into an edgy but stylish pixie cut. Just, stop it.

Six, Rihanna. If you need to ask what your name is that many times, you should probably see a doctor.

Seven, Linkin Park. Don't listen to all the people whining that Hybrid Theory was better. They're probably also the ones commenting about the Illuminati.

Eight, Nicki Minaj. Bissh, you crazy. Your split personality disorder is strangely fascinating though.

Nine, I'm good now.

Oh, and Jensen Ackles?

Had to.

Love,
Megan

STOOOORY Time

That title makes me feel like Oprah, and since Oprah's pretty much the ruler of the free world, feeling like her is pretty awesome.


Next on my list is to wake up feeling like P. Diddy.

That is his name right? It was the last time I checked, so let's go with it. 


So. Have you listened to any music lately? Like, really listened? Like, clench-your-ass-so-hard-you-could-put-a-rock-between-your-cheeks-and-make-a-diamond listened?


I have, and it was an interesting experience. I didn't have any rocks on hand though, so that sucks. By the way, Ke$ha is totally not wearing a neck-a-luss with Jesus on it in the We R Who We R video. 

I lost a third of my braincells typing the name of that song, so I hope you're happy.

Anyway. I used a Q-Tip yesterday, and nearly swabbed my brain. I have supersonic hearing as a result though, so I could actually hear the lyrics to the songs I was hearing. See that segue? That's why they pay me the big bucks. 


So, I've noticed a theme to some popular songs. They're kind of offensive/don't make any sense.

You want an example? Fine.

Bossy.


So, Ke$sha is all, "It's about damn time to live it up, I'm so sick of being so serious, It's makin' my brain delirious". Dude. Her every song is about being drunk and brushing her teeth with Jack. How does that indicate her being serious? That's sounds more "messy and drunk" to me. I think Ke$ha is lying about her reasoning for her brain being delirious, I'm just sayin. 


I think Fefe Dobson should apologize to everyone with a stutter who is now paranoid that everyone thinks they're lying because they stuttered. 


The Black Eyed Peas should be pimp slapped for sampling "The Time of Our Lives". Is nothing sacred anymore? 


Elise Estrada says, "MAC aint got enough concealer, To hide how much I’ll miss you" Oh, I think they do. And how precisely does one cover up missing you with concealer? I always thought missing someone was more of an internal thing, and concealer isn't recommended for use inside your head. Just sayin. 


I've also noticed that a lot of songs talk about a climactic moment in someone's life. Natalia Kills is all, "I'll make your love grenade explode". That needs no further explanation, I think. I'm looking at you Blake McGrath, and your little song about your... happy moment. 

Anyway. My brain cells are dwindling with all this talk. I have to go harvest more now.

Love,
Megan

MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONDAY

is today, if you haven't noticed.

You're welcome.

Anyway. I've been 18 for a week now, and it's been pretty awesome. For some odd reason, saying you're 18 is so much more badass than having to admit you're 17. Don't ask me why, I'm just another victim of the badassness.

Exams are also over, which is awesome plus 5. To be fair, I only had two exams. I was expecting four, but then two of my teachers were all, "Naww, the culminating was your exam. Feel free to laugh at every Facebook friend that sets their status to something whiny about having to write four exams."

Well, that may not have been their exact words, but semantics, really.

So, what does a student do when they have a week off before the next semester swings in? They become useless lumps on the couch, that's what!

This particular lump has been logging a LOT of quality time with their favorite Winchesters.

I know I talk about Supernatural a lot, which makes it seem like I have no life. I don't, but that's not the point. Have you seen Jensen Ackles? He's like sexy time for your corneas. Who am I to deny my corneas their daily quotient of super-mega-foxy-awesome-hotness?

That was totally a refrence to A Very Potter Musical. You're free to tell me I'm the most awesome person on Earth, I don't mind.

I mean, don't get me wrong, Jared is also an upstanding citizen of sexy town, but his last name is much harder to spell, and I'm a Dean girl. Too bad.

