I tell everyone I know about taxi alternatives. I like music before it hits the radio (preferably before it ever does). I know what everyone is going to be wearing this spring (platform wedges, embellished short-sleeved sweatshirts and dresses over pants). I wore a fur vest before Macklemore made granddad sweaters cool. I don’t see myself as a trend-starter, but I do typically know what’s going to be cool before the rest of y’all are buying leopard print by the boat load from your local Forever 21.

But more than that, I like knowing news first. I like sharing new concepts and ideas and opinions. Not gossip necessarily, but more like breaking information and up-and-coming thought-starters. It comes from a place of wanting to learn as much as possible instead of a desire ‘to show’ everyone how much I know. I just have a natural curiosity that begs me to suck in the world around me.

And today, this is to your direct trend-related benefit.

Because today, as requested several times by several different parties, we are going to discuss the very trendy location-based dating ‘service’, otherwise known as…

 Tinder.

For those of you who have been hiding under a social media rock, or live in Nowheresville, USA, or are over the age of 35, you probably have zero idea what Tinder is. And it is for your benefit above all others, I write this. I hope I make you aware of what it is, make you consider why it’s important for the future and above all.. make you decide to have an educated opinion. Because I think that’s the most important thing of all. 

Oh and also, I hope I make you laugh.

Anyway.

Please sit back and behold…

The Top 9 things I’ve learned about 

myself, men and society in general from Tinder

(aka the app we all love to hate)

Realization #9: Welcome to Tinder: Your virtual online sober dating experience.

You’re at a bar. It’s a Friday night. Hell. It’s a Tuesday afternoon. You’ve had 2, maybe 2.5 (3.75 if you’re a tank) and you see a hottie (hate this word, but it’s relevant here) across the way. Now why are they a hottie, kid? Is it because of how smart they look? Maybe they appear kind? Or really funny? Maybe it’s just because they seem to actually have their shit together.

Nope.

Let’s be real here.

You go up to strangers in bars (generally) for the SOLE REASON being how attractive they look.

Thick long hair. Straight pearly teeth. Endless ocean eyes. A casual but yet, refined style. Whatever. The point is, that pick-up line you’re about to use? It comes from a shallow place within your inebriated loins and don’t you even try to pretend it’s anything else.

You’re attracted. You’re staring. You’re trying not to stare. You’re looking at your 4th drink. You’re gazing at your shoes. Annnnnd you’re going in for the kill.

Go get ‘em tiger.

Now, I’m not sure how the rest of the story pans out, but if you know my philosophy on ‘bar relationships’ then you know I don’t believe in them and that they have expiration dates and blahblahblah, this isn’t about that.

Back to Tinder.

Tinder is a phone application. It’s basically flipboard for whatever gender you are attracted to within a geographical region of 50 miles (or so it says, they clearly have bugs to work out because I got a serious hunka-hunka-burning-beautiful-man a few weeks ago who tragically lived at least 250 miles away). From there, you can look at a series of up to 5 photos as well as a short bio. You can see if you have mutual friends on Facebook and/or interests (also from your Facebook page). Very simply, click the <3 button if you like them. Click the x button to next, (X) them. AND If they also pressed the <3 button, then SURPRISE you have a match.

Then, you can actually chat. If you didn’t get a match, tough luck champ. Better luck next time.

Do you hate me yet?

…Oh you just wait, I’m only getting started.

Realization #8 or : Am I really this much of a judgmental shallow freak?

All answers would point to yes.

Yes, yes I am.

I pass a completely superficial amount of judgement on men who I’ve clearly never met and still manage to make major assumptions about their character, personality and overall attractiveness based on nothing more than 1-5 pictures.

For instance, why do you need 3 pictures in a row of your modeling pics, dude? Here’s a little clue. EVERYONE looks good in glamour shots. Did you really never have senior pictures? You airbrush anything enough it’s going to look smooth and flawless. I don’t care what your face looks like on a filter setting that highlights your jawbone. I want to know what you look like in daylight sans studio lighting.

Furthermore, also equally unnecessary to have several shots of you checking out your own six-pack. We get it. You have abs. You love them. A lot. In fact if you could reach them with your tongue…

Moving on!

And it continues. Too feminine. Too manly. Why are there no close-ups? Woah, foreign. How do I pronounce your name? Zanameetala? Huh? What nationality is that? Holy bad teeth Robin, keep those stalagmites in the bat cave. You look like you’re at a rave. Is that a graphic tee? Who’s that girl with you? Next.

Seriously. My attention and interest level have the life span of flipping ad pages in a magazine. When did I become so shallow? I have more depth than this. I am a nice person! Why am I having an existential self-reflective crisis based around a smart phone app? What have you done to me Zuckerberg? How do I make this stop?

and then…

Realization #7: Oh great, yet another pristine personal PR image I have to maintain of myself.

In the very same light that my carefully manicured callous eye will superficially survey others flaws and shortcomings, I like to throw that same judgmental mentality back into my own face because well, it’s only fair. Which always brings me to the humbling reality of the question– what kind of person can I possibly convey I am in just 5 pictures?

Exactly.

I think this is the bigger point than some silly little dating game. We put forth the image we want to be perceived as online. We convey the persona of the person we want to be seen as. We’re as fun as this picture of us smiling. We’re as pretty as the sunset behind us. We’re as cool as the plane we got to fly last year in Japan but really it was at an indoor aviation museum in Omaha. Everyone is having more fun than you. We have the same matches because we want the same thing. Acceptance. Tinder is as Tinder does. And as Shakespeare would say, you talk a good filter my friend, but do ya got a brain behind that beautiful body?

Realization #6: But also, as it turns out I like tall(er) men. 

What’s the nicest way to say, “Please tell me you aren’t a midget?”

There needs to be an update to this app to include this. Who doesn’t agree with me. Don’t even act like I’m the only one who’s thought this. I need some clarity. Tinder man height based anxiety. We can’t get drinks because I don’t know how tall you are and I’m afraid to ask because that’s rude. But is it more rude to just refuse because I think you’re a lot shorter than me? Does anyone know any rhymes that go well with the words itch, rich, stitch, ditch….

Realization #5: Two words: Man. Pinterest.

It’s hot guy roulette. Scrolling a male newsfeed.

It’s become something I do when I’m bored and I want to pass the time. Why pin recipes in traffic when I can tinder men? Cute guys in exchange for cute clothes? This seems like something I don’t need to give much thought to. Like, duh. And just like that I’m flipping through the Southern California edition of (supposedly) available men in the same fashion that I mindlessly flip through the channels on TV.

Don’t want to watch that tonight.

Seen it.

Been there, done that.

Boring.

