Writer's block and talk, talk, talk

Is it possible to suffer from writer’s block if you’re not a real writer, or does the mere act of writing, by definition, classify you as a writer and, therefore, leave you susceptible to the condition?

Anyway, I guess I have it. I mean, I have lots to talk about. But I lack commitment to any one subject. Religion, for instance, is a cool topic about which I have lots to say, but, in my early “career” as a blogess, I don’t think I have as yet achieved the level of balls-to-the-wallness required for me to begin to adequately broach that subject. Ditto politics, though I will let you in on a not-so-well-hidden secret and tell you that I feel more than a bit uncomfortable in this dedicated Red State from time to time. “Legalize It!” and “Gay Pride!” are not sentiments that tend to go over very well here, as I’ve discovered during more than one uncomfortable lunchtime conversation at the workplace. Apparently, my coworkers haven’t, in fact, ever been enraptured by a 6’7” tall drag queen in 8” platform stilettos or totally called that 1-800 number and bought a Euro Chopper when high. My bad.

We discussed fashion last time, and I used 1500 words to tell you that getting old blows.

I have children. We could talk about that, but in the 200,000 year existence of Homo sapiens, I really don’t think I have anything new to bring to the table. At the very least, nothing that Dooce couldn’t say with more aplomb.

So what’s left?

Talk of global warming and health and all that other hippie stuff just leaves me feeling depressed and guilty. Besides, righting either of those wrongs in my own life would pose a direct affront to my personal philosophy of “Anything worth doing better damn well have an easy way to do it.”

So……….*whistle, whistle, crickets*

Ahem. I have a crick in my neck. Yes, that’s right. I said C-R-I-C-K. No, I don’t have any damn idea as to how that should really be spelled. Probably, it shouldn’t be spelled at all. Can you just give me a hand with it or something?

La la la la la la la. Oh, yeah. *Cough* Blog. Blog, blog, blog, blog. That sounds like some big sea creature with a disproportionately large mouth. Or like a big ugly toad or something.

Focus, focus. Got some Adderall? Just IMAGINE the kind of manic bullshit I could produce with some of that stuff! Wow.

Sooooooooo. Yeah, nope. Doesn’t look like I am ever actually gonna come up with something to say after all. Ha!

Really, though—isn’t that pretty much what the entire internet is anyway? A bunch of people sitting around with nothing in particular to say, or nothing important to say, but saying it as loudly as possible, or with conviction, vim, and vigor?

In my defense, at least I’m quiet about it. I mean, what? There are maybe two or three of you who will ever see this damned thing? And conviction, vim, and vigor are qualities that I have never really possessed. So that makes it better, doesn’t it? Saying a bunch of nothing but thinking it’s the revolutionary shit-of-the-world that has never ever in the history of mankind been uttered in so effing PERFECT a way—that’s kind of embarrassing, right? Like, awww! I want to crawl through your pipeline and hug your geeky ass right now! But saying a bunch of meaningless shit and acknowledging that it IS meaningless shit……….that right there is fucking noble.

Or am I just a narcissist like the rest of ‘em?

Yours,

Meg, who hopes that you will nominate her for Most Fucking Noble Person in the World (Wide Web) if the omnipotent 'they' ever create an award for such a thing

La mode and my 1/3 life crisis

It’s time for a new blog post, innit?

Being in a pretty pleasant mood, as I have been lately, does not leave one of my species
with much to write about.

Let’s see………bunnies? Cute, sure, but overplayed for sure as far as woodland creatures
go. So…………squirrels? They eat nuts and are overshadowed by their cheeky cousins,
the chipmunks (who also fought crime in the early 1990s). So that’s pretty much it for my
squirrel knowledge.

Music? I’ve been listening to Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Pearl Jam, Blind Melon,
Vampire Weekend, Frightened Rabbit……..Oh wait. Nothing new there. Shit.

I could maybe throw out a bunch of big words on a topic on which I know nothing and
of which no one worth a damn gives a crap about in a vain attempt to win your approval
with my tamely above-average intellect? Tempting, but…….no.

Maybe we could sit around and psychoanalyze my egregious overuse of my period-heavy
ellipses. Desperate attempt to hang on to meaning where it should naturally terminate
with a real endmark? Okay. Check.

Oooooooo……fashion? Yeah, sure. Got it.

Well, it all started with my early childhood affinity for brightly hued dresses that puked
crinoline and had little jingly bells sewn into the ruffles. Paired with pastel patent leather
Mary Janes and lacy white socks, of course.

This begot all things neon in the early nineties. But it’s not my fault—I blame NKOTB.

The mid-nineties birthed my short-lived, Clueless-inspired Country Club plaids,
bodysuits, and jewel-toned jeans. Did I mention my glasses, braces, and post-perm sorta-
kinky long hair? Yeah. I’d like to get that image out of my head, too.

And then the teenage years. Also known as the Skater-Punk-Rawk-Grrrrrl-Random-Shit-
From-Thrift-Stores Period. Defined by 40” wide-leg jeans, chain wallets, Vans, and t-
shirts that used to belong to seven-year-old boys who attended lots of fundraisers, the
look was meant to convey both “anti-establishment” and “I like music with loud guitars
and lots of cussin’.”