Anyway.I've noticed that in life, there are a damn lot of awkward moments. Many of which I will talk about later, I'm sure.

One such awkward moment is the sex scene. Watching a sex scene with anyone else in the room is generally an awkward experience. Unless you're watching porn (Which I can legally buy now, not that I would) with your significant and sweaty other. That's a different story.

So. Sex scene comes on (pun). It's all noisy and nekkid. You have three options. One option is to stare at the screen like this

And once the scene is over, you can pull your face back into a normal expression and pretend it never happened. It's a viable option, to be fair.

Your other two options are slightly less amusing to watch, but never fear. I got your biz-ack.

One method is to talk over the scene about ANYTHING but what's happening on screen. Bunnies, bullet wounds, Star Trek, anything. They'll never notice how awkward things are if you've started a rousing (pun) conversation about the pros and cons of getting your teeth replaced with teeth made of 24 carat gold. (If you can convince someone that gold teeth are a good thing, you get an automatic pass to be ruler of the world. That's persuasion to the power of awesome.)

The second, and my favorite method of undoing the awkward, is to treat the sex scene more like a spectator sport. Grade the scene, and call out scores for different moves. Something like, "Oh SNAP 6.0 FOR THE FACE CARESS!" Works like a charm, I swear.

Anyway. I have to go watch Sam be locked in a panic room and go through withdrawal from demon blood. No biggie.

Adieuuuu.

Love,
Megan

I survived.

But it wasn't without significant loss of sleep and brain power. I still can't talk right, because my brain is still in assignment writing mode. I'm a sad sight to see, really.

In a way, I'm a little like a toddler. I'm cute, but you really just want to point and laugh because not only can I speak in nothing but high pitched squeals, but I can't walk without falling down and I'm prone to fits of hysterical crying.

It's been a long week.

On the plus side, the week is over. All of my culminating projects have been handed in, all my work has been caught up, and now I'm in the waiting period before exams start and I really lose my mind. I have until Monday with my remaining brain power. After that, I'm as good as gone.

So, what's a girl to do while she waits for exams to start?

Take a break, much like she did even when she was supposed to be working, of course.

So, I don't mean to brag or anything, but this Monday is a very special day. Special enough to warrant a reaction much this this

So, who's your favorite blogger? Oh, shucks, you make me blush.

Yeah, well, I turn legal age as of Monday. I'm talking, the big 18. And we all know what being legal means.

Finding Jensen Ackles and turning the polygamy dial up to AWESOME, that's what!

Well, that and lottery tickets, because I'm cool like that. Not that I can actually win on scratch tickets, but I still find hope in my cold little heart that I may win 3 dollars one day.

Well, that's not entirely true. You may have noticed on Friday that the world stopped spinning for a while, and there were a couple solar flares that made the apocalypse seem like it was going to arrive at the party. Yeah. It's because I won 25 dollars on a scratch ticket, and the explosion of my joy split the space time continuum. Don't worry, I fixed everything with duct tape. That shizzle fixes everything.

You would think that Mythbusters taught me that valuable lesson, and you would be right.

So, my other point today is Ke$ha. My brain wants to revolt everytime I have to spell a name with a dollar sign in it. It's against everything I've ever known, and it makes my head hurt. Not the point.

So, Ke$ha. She's cute, drunk all the time, and probably has a lot of cavities from brushing her teeth with Jack. But she's harmless right? Her autotuned songs are generic, and her use of glitter would make Edward Cullen ruin his underwear. But she's harmless.

Yeah, until I realized my two little sisters loved her. Then, I wanted to punch Ke$ha in the face, and convince her that she should start singing about higher education goals and saying no to drugs. Because I love my sisters, and I don't want them to grow up brushing their teeth with Jack. I also want to punch Miley Cyrus in the face, because she's a favorite of theirs too, and I don't want them to get the idea in their head that their older sisters will go out in public with them if they try and dress like her.