Too serious.

And though I know it’s addicting and shallow, I also can’t help but think how is it this any different from another Friday night?

At least I’m sober.

Realization #4: But why can’t we use this for friendship purposes?? (aka why does everything have to be about sex)

A few weekends back, a friend finally met a man she met on Tinder in person. I didn’t feel much like being a wing woman to his perceived uninteresting friends, so I hung back and filled my mutual guy friend in on the situation. His first reaction? Shock.

“Tinder is a getting laid application. You go on that to find people to have sex with!”

- My dear beloved/concerned 28-year-old ex-roommate Matt

I found this interesting for a couple of reasons:

• One, this was a statement made from a man who has never once used Tinder.
• Two,  but I mean.. he has a point.

Which makes the case– If I’m receiving matches based entirely on what someone looks like, I wouldn’t exactly say that is a foundation for friendship–much less any kind of relationship–beyond physical attraction. And sure, I’m not matching with guys thinking, well if we meet in person we are so hooking up! But I’m also not clicking their profile thinking.. well if we meet in person this guy is going to be a good friend of mine for like forever!

Which made me think, this could.. this should.. have more depth. This shouldn’t be just about physical attraction. This could be a way to meet friends. I could get down with friend Tinder. I think anyone who has ever moved to a big city and struggled to meet people or just connect in general, could agree with me on this. In an age where we’re more connected than we’ve ever been, the world can still be a pretty lonely place.

Realization #3: But still.. we all feel a little better when we have at least one friend in common. 

Then, they aren’t completely random, right? Even if it’s a guy you haven’t talked to in like 5 years who you played football with in high school. That shit is officially legit and acceptable.

It. is. on.

Realization #2: Yet somehow some people manage to fail at Tinder before even starting.

It’s called…

Being a douchebag.

Being a weirdo.

Being a.. (??? still wtf’ing over this)

And most importantly, being confused about which app you’re even on.

cough cough, Haoxiang, I think you meant to facetime…

But what is the number one thing I’ve realized from Tinder? 

Realization #1: Online relationships are the future whether you’re willing to admit it or not.

Despite growing popularity, current societal appearance of ‘online dating’ hasn’t changed from this initial idea of being desperate and temporary. Every guy I’ve met on Tinder, I reason with myself as the same as any bar relationship, in that it’s already destined to fail based on the superficiality in which we meet. What am I supposed to tell people? I met my boyfriend on a smart phone app? I met my husband on a dating roulette website? Um no. Can’t wait to tell our future children that one. This is temporary right? It’s just a phase. This can’t last.  I can’t possibly meet a guy I really want to date and have a long-term relationship with on something so shallow and silly.

But yet, think about this. Today’s generation is online more than we aren’t. We’re glued to our mobile devices, our social networking, our online presence. We meet someone in person and what do we do? Well, I don’t know about you, but I immediately go online to find out more about them. What do they do for a living? Linked In. Are they witty? Twitter. Are they too self-indulged? That’s a lot of selfies on one Instagram page mista. Is their profile blocked? Can I see their pictures? What girls are writing on their wall? Is their musical taste decent? Spotify. Tumblr. Do they have a blog? What are their interests? Are they TOO present online? Isn’t that the same as being too available? Jesus, the list goes on and on. What’s the point of a first date? I already know more about you from a simple Google search than a couple of drinks and a tasteless appetizer could ever show me.

My point is, to use an old cliché for a new trend, is that ‘the-times-they-are-a-changing’. And as our online presence increases, so does our acceptance and tolerance for meeting others there.

Now I’m not saying Tinder is the future. I’m not saying any dating website based in such shallow and simplistic train of thought has the longevity to last as our technology and the way we perceive it continue to change.

What I am saying is that in a world where we now spend more time connected to a screen than ever before, who’s to say what is ‘normal’ in how and where relationships develop? Who’s to say Tinder isn’t just the online version of what people are programmed to do regardless?

We see. We like. We want. We take. Maybe a little archaic, but hey, that’s desire for you.

So who’s to judge what is normal anymore? Who’s to say what is trendy? Who decides if online relationships are the next thing? Who determines what makes something weird and desperate and something else socially acceptable? Who? Who makes it ok?? 

Well if it were up to Tinder..

I guess you do.

m.

Filed under: Top Ten Tuesdays ]]> http://leftoversfromfriday.com/2013/04/09/tinder-me-this/feed/ 0 megruggieri photo-2 Tinder-logo photo 4 IMG_0630 photo 2 (2) photo 4 (1) IMG957694 photo 1 (2) photo 1 photo-3 http://leftoversfromfriday.com/2013/04/01/just-saying-vol-2/ http://leftoversfromfriday.com/2013/04/01/just-saying-vol-2/#comments Mon, 01 Apr 2013 22:12:24 +0000 megrug http://leftoversfromfriday.com/?p=2151 Continue reading »

Just wondering but are there people in the world who eat broccoli and don’t get little green pieces stuck in their teeth? If so, I hate these people. I eat broccoli and I not only get little pieces stuck in my teeth but they choose to sit basically front tooth center to my embarrassing life.

Happy Monday.

This is the second installment of little thoughts with me. Tentatively also entitled ‘Just Saying’. Possibly entitled into the future as NOW YOU KNOW. Which is a little something Billy Nye used to do with science and it really worked for him so why can’t it work for me too?

Anyway. Enjoy these little morsels from the the mind of Meg. Because lucky for you.. there’s a lot where that came from.

- Speaking of morsels, I’ve been eating sweets lately like I’m saving up for some kind of holiday zombie apocalypse. I’m talking cupcake batter. Nutella. By the spoonfuls. I’ve been mixing banana pudding into my oatmeal. Last week, I ate a rice krispie treat for breakfast. This sugar related madness must end as quickly as KU’s march madness dreams. Trey Burke can you do what you did to KU to my sugar addiction? That’s something I’d actually appreciate from your talented evil ass. (As I type this eating a poppyseed muffin, feeling the hypocrisy of my words, swearing that IT WILL END!

…tomorrow.)

- Is it bad that I constantly think if I ever get the chance to meet Justin Bieber I’m probably going to ask him to consider paying my college loans/credit card bill? I feel like if Lil Drip Drop or whatever the hell his hoodlum friends name is gets to drive around and wreck his car and then hold huge parties at his house without him there and still get to be considered one of his best friends, I have a good shot at him agreeing to help a sista out in exchange for me naming my first born after his new monkey, Mally.

