Recently, through a series of reflective (literally, cause mirror) hair straightening sessions I’ve been giving ample thought to the following questions, “Dearest Meg, what do you like to do outside the realm of spending money on pretty things and eating delicious food?” and (said in song) “When will my reflection show who I am inside?” (Namely, Blake Lively. When will I look like Blake Lively.)

But back to the first question, as it’s actually a question and not merely a desperate never-ending Christmas wish.

I’ve been feeling recently that everything I love to do (ie: my passions, hobbies, interests etc.) involve some sort purchasing a good or service and/or consuming decadent cuisine. “When did these become my only pastimes?” I ponder as I absent-mindedly leave my straightener in a particular portion of my hair until smoke pours off. I am not this dense! I have substance! I am goal-oriented and curious about the world around me so how is it possible that because I can’t go shopping or go out to eat all of a sudden, I’m bored?

And with this one Cher Horowitz inspired external monologue, I suddenly lose my clueless disposition and realize what’s been missing from my life. 

I miss writing with no purpose whatsoever. At some point, I’ve gotten so wrapped up in a laundry list of work writing tasks and accomplishments, I stopped creating just to create. Sure, I post my silly instagram captions and an occasional witty status update. But it’s just not enough. I miss writing long-winded dialogues about whatever I freaking want.

I want to write restaurant reviews for the every day eater, and in-depth analyses about why I think Taylor Swift is one of the most brilliant business women of our time and short auto-biographical stories about how I attempted to make a casserole tonight that I plan on eating for the next 5 days and how it sadly tastes exactly like parsley and poverty.

Mostly, I think I need to redefine what Leftovers From Friday stands for and accept the fact that much like the concept of leftovers themselves, I don’t have to abide by a set standard of what I’ve always written. Leftovers are the remains of what used to be. So you get what you get, and you either eat it or you don’t. Today it’s this. Tomorrow it’s that. I’m not a fashion blogger, or a nutritional expert, or posting emo photos of that one time at band camp, but not writing with a particular purpose… is kind of what I do best.


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