Sailing

I know I am a leaky vessel, but do I want to know it every day? This morning I stumble out of bed in my rumpled yellow t-shirt, the hands of sleep still covering my eyes, begging me to guess who. The floor is cold and my feet are bare. My spaghetti arms hang loosely at my sides, not yet ready to function and as I pad to the bathroom I stub my big toe on the door frame. My humanity reveals itself today in the form of pain. I frown and rub my toe furiously and I know what kind of day today will be.

Today will take its time, each frame flickering forward slowly, like a movie set in slow motion. Sometimes a giant imaginary finger will push pause at specific moments that serve to remind me of myself. The smile of a passing stranger in a red coat. The minute before I finish the last page of the book I’ve been reading for weeks. A laughing voice on the other end of the phone. A package from the mailman. The stubbed big toe.

And these things make me leak. They are the tiny eyelet holes that expose what’s inside me. I cannot hide my happiness or helplessness or fear or remorse or joy. The pierce through the holes of these things like sunlight through lace.

No one knows that I am thirty-two years old and am still scared of the dark. When I get home at night I sprint up the stairs and when I swing the heavy door open I am breathless and safe. I am human because I am afraid. This too, I cannot hide.

Sometimes when I am lying in bed and those minutes hit me when I am just on the verge of sleep, I recall those moments, those pauses in my day when I am revealed. Sighing, I wonder how this ship will ever sail with so many holes in it?

We might be looking at some jail time.

Megan: dude how was FL?
dmbmeg: s'ok. i read harry potter the whole time by the pool
Megan: i know how it ends!!!!
dmbmeg: i finished
Megan: i can’t torment you, damn it
dmbmeg: who told you?
Megan: my dad
dmbmeg: HA, but thanks!!!!!
Megan: i am celebrating daniel radcliffe's legality by going to the strip club tonight
dmbmeg: he is so fucking hot, right?
Megan: fiiiiiiinally 18
dmbmeg: what the hell happened?
Megan: oh man, did you see the movie yet?
dmbmeg: uh yeah…he had this sexy smoldering thing going on
Megan: totally
dmbmeg: (please police, don't read that statement)
Megan: but i have a thing for sirius black. gary oldman is in my top five
dmbmeg: gary oldman is S-E-X-Y
Megan: every time he winks in the movie i get hot
dmbmeg: especially when he was boinking hester prin
Megan: and as the wheelchair robot guy in Hannibal who's face got eaten by dogs. i'd still hit it
dmbmeg: hell fucking yeah
Megan: i really like the movies even though i'm not into the books
Megan: i fucking want to go to hogwarts!
dmbmeg: me too, let's go
Megan: they better not put me in some lame house like hufflepuff though.
Megan: it would be like college all over again, but with magic
dmbmeg: they totally would, but we would turn that shit around
dmbmeg: we could create the biggest beer bong magic has ever seen
dmbmeg: std's? gone with a flick of your wand!
Megan: oh man i like where you're heads at
dmbmeg: hawkeyes losing season? we'd give the badgers permanent hemerrhoids.
Megan: i'd bang the shit out of slytherin. the whole house.
dmbmeg: i'd make friends with voldy too. those dark arts could come in handy when we attempt to bed sirius in a 3-some
Megan: you read my mind
dmbmeg: hell yeah you would! i would go eiffel tower style with cedric and harry though
Megan: wobby h potter!
dmbmeg: even lucius malfoy....total DILF. HEY-OH!
Megan: i think snape would be a whole lot more agreeable after a well-timed blowjob
dmbmeg: i wholeheartedly agree
Megan: ok this just got out of control real fast
dmbmeg: I was just thinking the same thing. Wait, I wonder how masturbation would be with a wand…can you like, improve your orgasm?
Megan: that seems too easy
dmbmeg: that is what magic is for though, magic in my pants
Megan: i'd hang the mirror of erised over my bed, bow chicka wow wow
dmbmeg: talk about seeing the thing you most desire!
Megan: um i feel dirty
dmbmeg: ha
Megan: yesssss

Child's play?

My life is like the Hokey Pokey. I take two steps forward, I take two steps back.

Inherently cementing my inertia.

Dear Blogger,

I know we haven't really known each other that long, but I feel like I can tell you anything. The thing is, I feel like you don't really know me as well as I know you. I think it's time we got intimate.