- Did you know people are actually dieting for Coachella starting now? THIS IS NOT A DRILL CALIFORNIA!!! It is time to pay almost half a months rent to get so drunk and drugged out you remember 30.4% of a concert you will spend the rest of that percentage sleeping in a field and peeing on a tree. But dammit if you won’t look smokin’ hot while doing so. So start chugging those kale shakes and taking some large gusts of air for snacks. You got two months kids. And I better not catch you going buck wild on an economy sack of cheese in a storage closet. It’s neon bikini and latex body suit season and you have a fashion blogging photographer to impress.*

* Ps, fortunately, I’m not going to Coachella. But don’t you for a second think that’s not my follow up to Bieber’s rejection of paying off my college debt. Dude. At least buy me a 7 day juice cleanse and a VIP pass to coachella brah!?

- I know I am late to the Flipboard app party, but I’ve finally arrived, I’ve drank the spiked punch and let me tell you. Procrastination. For hours. But like, useful, interesting informative procrastinating. Which makes it productive and thus, not as bad as hours watching Game of Thrones right? (CC: cough cough Erin Lacey/ entire male population).

- Do you ever get done doing laundry and you’re taking your clothes out of the dryer and they’re like the perfect temperature and you legitimately want to crawl up inside your own dryer with your clean laundered clothing and take a little nap? Because this happens to me, pretty much every single time I do laundry. In fact, if I was a ~4 foot tall dwarf, I would have already done this on several occasions. Also if I were a cat. Who did it’s own laundry.

- Anna Kendrick is in my office right now. I am thisclose to busting out my rendition of Pitch Perfect’s Cup song for her which I spent about 24 hours in total learning about 3 months ago. For the full embarrassing story please view this lovely video below.  (Also, please note as I recently was quoted stating, ” I got a lot of enthusiasm.. not a lot of rhythm.” .. which is also clearly evident below.)

Also probably going to regret showing you all this two minutes post-posting. The flourescent lighting gets to you in here.

- Fun fact: A year ago today I filmed “Pregnant in Heels.” I was neither pregnant. Nor wore heels. My views on reality tv have changed forever.

- Why are there free puppy adoptions every freaking weekend in Santa Monica? I need to stop day drinking. I’m literally going to wake up to a 4 legged friendly drunken mistake named Fido. And then I will be forced to keep it and love it forever.

Well it’s getting to that point in the day where I make less sense and choose instead to window shoe shop on Nordstrom and watch funny cat videos while pondering my future.

And so as Porky Pig (who clearly never went to Coachella) would say..

Tha-

tha-

tha-

tha-

that’s all (for now) folks.

M

Filed under: Misc. ]]>

…The TV show guys, not the gender

(though in honor of same sex marriage, let’s hear it for girls who do love girls! We ARE pretty great and so is equality in domestic relationships.)

Random political statement complete, back to that popular HBO television hit series.

In the final episode of this season, the main character (Hannah) types out several medical-related (?? possibly not) google searches such as “normal tongue” and “at what age does one’s body start to melt” and “how to know if you have a ruptured eardrum”. And if you had been following the show at all, you would know this is just another instance in a long train of examples of how she is slowly losing her grip/composure and regressing back to an Obsessive Compulsive problem she had in her youth brought on by excessive pressure from her first e-book contract and a difficult break-up.

And shit gets admittedly weird. But the google search thing? Am I off in saying…Not that weird? Have you ever looked at your google search history on your phone? Well, I have. And maybe I’m alone in this but my google search is similar to an episode of girls in that it’s kind of embarrassing, kind of weird, kind of awkward, kind of sweet, all awesome. In fact today, for your reading pleasure– here is a list of my recent google searches:

• How much is a juicer (.. too much. sigh.)
• pie day
• snatchly (Don’t go here. I read about it, it’s like pinterest for porn and pretty graphic. I just wanted to see if it was a real site and it is and I’m now blinded forever.)
• KU Michigan game time (4:37 PM PST, TOMORRROW)
•  little girl from at&t commercial (I SWEAR I have babysat one of those kids.)
• rare shiny pokemon cards (also called holograms, I kept calling them hieroglyphics)
• When is labor day (I meant memorial day)
• wig shop in la (I WAS JUST CURIOUS)

I spend a lot of time wondering if things I think about are normal or crazy.

Like the other day, I was in the shower and I was thinking about when I die and how it will be really sad and how people will miss me and then I got really sad and almost cried and then I was like you weirdo, you aren’t even close to dying. And when you do, you won’t care, obviously you will be dead. Why are you even thinking about this? How morbid and unnecessary.  Is this normal? I just shampooed my hair with body wash and now I’m crying about my imaginary funeral. Face to palm.

I also think about winning the lottery a lot. Or what super power I would have. Or if I could change one thing about me what would it be (Most likely my hair, and it would look like Connie Britton’s but with Katie Holmes color) Or if I had to live without one of my five senses. And what dogs think about. And what kind of shoes I’d wear if I was 5’2. And what people think about my butt. And if I was a sim, what I would use all my personality points on (Niceness, neatness or cleanliness, outgoingness, activeness, and playfulness), or what celebrities think about before they go to bed.

When I have down time between all my normal/non-normal thinking, I think about if what I am thinking about is what crazy people think about. Or if I’m just thinking the same thing as everyone else. And which is better? And which is worse?

I heard once that people expect artists to be a little crazy…so don’t disappoint them. Which is comforting. At least I’m not letting you guys down.

Some of the most talented and genius creative people throughout history have been absolutely peanut butter and jelly NUTS. Van Gogh cut off his own ear. Emily Dickinson never left her house. Tilda Swinson is currently sleeping in a large glass box at the Museum of Modern Art. Now, I’m no where near cutting off my own ear and living in isolation in a box for a cultural exhibit)  but if I like to pretend sometimes that I have an accent and that I’m an heiress for the successful infomercial product pillowpets and that it’s all in the name of art, I think both Romy and Michelle would be proud. And I think Dickinson would support it too. Actually, I think if Dickinson lived now and was in the ghetto, she would constantly be telling everyone to fly their freak flags. And then she’d write a poem about the anti-dougie. Or she’d be a total hipster. But like the leader of the hipsters.

Anyway.

Back to Girls.

Everyone tells me. Meg, have you ever heard you’re just like Hannah? You guys are so alike.

Oh thanks guys.

You mean the girl who rarely wears pants, is slowly going insane, binge eats cupcakes in the bathtub, cut her own bangs, and regularly makes ridiculous broad statements, like:

“No one could ever hate me as much as I hate myself, okay? So any mean thing someone’s gonna think of to say about me, I’ve already said to me, about me, probably in the last half hour!”

and

 To herself in the mirror: “The worst stuff you say sounds better than the best stuff that some other people say.”

and

“So, I’ve calculated, and I can last in New York for three-and-a-half more days, maybe seven if I don’t eat lunch.”

ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, alright. Yes. Slightly similar.

Hannah and I both are cut from the same crazy cloth. On paper, we’re both confused, lonely, half-insane writers who like to frequently frequent boys who ruin our lives and our sanity.

I can see Hannah crying in the shower about her hypothetical demise. I can also see myself eating a cupcake in the bathtub. And this makes me feel better. Because though Hannah is a crazy, fictitious, unattractive character made up by a talented writer and actress, there’s a kind of comfort in crazy company.

So if I occasionally talk to myself and make spontaneous random outbursts like how I’m concerned my hair hasn’t grown in a year and why I think my life is similar to my google  search history and would it be weird if I started going by Margaret? It’s a comfort to know that it’s ok to be a little of center. That it can be a refreshing thing. It can be a desirable thing. 

But above all, it’s an artist thing.

And every time I get a little weird?

Well at least I’m not disappointing you.

You may see a homeless man casually juggling in front of an elaborate mural of Jim Morrison. You could run into Elijah Wood smoking a cigarette.

Last week, I bought a bag for 40 bucks next to a place that you can get a smoothie for 15. Sometimes, when I’m feeling crazy, I’ll walk down the boardwalk and immediately feel a little more adjusted and normal. Sometimes, when I’m feeling rich (rarely), I’ll walk down Abbot Kinney and immediately feel poor and under dressed.

Venice to me is both wildly over-priced and arrogant and yet on the same parallel, a place that I can exist on nothing but sunshine, miles of sand and a couple of clueless guys with larger bar tabs than brains.

(As John Wayne says, life is hard. It’s harder if you’re stupid.)

So as someone who immerses herself so fully in a place as random and glorious as Venice, California– it pains me to see sub-par journalism on a city that is anything but average. And lately, I’ve read more than one piece on, “places to go in Venice” or “my favorite Venice hot-spots” that were clearly nothing more than a shoddy version of a potentially good idea.  Because all of these so called “hot-spots”? Are very often located on the same street. One restaurant has been closed for at least a month (article posted two days ago), and 2 weren’t even open at night for an article entitled, “Friday night in Venice“. What?? That is lame. That is poor work. Mostly though, it’s misleading because though I love Abbot Kinney Boulevard in Venice as much as the next Westside girl, if you think that’s the only place to go here, you are sadly misinformed and even worse than that.. you’re a pretty lazy writer. I’m looking at you Refinery29 and Daily Candy. 

Just saying.

I’m just saying, we can all afford to be a little more in-tuned with the place we choose to live. With the city around us, whether that’s expensive 5-star restaurants or the local hole in the wall. You live where you live for a reason, so get to know the place you call home. Don’t go to the same bar every weekend. Eat the same food. Get out of your routine. Just saying.

• Get to know the city you live in. Get to know the world you live in. The other day I was reading Vanity Fair, and I read this article about a short daily email newsletter called theSkimm, which delivers the top news for the day right to your inbox first thing in the morning. The cool (and different) thing about theSkimm though, is that it reads like a conversation, so it’s not only informative, it’s engaging, interesting and actually makes me feel like I understand the news that is happening around the world. Living in Los Angeles, I feel like I get inundated with celebrity gossip, and it’s interesting no doubt, it doesn’t make me feel anymore intelligent about the world outside my little pop culture bubble. I challenge you to do the same. 

• This past weekend, I ate this MOIST (sorry), creamy carrot cake in which we debated about whether 4 dollars for a delicious concoction was, or was not, something we wanted to spend. Then, we ate it in less time we took deciding if we wanted it in the first place. Also standing up huddled in a circle. It’s fine. Sometimes, you need dessert for lunch. 

• And ok, obviously Justin’s new album is amazing and everything (personal favorite: pusher lover girl) but can we briefly talk about Nelly’s new little diddy, Hey Porsche? Sorry not sorry, that shit is catchy! Not in a “Hot in Herre” kind of way either. In like a jump up and down whip my hair back and forth on my bed way. Possibly guilty, once or twice. 

•  Has anyone else seen Michelle Obama on the cover of Vogue? Has any other first lady been on Vogue? I mean Good Housekeeping, sure. Time magazine? Obviously. But freaking Vogue man. Michelle, you’ve peaked dude. You can’t do any better than that. It’s over. You presented an award via video camera at the Oscars, you’re on Vogue, you probably have blogs out there entirely dedicated to your bangs. What’s next woman? Inventing negative calorie nutella and challenging Kate Middleton to a pull-up contest? Stop! Our heads are going to explode.

(Edit: Apparently, according to Conde Nast digital archives, this is Michelle’s SECOND cover on Vogue. Seriously.) 

•  And I hate to put Kate Middleton and Kim Kardasian in the same sentence but those baby simulator generator things that show what their kids are going to look like? Uh, weird. And creepy. Despite this, I kind of hope Kate’s kid has red hair. Ginger babies are the cutest nuggets ever. Yes, I refer to all babies as forms of food. Nuggets, dumplings, muffins, pumpkins.. mmm I’m hungry.

• What is with this new tapas trend? I know it’s the cool thing but I also kind of think it’s a way for restaurants to serve less food for more money. Here Meg, enjoy this plate of 4 carrots garnished with a radish stem and a slice of avocado. It’s beautiful. It’s art. It’s 25 effing dollars you ignorant fool. And maybe it’s because I’m at the time in my life where going out to eat is an expensive rarity, but when I sit down for a meal at a restaurant, I want to leave with a food baby named “FULL-FOR-THE-NEXT-TWO-HOURS”, not with stomach pains and the desire to go home and chow down on some hummus that I’m supposed to ration out for lunch the next 4 days.

– oh and for the record, if a place ever calls one of its desserts “gorgeous”? Make sure to instagram the shit out of it!… because it’s going to taste like a wax painting.

• On the same culinary trend thought– I’ve been wanting to possibly try a Juice cleanse for kicks and foodie fashion-forward giggles. That is, until I put a potential 5-day cleanse in my hypothetical shopping basket on Pressed Juicery’s website and nearly developed an ulcer. Uh I’m sorry, when did it ever become culturally ok to spend 325 dollars (PRE-TAX FOR GOD’S SAKE) on 5 days of Juice!?! What will I look like when I am done with said cleanse? Heidi Klum? I sure as hell hope so. If not after 5 days then definitely after the 5 weeks of starvation from lack of groceries because that’s how much this supposed juice made from God’s sweat glands is going to cost me. Juice-sus Christ.