I didn't notice how protective I was of them until my little sister started singing along to Tik Tok and my head promptly burst into flames.

Obviously their parents are doing an awesome job keeping them from liking guys that look like Mick Jagger and trying to party in the USA, because there's been no sign of that. So, parents of my little sisters (one of which is also a parent of mine), I salute you. If I was legal to drink, I would buy a celebratory bottle of Jack. Alas, all I can offer you is a lottery ticket on Monday. You understand, I hope.

On another note, my tarot reading has been doing well. I've done a few readings for other people, and those have been pretty accurate. As the book suggests, I've also been sleeping with my tarot cards tucked under my bed. It's been pretty awesome. I've just started my tarot diary, which is an undertaking of holy shit proportions.

Basically, you have to write down the meaning for each card in your own words, and any experiences of your own that you can link to the card. I have what we call Carpal Tunnel now. It's pretty pro.

It's starting to become obvious that I have nothing to do on this Saturday night, so I'll stop our little communion here.

I'll be back when exams have really stolen my brain, and we'll have some legal, over 18 fun. I'd put a winking emoticon here, but that seems too sleazy.

Adieu!

Love,
Megan

Hi, my name is Procrastination

And I'm AWESOME.

Seriously. Procrastinate. The feeling of flipping urgency and deadlines the bird is friggen fantastic.

Anyway. I'm here because I have a boner.

No, not THAT kind, geez.

A word boner. It's the term that I use when I hear a word/phrase/chapter/song/line/whatever that is particularly awesome. For example, in that little music player at the bottom of the page there's a song called Werewolf. It's a weird ass song, which is pretty much why I adore it.

Anyway. This song gave birth to the term. I was sitting cruising Youtube when I came across the song. I was all, "Whatevs let's listen to the weird song". And the song started and I was all

And then, as I was listening to the song, I heard the line, "Weeping willow, won't you wallow louder?"

And I immediately yelled the first thing that came to mind, which happened to be, "WORD BONER!"

Which naturally scared the crap out of my mom, but really, it doesn't take much to do that. But thus, the word boner term was born. It'll be added to the dictionary soon. Webster and I are tight. He's my brotha from anotha motha, you know how it is.

Anyway. So, I'm finally getting around to that close reading of a passage from the novel Life Of Pi.

Side note: Effed up book. Naturally, I love it.

So, my passage that I chose is from chapter 56, and it's a word boner of cataclysmic proportions. And because I'm awesome, I have the chapter right here. Ready for the word boner?

"I must say a word about fear. It is life’s only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unerring ease. It begins in your mind, always. One moment you are feeling calm, self-possessed, happy. Then fear, disguised in the garb of mild-mannered doubt, slips into your mind like a spy. Doubt meets disbelief and disbelief tries to push it out. But disbelief is a poorly armed foot soldier. Doubt does away with it with little trouble. You become anxious. Reason comes to do battle for you. You are reassured. Reason is fully equipped with the latest weapons technology. But, to your amazement, despite superior tactics and a number of undeniable victories, reason is laid low. You feel yourself weakening, wavering. Your anxiety becomes dread.


Fear next turns fully to your body, which is already aware that something terribly wrong is going on. Already your lungs have flown away like a bird and your guts have slithered away like a snake. Now your tongue drops dead like an opossum, while your jaw begins to gallop on the spot. Your ears go deaf. Your muscles begin to shiver as if they had malaria and your knees to shake as though they were dancing. Your heart strains too hard, while your sphincter relaxes too much. And so with the rest of your body. Every part of you, in the manner most suited to it, falls apart. Only your eyes work well. They always pay proper attention to fear.

Quickly you make rash decisions. You dismiss your last allies: hope and trust. There, you’ve defeated yourself. Fear, which is but an impression, has triumphed over you.

The matter is difficult to put into words. For fear, real fear, such as shakes you to your foundation, such as you feel when you are brought face to face with your mortal end, nestles in your memory like a gangrene: it seeks to rot everything, even the words with which to speak of it. So you must fight hard to express it. You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you don’t, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never truly fought the opponent who defeated you" (Martel 178-179).