Meanwhile, I was reading Vogue and British Vogue and flipping through (read:
drooling over) Italian Vogue when I could get my hands on it. I may have been a rawk
grrrrrl piercing my own eyebrow in the school bathroom, but I loved me some Nicolas
Ghesquiere. And anything Chloe. How pretty! *Sigh*

Anyhow, with Jesus and the overpowering desire to please the bestest closeted gay friend
a girl could have, I, almost overnight, shed my Airwalks, Manic Panic, and casual experimentation with illicit substances and turned to….wait for it….Banana Republic! J Crew! In the course of one year,
I went from spending my birthday money on guitar tablature and cheap alcohol to saving for
cashmere and designer sunglasses. AND, I might proudly add, I reached a size zero, but
not without swearing off all food all the time.

My more grandparent-friendly tastes continued throughout my early college years, with
my first paycheck from my first ever job going entirely to a pair of black knee-high
boots. The second check bought a beautiful red trench coat that I would wear still if it
weren’t for the irreparable hole. Daddy furnished a rich brown fedora, and I purchased a
cream-colored felt ACTUAL vintage one from an antique shop. I bought $50 tees from C
& C California and mid-range jeans with student loan money. (O, Ignorant Youth!) Shoes
were $80 and up, with my most expensive wedding-related purchase (yes, yes, married
young, and actually HAPPY so there! =P) being my first and only pair of Manolos.

Then came children and, concurrently, the era of “Why is everything so expensive here?
There’s no way I’d spend more than $15 for a shirt!” Sadly, due to aforementioned
children, this remains in effect.

But style-wise, though I often skew strongly vintage-inspired—who doesn’t love a good
swing coat, Peter Pan collar, and jewelry with birds on it—my tastes most recently have
taken a turn back to my rawk stage. Only this time, instead of baggy jeans and beanies,
it’s skinny jeans and big messy hair. Basically, if it can be found on a fourteen-year-old
boy who owns a straightening iron, I MUST HAVE IT!!!!

When I run across little Ashton in the Apple store, instead of wanting to douse him in
a bottle of nailpolish remover, as any respectable adult would, I wanna ask him where
he found his darling grey jeans, v-neck tee with epaulets, and Dauphin-De-Tout-L'Outerwear Cardigan. I want us to bond over hair color brands, as my black roots fade so
quickly to blah auburn. And, oh, look! We have the same chipped (duh!) gunmetal gray
on our fingers! Sometimes, I, too don my black Chucks. But today, since I was feeling
fat, I’m out in my leopard print platform stilettos. I just know in my heart that he and I
have both looked forlorn into the mirror and thought, “Ugh! Why is my hair looking so
kempt today?” Then we pick at a zit. I express my excitement at the Arcade Fire concert
clip I come across on the iPad I’m playing with. He mumbles that he liked them when he
was eight but feels like they’re trying too hard these days. Don’t get him started on KOL.
Right now, he’s not listening to anything but Jeff Buckley and some band I’ve never
heard of. I am twice his age and yet his inferior, tragically uncool twin.

Is this what getting old feels like? Damn, I was unprepared.



 Yours,

Meg, who would do just about anything to be reincarnated as Jeff Buckley (except for
the whole tragic death part)

Getting started off on the wrong foot

This blog looks like shit. Sorry, nonexistent persons who are reading this crap!

As it is, the sorry state of affairs of this pile of rubbish is a pretty solid glimpse into what you should expect if you, for reasons unknown, should ever choose to return to this waste of bandwidth.

I have, as you can see, the unfortunate habit of starting things on a whim and casually abandoning them soon afterward. Which is GOOD news if you really think about it. My career as a blogger (bloggess?) is destined from the start to be quite short-lived, I'm sure. Blogosphere, let out your collective sigh of relief, knowing that, ere long, there will be one fewer BA in English choking up the web with her tragic attempts at self-deprecating wittiness.

For now, all you will have to put up with is her suffocatingly heavy comma usage and half-assed/half-remembered grammar and the terribly ugly appearance of this template (it really is NOT supposed to look like this, I swear!) that I started working on and abandoned, bored, moments later. ( I, think, I, am, just, gonna, start, inserting, commas, after, every, word, for, consistency's, sake.)

Of course, you could just stop reading and spare your poor abused eyeballs and brain cells. Totally up to you.

Either way, I intend to keep posting. Until I get bored. Or forget. (There are far too many shiny things in this world.)

(I apparently also really like parentheses.)

I may be premature in putting actual words on the thing—it seems like a high literary crime to use many of the same ones so carefully honed into great works of art by Shakespeare, Garcia Marquez, and Apatow—but I have my reasons. Namely, I'm a big ol' chicken. I make excuses. I say I'm going to do things—things for me—and then never follow through.

So here it is, in all of it's ugly anti-glory. My first of at least a handful of blog posts. Knowing me the way I do,  the posts to come will be few and in spurts and totally lacking in subject and content. But they will exist, and that will bring me enough happiness to stop drinking......so much.........except for tonight.....and probably tomorrow, too..........and oh, hell, St. Patty's is just around the corner......... :)


Yours,

Meg, who, attention-starved as a child, tries, so, so, desperately, to please you


*EDIT: Pink. It's PINK! Joy. Even the title. And with turquoise, too. I did work on it. But I guess I evening daydreamed my way out of actually hitting the save button. Well, just rest assured that my work was just as hideous, but in a whole different awful way.