•  I’ve started communicating entirely through the art of text message emojis. On Valentines day, my dad texted me a bouquet of emoji flowers and I have to be honest when I say I was a little offended. Like is this what our world is coming to? Little pictures of monkeys and flower bouquets and hand gestures throwing up the peace sign? Am I going to have a future boyfriend end things with me entirely through pixel graphics? Perhaps propose? Here’s a freckle sized clip art picture of a ring Meg. Me love you long time. This is absurd people! But yet, I can’t stop. Because absurd as it is, it is massively entertaining and occasionally time-saving. Alas, I am a slave. 

• I don’t understand people who never say yes to sweets. There are people at my office that every time I bring in (delicious, may I add) baked morsels, they politely decline. I’m less offended and more confused. More like: BUT WHY!? Why wouldn’t you at least try it!?!? I even feel bad for them sometimes. Kate Moss was wrong you know. That whole, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” quote. Kate clearly never ate Banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery. Or a Sprinkles cupcake.

Or anything I’ve baked.

Just saying.

• I’ve decided I’m going to stop wearing sweatpants and t-shirts that say “suck my duke” and “I wish I knew someone who had a mother F*Cking boat” to bed. Like maybe I’ll buy some matching pj sets so when I wake up, I will feel less like a sophomore computer nerd from Cal Berkeley and more like a well-adjusted adult. Do matching pajamas help with this? Will another Ikea lamp be the answer to all my problems? This is fight club people. Let’s talk about it.

Anyway.

As a final note, it’s a KU game day. So don’t sit in bed all afternoon with hangovers the size of Roy William’s ego, because it’s 24 hours until you have to work and a March Madness Sunday, and as Ellie Goulding and Digger Phelps would say,

Anything could happen!

Just saying. 

M

When I was in middle school, the boys in my class used to call me beast because I was so much taller than them. For years, I refused to wear heels because I didn’t want to bring attention to my height and bring upon recognition of a nickname that was so humiliating, the memory of it still makes me sick. My middle school yearbook is full of another nickname, or “The Duck” because I never learned how to walk normal and sometimes, I walk on my toes. It’s cute when you’re a toddler but when you’re 14 and boys quack at you in the hallways, it’s enough to will God to temporarily lend you a sprained ankle so you have a reason for walking a little different.

I’ve never talked about that since that time. We’ve all been bullied at some point or another and we all have our own little humiliations from our past selves who weren’t strong enough at the time to put those people in their places.

The reason I bring it up is because today, I walked four miles for a cookie.

Actually, I just went on a walk and the cookie was part of it but in between the cookie and leaving I had a lot of time to think.

I’ve been feeling.. off. A little discouraged, a little run-down, a little like I’m going through the motions in circles for reasons I don’t really know. I’m frustrated and I can’t tell you why. It’s something a cookie can’t solve but dammit if I didn’t try.

I think you’re supposed to go through ruts that you don’t bring upon yourself. Little skips in the playlist of life that you’re not really sure what caused them or how to make it stop. I feel like today my enthusiasm has run a little dry. Like I’m walking and walking and I don’t really know why. Like I’m looking for some metaphorical cookie and all I can find is stop lights and the same faces over and over again. Quack Meg. Quack.

I saw a girl today who looks like someone I know. She looked like a lot of girls. Just pretty but in a normal way and dressed like how I’d imagine her to dress. I wonder what people think when they see me. It bothers me that maybe that’s the way others see me too. Just a girl wearing what girls my age wear. It makes me feel incredibly unoriginal. A normal girl. Like someone you might know.

But trying to be original makes me feel like I’m trying to embody other girls who are trying to be original. Like no matter what I do, I can’t be somebody different. I have to be some version of being myself which is exactly the same as everyone else. I can’t go through my own heartbreak because it’s all been said and felt before. I want to scream into my pillow about how unimportant I feel. But then, some girl has probably done that too. Probably several times. It’s definitely in a movie. Great.

And I’d ask you all if you’ve ever felt the same, but then.. I know you have. And right now.. yeah. I don’t care.

I read this quote from Mila Kunis that I love and I can’t find because apparently she did this hysterical interview with this nervous reporter and it’s all that’s coming up on Google. But pretty much she says whether someone calls you pretty or ugly… you are. It doesn’t matter what they say.. because it’s true. It’s perception. It’s not how many people tell you you look good or bad. It’s not how many people who tell you you look skinny or pretty or what not. You just are.

And despite my overarching theme of apathy today, I love that quote. I am currently attempting to adopt it entirely into my psyche. I thought about it further on my ridiculously long walk.

Today, maybe it actually stuck. Today, I don’t care how many people find me attractive. I don’t care how many people don’t. I’m the same person with 10 pounds on me. I’m the same person if I were to lose 30. I’m the same person with a nose job or blonde hair or if I wear heels or if I decide to start wearing turtlenecks exclusively. I don’t care if people think I have messy hair or chipped nails or if I walk on my toes or if I look weird when I don’t smile with my teeth. I can’t change any of it, and in that, maybe I can be original in my own unoriginality. That I am who I am who I am.

Today, I feel like the human version of a GPS voice. like TURN RIGHT here. And I do. Without much thought or opinion or emotion on the matter. The cookie was delicious but so are a lot of things.

Today is Wednesday, March 6th. My name is Meg. I am 23 years old. I live in Los Angeles, California.

And maybe today I’m just another face in a sea of faces that I see everyday.

Today, I am tired.

I am frustrated.

I am confused.

I am unsure.

I am melancholy.

I am apathetic.

And I am who I am who I am who I am who I am.

And, you know what?

Today, that’s just going to have to be good enough.

m

How many of you girls (guys too I guess) think the ideal place to meet your ‘soulmate’ is in the dairy section of a Whole Foods?

Maybe they accidentally spill coffee down the front of you in a rush at a Starbucks?

Then you are all angry but you look up and BAM!

Birds sing.

The world goes quiet (minus the birds).

That look.

And it’s like Hi… I’m (you stammer here, because you’re blown away at your instant intense infinite mutual attraction) so and so. And they laugh (with a perfect pearly white smile) and offer to buy you another but just so they can know more about you. And you’re all well I’m late but.. here’s my number call me maybe? and then Carly Rae Jepsen shows up and is all STEP OFF BITCH, that is my line. And then you blow up Carly with your eyes and the guy is all wow, can i take you shopping? And you’re like baby, you can take me anywhere.

End scene.

Or something like that.

Yeah? Now ask yourself this question. Out of all the couples and married friends and everyone you’ve ever dated, WHEN IN GOD’S NAME have you or they or ANYONE ever met in a grocery store aisle?

….

…

..

That’s right.

Because no one meets in the grocery store aisle. You want to know why? Because face to face sober rejection is probably right up there with setting yourself on fire.

