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

It's pronounced "Dead MOUSE" not "Dead MAU Five"

Did that make me sound like Hermione?

Yeah. That was totally a, "It's Wingardium LeviOHsa, not LevioSAH" moment.

Anyway. Today is a much better day. It may have something to do with my normally unruly hair cooperating and anxiety medication, but I'm not saying either way.

That's the beauty of struggle. With the steps back come steps forward. Is that too Yoda for 9AM?

So today is the first day back to school after winter break. I know, because there was a sudden influx of sad looking kids in snowsuits shuffling around outside. I know that sad look well. It's one that says, "Really? I'm waking up at 7AM again to go sit in a stinky classroom? God, why hast thou forsaken me?"

It's one that every high school student wears on a daily basis.

And we thought we were excited to grow up. Pshaw.

As per my early morning routine, I'm trying to avoid having to do anything productive. So, I thought that I'd give you my late new years resolutions.

Ready?

1. Finally become able to distinguish between English and Australian accents.

2. Always carry a book in my purse so that in awkward situations, I don't have to pretend like I'm texting someone.

3. Get up the sack to get on an airplane. Not actually fly anywhere, just get the balls to.

5. Convince my mother that Moleskines are good investments.

6. Find a perfume that doesn't smell like pee the second it hits my skin.

7. Widen my collection of hipster jewellery. Forever 21 will work.

8. Sell my hand in marriage for just enough to get the monarch butterfly tattoo I've been wanting for two years.

9. Bet you didn't notice there was no #4.

10. Bet you just looked.

Happy Late New Years!

Love,
Megan

...

There was more to that story.

I found out that there are Supernatural conventions. At first I was all, "I'm too cool for those nerd fests." But then I heard that actors attend them. Actors, like Jensen Ackles. So naturally, I was all



And then I heard that you can actually get your picture taken with the actors. So I was all



But then I heard that it costs 300 dollars to get your picture taken with both Jared and Jensen. Then, I was all



Knowing that there was no way I'd be able to come up with that much cash, I got to thinking, and was all



And then it hit me. What do all crazy fangirls like me do? They stalk stars and accost them at their hotels! I wondered then if that was illegal, but I was all



So, I decided to become a medical experiment monkey to make the cash. But then I got to looking up all the medical experiments I could have done on me for money, and I was all



So that plan didn't work. So then I decided to consider thievery. Knowing me though, I'd get to the first house and be all



So that wouldn't work. Then, I decided on becoming an exotic dancer. But then I remembered that my dancing is all



So that plan didn't work either. Someone suggested I get an honest job and save up, but I was all



Then I realized that if I ever actually met Jensen, I'd be all



So I went back to watching T.V.

The End. (Really this time)

Love,
Megan

So...

I've got a story. It's a sad one, so prepare yourself. I'm going to illustrate the story with pictures to help emotion across. It's called, "transference of emotion".

So I watch Supernatural.

But, it's on break right now.

So there's no new episodes until the 27th.

So, naturally, upon first reading that piece of horrible news, I was all



But then I got the 3rd and 4th season for Christmas, so I was all



But then I found out that everything awesome happens in the fifth season, which I don't own. So I was all



So I thought, "Let's go read fanfiction. That should tide me over." But then I came across a term called Wincest. Not knowing was it was, I read some. And then I was all



So then I actually had to be productive because there was no more Supernatural to distract me. Then, I was listening to the news and they were all, "Supernatural is on this Friday." So I was all



But then I found out that it was just a rerun. So when the news anchor came back on and said that Supernatural was gonna be on on Friday again, I was all



But then I found the fifth season episodes online, so then I was all



The End.

Love,
Megan

Do not purchase if safety seal is broken

So.

Today is a bad day.

Today is a day where I will spend more time crying and generally losing my mind than I will spend time breathing or thinking about Jensen Ackles.

Yes, that bad.

Anyway. One of my previous therapists, who was a lovely woman whose office was tucked into the back corner of my local hospital gave me the magical advice to write down how I was feeling on my bad days.

This instruction was a little bit like flossing. Go with me on this one.

You go to the dentist. The dentist asks how often you floss. You lie and say once or twice daily when the reality is the only floss your teeth sees is in the form of the occasional toothpick after a steak. He examines your teeth, and finds a little work needs to be done. You get your filling, and go on your merry way. For the next two weeks, you floss like it's the only thing keeping all your teeth from spontaneously falling out of your head. Then, as the sound of the screeching drill leaves your psyche, you go back to your old flossing ways. Then your annual dentist appointment rolls around, and the whole cycle starts over again.

What was I saying?

Right. Writing down feelings.

Well, it worked for a while. I'd write every day for a week, and then it was suddenly three weeks later and I'd have no idea where my notebook was. I would also have another appointment, where I'd have to present my notebook for apprasial. I'd apologize, and promise that it'd be done by next session. And the whole cycle started over again.