I KNOW. Your head is aflame with awesome.

Anyway. I need to go read closely.

Love,
Megan

The Fire of A Thousand Suns

So. I know what you're thinking. It may sound like, "Megan! You're still barely afloat in the sea of last minute work and projects that are due all in the next week!"

And you would be right. But, I'm doing something called procrastinating. It's not generally recommended behavior, but most things in my life aren't generally recommended. Like doing lines of coke off a stripper's bum.

If by chance you have actually been recommended to partake in drugs off a sex worker's buttocks, you need to rethink your life choices.

Anyway. This week is hellish. All four of my culminating projects are due and guess how many are done?

None?

Precisely!

Because most of my teachers had the BRILLIANT idea that they should also assign a plethora of other assignments in the few days surrounding the culminating due dates and exams and please help me I think I'm losing my mind.

Today's a good day, if anyone's wondering. Yesterday was good too. Well, if you count spending three hours writing an 8 page short story about the end of the world. It was great fun for me, but then again, I am a writer. and writers aren't exactly known for having the most sane minds.

It's actually kind of awesome. I get to imagine conversations and voices and people and whatnot in my head, and no one locks me up for it.

Something that gets a little annoying though is how my mind never takes a breather. Almost 24 hours a day, I'm thinking about a number of things at once. Like, take just a little while ago for instance.

Picture me. I'm five foot three, blonde, and leggy. (HAH). So, I'm sitting on the couch, playing a video game. (Prototype for the xbox, FYI). And I'm in the middle of a particularly annoying fight with a hunter. So, in the middle of this concentration, I suddenly pause the game and stand up. My mother looks up with a slightly frightened look on her face. I toddle over to the entertainment system and pull out Supernatural season 4, because I forgot what the episode was called in which Jimmy Novak is introduced. (It's called The Rapture, FYI). I then toddle over to my purse, where I pull out my planner and check that the 10th really is a Monday. (It was, FYI).

And all that was going on in my head. At the SAME TIME. Is it any wonder that I suffer from generalized anxiety disorder?

Anyway. I didn't come here to blather on about how much I multi task in my brain.

I came here to procrastinate, of course. And now, I really have to get back to editing that end of the world short story.

So. Checklist:

Talk about anxiety? Check.
Talk about Supernatural? Check.
Talk about drugs and strippers? Check.

Alright, all good. Adieu.

Love,
Megan

Close Reading

Right.

So.

My English class. I'm kinda getting to the point where I just want to punch this class in the face. Is that bad?

We're expected to do something called a "Close Reading" today. Wikipedia it. I did, but I still don't know how the hell to do one. Basically, from what I can tell, it's reading. But, you have to READ EVERY LETTER OF EVERY WORD BECAUSE OH MY GAW EVERY WORD WAS CHOSEN BY GANDALF TO THROW THE RING INTO THE FIRES OF MOUNT DOOM. Except here, there's no cute hobbits or bitchy elves, which really takes all the fun out of the whole situation.

Anyway. I'm not doing it right now. Mostly because I need to continue Googling "Close Reading" until I get how the hell to complete my assignment.

Not the point.

My point here is about pizza. Why does it taste so much better the next day when it's fresh out of the fridge?

I think I should start a business that sells next-day-cold-fridge-pizza. I'll be called Next-day-cold-fridge-pizza-mart. It'll be a big hit, I can tell. I know these things. I have tarot cards that tell me things.

That was my psychic face.

Moving on.

My other point is about the teenage wardrobe. More specifically, sweatpants.

I hear the word and my teeth itch. I think of a blonde teeny-bopper in sweats and uggs, whose massive purse ruptures my spinal cord when she shoves by me. Sweatpants are one step up from wearing pajamas in public, which, side note, should be considered a capitol offence against humanity. I don't care if you're tired. STOP it. Your pajamas are offending my eyes.