No one is asking you out in the frozen foods section not because you’re not cute. It’s because you go to the grocery store and you buy your milk and you peace out. You don’t hangout in the freezer section and pick up chicks. You don’t leave your number on the freezer fog left on the glass door after you pick out your vegetarian lean cuisine. (Though this is a legit idea, thanks wintergreen gum commercials).

Because unless people start going to the grocery store a little drunk, the bar scene is going to continue to be the place to pick up strangers and the grocery store is going to continue to be the place you pick up your milk.

And I hate to be such a debbie downer especially when a story like meeting a guy at a starbucks after he pours his entire boiling drink down the front of my moderately priced shirt is something I  would totally aspire to achieve. If I really thought it was a possible meet cue don’t you think I too would be going around to Starbucks’s across the city of Los Angeles with superb clumsy hope that I survived such a delightful encounter without sustaining 3rd degree burns? Wouldn’t we all?

Instead, we meet the opposite sex in dark lit places without a caffeinated beverage or frozen poultry in sight. Where our dignity is safe. Where we are just another slightly shadowed blurry face in a sea of the same. And then we get mad because we can’t find anyone who stands out to us.

But you know what they say guys.

They: “The right person will come into your life when you’re not looking for them.”

Well, whoever ‘they’ is can kiss my wish on a shooting star ass because that is pedigree hallmark card bullshit. Because here we all are pretending Santa Claus doesn’t exist but secretly wishing he does. Like Oh, I’M NOT LOOKING RIGHT NOW UNIVERSE, this is just me casually scanning the crowd for future “friends”. Yeah. I wore this low cut dress FOR MYSELF. I shaved my legs FOR ME dammit.

Right.

…Liar.

Last year my parents celebrated their 25th anniversary. That’s 25 YEARS of commitment. Like holy shit. I can’t even commit to plans next Wednesday much less the next 25 years. Anyone out there want to be stuck with me that long? Really? Meet me in the grocery aisle. I’ll be waiting by the frozen pork loin.

And you know what, bite me universe. I’m not LOOKING, I’m just casually ASKING.

Anyway, no offense to marriage as a union but right now my plans involve just hanging out with someone I really like for forever. I’m thinking we could have a bunch of weddings. Like maybe skip the marriage part and have 27 weddings.

Whatcha doing this weekend? Oh ya know. My hypothetical hangout partner and I are having our 12th wedding in Tibet! Dude, come! It’s 80′s themed! We rented alpacas. Shit is going to get WEIRD.

Yeah. That is definitely something I could get on board with for 25 years. Maybe get a dog. I don’t know. I’m just talking now.

Seriously though, I think my real hesitation with marriage stems from my relationship FOMO. Because I like the game. And I hate the game. But I like going to the grocery store too guys. Because I don’t just need bananas, if you know what I mean. And I’d love for someone to break the hollywood mold and prove me wrong. But it’s cool that they don’t because if I do happen to meet my soulmate at the check out line that means the end of a lot of firsts. And I’m not really down for that quite yet.

No more crushes? No more waiting around endlessly for a weeny ‘what’s up’ text? No more making awkward eye contact!?!?!?! (which I love. Awkward eye contact is my jam.) What will I do at church if that happens!? What will I do at stop lights? On elevators? Escalators? Moving sidewalks? Actual sidewalks? I can’t handle meeting my soulmate in front of the finely packaged cheeses. I just can’t do it yet.  I can’t handle the pressure.

But I suppose when I meet that right person— that will be ok.

For right now though, the end makes me even more sad than my endless miles of single-dom. I don’t want to be that person who’s so focused on finding someone to make me more myself that I never do the things I personally really want to do.

Want my advice?

It’s a little subjective since I’m 23 but whatever.

Move somewhere because YOU want to. Do things because YOU want to. People are going to judge you no matter what you do so make them talk about you on your own terms.

Don’t be afraid to look behind you and not see anyone following. Don’t be afraid to look ahead and see no one leading. And then after all your doings and seeings and beings are complete, don’t be surprised if you look to your side and someone has stepped into rhythm beside you. And you know what? Maybe that’s not your ‘dream man’. But you can bet your ass it will be people who truly care about you and who you stand for.

I remind myself this a lot.

Whenever I feel discouraged. Whenever I feel lonely. Whenever I feel like I’m playing it safe and wasting the talent I’ve been given. I just keep reminding myself. Never sit still. Never be that person in the elevator who doesn’t even acknowledge those around them. Never settle.

I don’t have all the answers. Obviously. I don’t even think there are answers most of the time. Just questions that follow questions and different directions people take and learning and learning again. You just have to keep falling for the wrong people and making the wrong decisions. Maybe ask out some girl in the grocery aisle and prove me wrong. I’d love that.

And so maybe ‘they’ are right. Maybe what ‘they’ say is true. Maybe the right person does come along when you stop looking. But maybe they just meant that when you stop looking for someone to make your life better, you start realizing–

You know what?

I’m going to make my life awesome all by myself, thank you.

Wrapping up your tuesday dose of Beyonce-powered blogging –

This is Meg.

Go get yourself some coffee America.

Filed under: Misc. ]]> http://leftoversfromfriday.com/2013/02/20/a-grocery-list-reality-check-or-why-i-think-youre-ready-for-this-jelly/feed/ 3 megruggieri photo-1 photo url-2 photo 1 photo 3 http://leftoversfromfriday.com/2013/02/13/one-time-i-wrote-this-on-an-airplane/ http://leftoversfromfriday.com/2013/02/13/one-time-i-wrote-this-on-an-airplane/#comments Wed, 13 Feb 2013 07:29:37 +0000 megrug http://leftoversfromfriday.com/?p=2013 Continue reading »

I’m standing in line for the bathroom on my southwest flight.

I wasn’t supposed to stand in line. They specifically asked us not to stand in line. But I was the first person and therefore, arguably, I wasn’t really in line as much as I was just loitering near the bathroom. I smiled at the male flight attendant.

“You’re breaking my rule”, he says!

“Sorry,” I say apologetically.

I’m not sorry.

I have to pee. I am going to pee my pants. If I actually do so– then, I’ll be sorry. So will he. And right now, unless he forcibly carries me back to my seat, I’m not moving.

I smile again.

The kid in this bathroom is taking forever. What is he doing in there? Do I even want to know? God, if he’s taking a giant.. Oh. Ok. He’s out. Good. Move shrimp, I gotta pee.

This bathroom is freaking tiny.