Back to my point. It's been a bad day. I didn't sleep well last night, even thought I took enough medication to fell a small horse. That's never a good sign in itself. Lo and behold, I wake up this morning already ensconced in a panic attack. Anxiety disorders are no fun, fer serius.

So, I'm being treated to a day of constant fear, and no appetite. I suppose that's not so bad, everything is closed today anyway.

I write this all down in hopes that I can help someone, like that one random person who'll google "panic attacks" and see a post of mine, and click on it on a whim.

To you random person, are you struggling? I sure as hell am.

But there is one thing I know for absolutely certain. This does get better. There are better days, better years.

Some nights you'll experience what I experienced last night. Last night I laid down, pulled my covers up and immediately became overwhelmed at the thought of how I was going to get through the next day.

I won't lie to you, random stranger, or anyone. I have taken those long glances at that bottle of pills and thought about how good it would be to take a nice long nap. I took those glances two years ago, and I took one of those glances today.

But there is one thing that I need to remember, and you the random stranger needs to remember. It gets better. You can win. In that moment of overwhelming fear and helplessness, you can take a baseball bat to your thoughts and rise above them. It's possible, trust me. It's not easy, but it's possible. I don't say this because I have mastered the art of stomping down fear, I say it because I haven't.

Trust me, this can get better. Tomorrow can be a better day, and you don't have to hope for it. You can take your fear and bitchslap it. You can even add in your best gangstur voice, "Bitch, you weak. Next time, I rip out tha nasty ass weave a' yours."

In all fairness, I did forwarn you that I'm a little crazy.

Now, on another note, I bought Linkin Park's new CD on a whim titled "Giftcard for iTunes but nothing to buy... oooh look a shiny".

And call me crazy, but I really, really like it.



Here's one of the songs, plus it's live. It's awesome. Like, party in your pants awesome. You should really click play.

Love,
Megan

Quick Note

So, I may or may not have mentioned my obsessive love of music. If I haven't, I have now.

This is beauty, and I'm not traditionally a big dubstep fan. Anyway, here we are.

Beauty, amirite?

Oh My Chuck

So. It's January 1st. Pretty important day.

No, not just because I'll be legally able to gamble by the end of the month, though that's pretty awesome.

It's because today is the day where everyone whose brain isn't in an mooshy state known as a "hangover" does something special. So special, that once it's acknowledged, it's never mentioned or thought of again. It's called RESOLUTIONS.

Now that 2011 has crashed the party, it's officially the time to get that paper out and write down your ambitions for the year, only to hide it in a spot so magical that you can never find it again. We humans are funny creatures, really.

Anyway, one of my ambitions/resolutions is to blog at least once a week. I do this not to get rich, though that would be pretty cool. I do this because I feel the inescapable urge to leave a mark somewhere in the world wide web. And, to possibly get rich.

H8ters gon h8.

Anyway. I should probably introduce myself, because any post below this was written by a person who is not me. Except if you go back in time, and then it is me. The me that types these words is almost an entirely different person than the one that wrote those. I mean, that person hadn't even figured out her secret love of slam poetry. Pshaw.

So. My name is Megan, and I'm nearly legal gambling age. Figure that one out at your leisure. I read more books than is probably healthy, and I like to write stories in extensively overpriced journals called Moleskines. I don't have a job, live with my mom, and play a lot of video games.

That last part would be a lot worse if I were male, 30 years older, and 300 pounds heavier, amirite?

If you take a little glance to the left, there is a playlist for your convenience. It contains a few of the many songs that reside on my iPod. Whenever people utter that lovely sentiment to me, "You like weird music," I always give them the same shake of my head and denial. Upon rounding up that playlist, I think from now on I'll agree.

So. What do we know so far, class? Megan, girl, 18, weird music, stories, books. Sounds about right.

I also have what's referred to in some medical circles as "Generalized anxiety disorder", which means I have these things called "panic attacks". I say this, because I'm sure it will come up in the future, so I want to have that part of my insanity explained beforehand. This, combined with an overactive imagination makes me someone who is just a little nuts, but who has badass dreams. Like, I wish I could record my dreams. I would kick Avatar's little blue ass with the stuff my grey matter comes up with.

I also like this T.V show called Supernatural, and may have on occasion thought to myself that I could be okay with polygamy, if I could marry Jensen Ackles. Again, I mention this to forewarn anyone for future posts. Oh, and just saying, Chuck is God. That is all.

So. That's okay as far an introductions go, yes? No? Screw you imaginary audience, I'm not a part of your system.

No, I didn't take that from an SNL skit, and I'm offended you asked.

On the plus side, I googled Tuna Fey instead of Tina Fey today. Didn't get the results I was looking for.

Love,
Megan