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