How do people supposedly join the infamous mile high club in these things? How is that even possible? Wouldn’t everyone know? Can you get in trouble for that? They don’t really say “no sex in the lavatories” . Though they do say no smoking. And apparently no waiting in line. Could you get arrested? I think you would have to plot it out. Like Ocean’s 11. But like for hooking up in the airplane bathroom. I’m sure there is a website detailing how to succeed at this. There’s a website for pretty much everything these days you know. Anyway, they really should make it a little roomier. Just for old people and like big people. To be nice.

I’m in the emergency exit row. Which first of all, hello why have I never sat here before,  there is so much room I could stick my legs all the way out and do a little horizontal running. I could learn the Justin Bieber backup dance in the space I have been provided. I could harbor a secret pet under my seat. This is awesome. I’m sitting in this row forever from now forward. Also until this experience,  I never pay attention to the emergency info they show us because I’m like if our plane is going down, it probably matters very little if I’m wearing my seatbelt or know how to use a life vest. Also like hell I’m putting on the oxygen mask on anyone but me anyway. I’m single forever. Thanks airplane attendant. You have bad pants.

But this lady is standing right in front of me showing this VERY IMPORTANT SAFETY STUFF. And I’m like what if the plane actually does go down? Then every man woman and child is going to be looking to me for help. I can’t freeze under pressure. I need to know my shit. I sit up taller. I’m listening. I will be an active helpful citizen. I look good in army fatigue. I could probably learn how to shoot a crossbow. I will be a leader in the face of danger. Y’all can trust me! I’m a survivor. Beyoncé bitches. I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!!!!!!!!!!

The people next to me are talking about their kids and I have zero interest in listening. I already lied and told them I worked for the government. Sometimes I do that on planes. I don’t even plan on it I just start talking and all of a sudden I work in Washington specifically within aerial intelligence which mean in layman’s terms, I’m the correspondent between pilots and ground control. I’m off to work on the San Diego base for a few months. I don’t even know what I am talking about. They don’t either. I put in my headphones and start writing. I avoid their eyes the rest of the flight. I could have just said I was in beauty school or a struggling actress. But no. I had to say I was pretty much working in the FBI. Good.

I make a mental list of all the things my apartment still needs.

A kitchen table.

A couple chairs.

Proof on the walls that someone lives there.
New shoes.

….Not relevant meg.

I keep making awkward eye contact with a guy across from me. Probably my love interest when our plane crashes in the jungle of Las Vegas. He looks like he’s 19. Maybe 20. I can deal. (See what I did there with my Vegas joke? I kill myself. Hysterical.)

I’m starving.

I eat the peanuts they give us like a starving little street monkey. I don’t even freaking like peanuts. They should really serve something new.

I mean how long have airplane culinary service been on the peanuts train?

Far too long.

Who decides this stuff?

I vote hummus. Just straight. In little baby food jars. With spoons. I decide the airplane snack decider is someone akin to the Queen. Like they have very little seniority but it’s relevant in this particular category and someone is just waiting for them to die but until then its peanuts forever because they freaking love peanuts even though no one else does. But when they do croak, airplane food is going to go nuts. Not to make a bad pun. But also to make a bad pun.

I also would hope they would consider handing out little jars of nutella.

After telling the people next to me that I work for the government I feel the need to continue with my identity as a mysterious government worker. Which means pulling out the Allure magazine just chilling in my carry-on would be an obvious dead giveaway. FBI babes do not care about their cuticles or exfoliating their pores. They just look really good with a high ponytail and minimal eye makeup. And librarian glasses. Which are in my suitcase. Dammit.

Why do famous people never fly Southwest? Why do I never get to sit next to someone cool? Why do I always have to pretend to be the cool one and then they tell me they work in health care and I’m like yawn, you should have lied too because that would have shown me! One time, I sat next to a lady who had cancer. Which was obviously horrible to find out and sad. Except then she told me like 6 times. By the 5th time, I didn’t know what to say so I just patted her hand. It was weird. I thought she was going to want to be pen pals or ask me for money but I think she just wanted to talk. I didn’t lie about my occupation that time.

Up until recently, I thought all celebrities had private jets and never flew on normal planes. Like seriously. Until about last Friday until I gave this thought serious thought and realized that couldn’t possibly be true. And then I felt like an idiot. And then I desperately hoped I would see Adam Levine flying home for the holidays and he would be on my flight and we would talk and then he would write a song about the girl he met on the airplane and then I would melt like a human girl version of frosty. But instead I sat next to a girl who hogged the arm rest and played temple run the entire flight. I feel like this entire paragraph would make an excellent meme.

Every time the plane lands I grasp the arm rest and desperately hope the pilot is adequately sober and didn’t BS their flight training. I mean.. I have a lot of things I want to accomplish on the ground, I’d hate for the plane to explode and blow that for me.

For once… I don’t really know why I’m writing.

I had a point. But I forgot it.

Anyway. Hey Ben Folds, come pick me up.

I’ve landed.

Filed under: Misc. ]]>

( because I’m a P.I.M.P gangsta like JGL. Actually just conceptually, not like plot wise. Whatever. Read this.)

a sample template:

I wake up every morning saying I am going to go running.

I don’t go running.

I lay in bed.

I read my email.

I check my facebook.

I check my twitter.

I check my instagram.

I check my work email. (slave to the man, yeah I am.)

I look at the clock.

I still have enough time to go running!!!

….I don’t go running.

I finally get up.

I eat oatmeal (insert banana! maybe some blueberries in that biz if I’m feelin’ nuts)

I get ready (bed head chic– pronounced sheeek)

I drive to work. (like a BAMF)

I work. (super efficiently, diligently and energetically I might add)

I drive home. (to Ke$ha. Everyone listen to this song if you want to rock.)

I eat dinner. (microwaved eggs FTW)

I sit on my couch. (or bed. or floor.)

I clean my room.

I put on my workout gear. (PUT ON YO SHOES!)

I think about running.

I think about running.

I think. about. running.

Meg. 

Seriously.

DUDE COME ON!

….And I’m RUNNING!!!!!!!!!!

I die. (can’t breathe. can’t fucking breathe. Oh! There’s a hot guy. This shit is a breeze. I AM SUPERWOMAN! and he’s gone. As you were. I can’t breathe. I can’t feel my pinky toe. I hate everything….)

..I revive.

I sit on my bed. (lay really. I am defeated.)

I look at the time.

I have enough time to write. 

I don’t write.

I shower.

I sleep. 

And. I. repeat.

How do I break the cycle!?!?

I sound like a 90′s grunge band. Shout out to Pearl Jam. You guys inspire me. No not really, but I do like some Foo Fighters. David Grohl, babe. Dave Freaking Grohl. Hey by the way Dave you get free lunch at some place on Venice Boulevard. I read it on a billboard. It said, “Free lunch if you’re David Grohl.” So if you’re reading this… 

Today during the drive home bit, I called a friend I haven’t talked to in ages. And she actually (imagine that– how vintage!) picked up.