Anyway. Sweatpants. They make my teeth itch, which is, let me tell you sonny, super uncomfortable. But they're a lot like the Bermuda triangle. You know if you go there, time and space will split and swallow you whole like a slice of person pie. But you're curious, so you hop on a boat anyway and off you go.

I was wandering through a store yesterday looking for jeans, and what do I come across? A rack of 10 dollar sweatpants. Out loud I'm all, "HAH. Blonde teeny-bopper will be here to spend all her lunch money on more stupid sweatpants!"

But in my head I was all, "Gee. These look really comfy."

Long story short, a pair of sweatpants followed me home, and I'm wearing them RIGHT NOW. And they are  the most comfortable pants I've worn since that time I wore pants made of baby hair and clouds. Don't ask where I shop, I'm sworn to comfortable, baby hair secrecy.

So, blonde teeny-bopper, I'm sorry. You were really on to something with these sweatpants. But you really do need to stop carrying small children in your purse and wearing your super comfortable sweatpants outdoors. It's giving me a sad, and you're scaring the elderly folk with your pants. They think it's like that time they dreamed they went outside and no one was wearing pants, only worse, because now everyone is wearing sweatpants.

On another note, why are they called sweatpants? Are they so comfortable they make you sweaty? I haven't worn mine long enough to know.

Well, I'll let you know.

Do we see what "close reading" does to me? It makes me all

I have to return to raping Google now.

Love,
Megan

KO

Go with me. For once, my life sounds like a nerdy action movie. Ready?

One girl. -Explosion-

Two independant study essays. -Screaming-

8 pages each. -music hits crescendo-

And she's done 'em both. -applause-

Yeah. I'm done two of my ISU essays. I have upwards of NINE other things to get done (including reading an entire book) in time for next week. But still, I need to celebrate.

Alright. Done.

I have to get back to that book I need to read, but I just thought I'd let the internet know that I kick essay ass. Y'know. Just cause.

Love,
Megan

Alternating Essay Method

I hate you.

No, not you.

I hate the essay of which I am supposed to be writing. The 8 page one that compares how the novels the Kite Runner and a Thousand Splendid Suns explore the theme of family. Yeah, I KNOW. Even reading the criteria is capable of putting small children into fits of hysteria.

So, excuse the lack of postage in the next four to eight days. I will drowning in something called grade 12.

Before I take the plunge though, I felt that as though I should touch base with the outside world for the last time.

I have no point today, but a strong recommendation that you try whipping your hair back and forth. Just a thought.

Okay. It's time for me to submerge myself in the essay waters.

Love,

Megan

Bon Jovi rocks. On occasion.

So today is a bad day again. I mean, 40 thousand crabs were found randomly dead, just like the fish and birds that randomly died. If that doesn't shout "Apocalypse", then I don't know what does. So, smoke 'em if you got 'em I suppose.

That was two Supernatural quotes in less than a minute's worth of writing. I am on a ROLL.

So, anyway. Today, I've got kind of a touchy topic. Stay with me on it though. Okay? Okay.

So, I'm an hour out of going to pick up my tarot cards that I ordered online. However, on the last Census, I checked off the "Christian" box. There are so many people whose eyes would slither out of their sockets if they thought of a Christian even looking at tarot cards.

So. Am I a bad Christian?

Actually, that's not a good question. Thinking about it, tarot cards are way down on a list of things that make me a bad Christian. Let's go through them shall we? (Stick with me. I'm trying to make a political statement, I swear).

1. I support gay rights more than Elton John does.

(Side note: I once straight up asked our minister why our church didn't allow gay marriages to be performed there. That makes me either a total bitch, or a badass. Your choice).