And we talked and it was friggin’ lovely. McDeese I miss you and I know you’re not reading this because we talked about in our phone convo how you don’t read. Which you should! Especially to support me asshole. Just kidding. I love you. Visit me. Read this. Dammit. 

But anyway– then, I thought about how when people call me and I screen their calls and I’m like well if I’m going to talk to them I really want to talk to them and I don’t really feel like catching up right now, so I’ll call them back later.

And later turns into a week, a month, two months.. etc. And so instead of giving them a little time, I give them no time. 

And instead of catching up then, I let more space sit between us, more life events that I’m not taking a part in knowing about. And then when we do catch up an entire crucial scenario in my life, something that has absolutely rocked my world and changed who I am becomes nothing more than a couple of sentences.

Like “Oh yeah. It didn’t work out. Were not talking anymore.” or “Yeah! I got that job. It’s going well.” or “We grew apart, it happens.”

Just a vague, flat-lined one sentence description of something that may have totally turned your life around and left you for dead but now months later, catching up over a 30 min conversation, you don’t see the value or benefit in rehashing the whole thing and so this person will never grasp the magnification of just how complicated these few simple sentences really actually were.

Because that’s what catching up is when you put it off. It’s like trying to do weeks and weeks worth of laundry in one load. It gets kind of clean but mostly it just gets wet.

Anyway. I thought… I mean.. I just wanted to say I’m sorry to my friends who I’ve let our friendships just get wet in the washing machine of life.

Also to say maybe I’ll start writing little things like this so that my writing doesn’t just come in giant loads either. Though the thought of people reading this all getting wet with my giant laundry load of words.. makes me LOL as I write this. Alas, maturity isn’t my strong suit. Thank god for good grammar and a large vocabulary.

Looping this sucker out, I got some laundry and running and writing to do. 

Enjoy your Wet (and wild?? I hope so.) Wednesday. 

m

I know her name, her title, what car she drives. I know she has kids, a husband, maybe an old dog. I know she prefers blazers over cardigans. Tea to coffee. Silver to gold. I know she favors orders to questions, demands to requests and slams to knocks. I know these things because I’m observant, I’m watchful and honestly, it’s pretty easy to pick up on a few personality idiosyncrasies after several months of just paying a little attention. I could be anyone. I am anyone.

We’ve met. Once during a 10-second elevator ride regarding the weather and once, because I bravely said hello. She nodded and half-smiled. She has absolutely no idea who I am.

I am invisible. I am minuscule. I am Jack’s perfectly camouflaged office attire set to a quintessentially unoffending background of a sea of file cabinets and a yellow fluorescent lighted sky. I am a thousand girls before me and every one who will come after. I am a continuous giggle playback of top 40 hits and an endless Vogue reel of cheap trendy patterned cotton.

I could be anyone. I am no one.

Green is the color of 2013. Green laces and green tights and green carpet. I’ve gotten good at looking at my shoes when there’s no where else to look. And my finger nails. I don’t paint them as much anymore. Chipped fingernails are almost as bad as wearing out of season shoes. It’s a Glamour don’t. I do my best.

A plush corner office is all relative in a dying business. What’s plush anymore? What’s it like to be so shiny that you’re six inches taller than everyone who’s ever worked for you? Being so tall, it’s easy to kick instead of walk. This office is a soccer field. It’s full of balls. We’re all just balls.

“…The more powerful you get, the more you’ll be judged and scrutinized, on display. You’ll miss things– vacations, sunsets, moments with your family. Some people in your life will never accept your priorities. Not everyone can withstand the pressure.”

We graduated. We all graduated and we get to be interns and assistants and get coffee and get good at smiling and saying yes. Some of us are good at it. Some of us learn something. Some of us get Lucky. Some of us don’t.

We’re told we can be anything we want if we go to college. We’re told that and then we graduate and get criticized when we think we’re too good to do anything less than our dreams of being anything we want to be! But you know what? We finally got it. We get in the back of the line. We bite our tongues. We squint back tears. We make new coffee. We do it right this time.

“…So now you know you can have my life. You can do what I do. Because you can sacrifice the things that need to be sacrificed.”

You did what you had to do to get where you are. You yelled. You stomped. You cursed. You hung up the phone. You got ahead. You did it. You are someone. YOU ARE SOMEONE.

And I guess we all want to be shiny. We all want to be noticed and nonchalant about our own perfection. To dance around our own reputable timeless importance. Like look at me! Look at me! Look at what I did.

“….But what if I can’t do that? I mean, what if that’s not what I want?”

Look at you.

You are Jack’s ultimately inevitable karma. You are Jack’s sad bitter end.

You could be anyone.

“…Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Andrea. Everybody wants this. Everybody wants to be us.”…..-Miranda Priestly, The Devil Wears Prada

I’m never going to be you.

Van·i·ty Fair: n. a vain and frivolous lifestyle especially in large cities

“You want to write a book?? Don’t. Because you’ll cry for years and years and years and then it will never be how you want it to be and you’ll be devastated and confused.  Instead, you should go swimming or learn how to sew.” 

If you’ve ever read “A Series of Unfortunate Events” then you will understand that this was simply his way of encouraging me to follow my dreams and thus, I smiled and thanked him and told him I would do everything he suggested. And though I never learned how to sew, I was quite the cross stitcher for a very serious stretch of the second half of 5th grade. I also decorated cakes in contests for 4-H (Google it) and for a  short period of time, we had a bunny named Pumpkin who used to escape from her cage and lay on the couch when we came home from the store.

Also, I was on the swim team and my very first day of practice the coach said ok everyone go do 100. And I thought he meant 100 laps and so immediately I got out and told my dad ok let’s get out of here, no way I’m doing 100 laps. I can’t even do 12 ( I was a cute but chubby child) and then my dad asked the coach about it and the coach said 100 was actually 4 laps. And I was like Oh. I can probably do that. So I went back into the water and I was on the team I think for about a year before I was like wait I’m just swimming in circles and then they give me a ribbon if I win and I’m kind of McKayla Maroney unimpressed about all of this. Also swim caps are kind of creepy and speedos make me uncomfortable.

My point here is that sometimes you actually shouldn’t learn how to sew or go swimming. You should just write a book even if it will probably make you cry because really that’s what you were supposed to do in the first place. Also, if you are a cross-stitching, swim cap wearing, cake decorating, bunny owning, slighty chubby pre-teen.. you can blame boys not liking you until well into high school entirely on children’s book authors.

The end.