2. Being friends with someone who is Pagan, I've looked through my share of spellbooks.

3. I haven't been to church in.... well, a long time.

4. When I do go to church, I never pay attention to the sermon. I'm pretty sure that's a sin.

5. I refer to the book of Revelation as "John's Acid Trip". That's probably a sin too.

6. I'm going to pick up my pack of tarot cards because I'm extremely interested in tarot readings and whatnot.

7. I've got some beef with the Pope and his whole shitshow.

I believe my point has been made.

So. Does that all make me a bad Christian?

How I see it, I'm actually a good Christian. That may be called justification of bad behaviour though. I'm not a good example of anything, really.

Anyway. Though I haven't read the bible, from what I've heard, the basic gist is to not be an asshole, and don't covet thy neighbors ass.

So. My point is that not all Christians are crazy bible thumpers that secretly listen to Prince. Christians have been getting a pretty bad rep as of late. Give us a chance, yeah?

On another more 90s and screamo note, I'm going to prostitute myself to get the cash to go see Linkin Park, who are coming to Toronto. The things I do for concerts probably don't make me a very good Christian either.

Seriously though. Chester can actually sing. And they used an Oppenheimer quote in one of their songs. C'MON. They can't be all bad. Give them a chance, too? And peace. Give peace a chance too.

Love,
Megan

I'm wearing a hat.

And it's a nice hat, which will hopefully make it a good day.

Today is good. But unexciting. Nothing awesome or brain melty has happened. Nope. Na-da. Absolutely nothing. Nothing to see here, officer, move along.

So, I don't know if anyone noticed that loud noise a few minutes ago. May or may not've sounded like an explosion. Oh you did?

Well. I can explain that.

IT WAS THE SOUND OF MY SKULL SHATTERING AND MY GREY MATTER FLINGING ITSELF EXCITEDLY TO ALL CORNERS OF THE ROOM IN WHICH I CURRENTLY RESIDE.

Not that I'm excited or anything, but you should click this link here. Then come back to me.

Kay. Go back to here. Scroll down until you see "Coming Next Month". Now look for the title "Standing Room Only". Listen to the sound of my skull shattering again.

Standing Room Only is a book. It's a book I wrote. It's a book I wrote that was picked up by a publisher. There goes my skull again.

You need a more visual explanation of my intense excitement?

Hows this?

Right. Good? Good. I feel better now. My skull has reassembled itself as well, thanks for worrying.

So. Today is a good day. Unless you google nuclear warefare. Then the day gets a little bad.

Not the point.

My point today is about tattoos.

I want a tattoo. It's no secret. I want a monarch butterfly on my left forarm, with a meaning that's much too long winded to write here.

Monarchs are thought to be the souls of the dead in Mexico because the monarchs always migrate back to Mexico right around the annual "Day of the Dead" celebration.

Okay, not so long winded. Moving on.

Why is it that whenever you mention that you're getting a tattoo to someone, they insist on detailing just how much agony you'll be in for the duration of your appointment?

It's like telling someone who just got accepted into university, "Oh, you're gonna be in school for the next four years."

Or, like telling someone you need to get a filling and they answer, "Oh, they're gonna drill your tooth and fill it with cool metal stuff".

Oh my GOD. I had no IDEA that university would include four or more years of schooling. Thank GOD you told me in the nick of time so I can change my mind!

Then there's the people who laugh and say that I'll be wearing leather and riding a Harley in two years, simply because I got a butterfly carved into my skin. Those are the people that I kick in the face, which is really difficult, because I'm not very tall.

Lastly, there are the people whose faces pucker as if they'd just started peeing wasabe.

Side note: Who likes wasabi? I tasted it once, and immediately did this

Not the point, geez. 

Puckery people. They're the ones that immediately assume I will never get a job outside shoveling manure or prostitution becuase I have a tattoo. I have a sneaking suspicion these are also the people who deny global warming and think that Dr. Phil is actually a doctor. Psh. Aw.

So. My message to you? Go get inked. And when someone informs you that it'll hurt, you should tell them that the sun is a great big ball of radiation, and that when it explodes, you'll be hoping the first piece of flaming chunk-o-sun lands on their house.

Love,
Megan