So I've taken the liberty of chronicling a typical day in my incredibly interesting life for you.

Looking forward to your response.

*Smooch*
Hellafied

7 a.m. Wake. Hit snooze. Hit snooze. Hit snooze. Groan. Hit snooze.

8 a.m. Wave a sleepy good-bye to overly ambitious roommate, as I shuffle to the bathroom from bedroom.

8:15 a.m. Take things out of closet. Throw them simultaneously on bed and floor. Wade through mess and come out wearing blue pinstripe button down and grey wide leg pants. Add gold jewelry to achieve trademark element of "funk".

8:20 a.m. Decide ironing is too much trouble and instead multi-task with hair staightener. Am surprised by impeccable results.

8:35 a.m. Open refrigerator. Stare at row of salad dressings in between catching glimpses of the WGN traffic report.

8:40 a.m. Leave apartment. Stumble down stairs in curiously high slingbacks and unnessesary eight handbags.

8:40-8:55 a.m. Spend a harrowing 15 minutes on Lake Shore drive. Decide women drivers ARE idiots.

9:15 a.m. Arrive at work. See friend in parking lot and wave frantically. Realize it is not said friend. Hurry into building only slightly embrarrassed.

9:30 a.m. Boot up computer. Only 22 new emails. Exhale. Check Outlook Calendar. 11 a.m. conference call with Fairmont Hotel Catering Manager & Events Planner. Inhale.

9:31 a.m. Realize conference call falls at the same time as company meeting. Trade for lesser of two evils. Exhale.

10:00 a.m. Finish replying to last work-related email. Inbox down to 10. Check Hotmail.

10:10 a.m. Log on to Xanga. Check out my daily subscriptions while picking at Weight Watchers Double Chocolate Muffin. Scroll down to see two comments from new readers. Smile. Log on to Blogger. Laugh out loud at another one of Don Juan's hilarious posts. Check my sitemeter. Four views. Sigh.

10:50 a.m. Stroll casually into manager's office for conference call. Make call. Listen. Listen. Listen. Interject with intelligent and poignant remark. Listen. End call.

11:50 a.m. Lunchtime. Send email to office lunch buddies. No reply.

12:15 p.m. Eat lunch at desk like loser. Browse thesuperficial.com and buy.com. Order 1G SD Memory card for new digital camera. Feel smug sense of satisfaction for getting such a good deal.

12:55 p.m. Call BP about plans for "Party of the Century", quip about making t-shirts for the occasion. Decide grilling out is a must. End call.

1:15 p.m. Email Katie about plans for weekend. She replies once again with something about cake. Think briefly about putting my hands in cake batter and reply.

1:30 p.m. Find an accomplice to steal bottle of water with from the Marketing Focus Group in the Illinois Room. Giggle. Sneak away.

1:45 p.m. Have email argument with Dave about why he doesn't like potato salad. Reply, "I feel like I don't even know you at all anymore."

2:30 p.m. Marketing Manager comes around with big bag of chocolate covered macadamia nuts from a customer in Hawaii. Office jackals circle.

2:45 p.m. Receive email from freelancer inquiring as to if she can use me as a reference for future jobs. States, "I hate to ask this, but you have such an impressive sounding position." Think to myself arrogantly "Yeah, that's right."

2:55 p.m. Check Sidekick for messages. Horoscope for today says, "Don't think about it so much." Stew in contemplation for several minutes. Apply everything that has happened in my life in the past three years to that and then delete.

3:03 p.m. Post.

Dostoevsky's got nothing on history.

I've finally finished reading this.

And it only took me six months.

The wait was worth it. Their story was perfectly macabre, plagued with inumerable dirty, Russian secrets. Everything Russian completely fascinates me.

Those beautiful, thick, heavy accents. The biting cold and filthy snow crowded with ragged serfs begging for food. Autocracy and despotism. The jewelry of the monarchy. We're talking about some serious rubies, people. History parading as fiction. Because nothing so incredible could ever be true. They got me hook, line and sinker with that.

I was totally swept away in it. I haven't been this captivated by a book in a long time.

Hallelujah!

Now that the quiet after the Funfest storm has rolled in, it really gives me time to think about what's important. And obviously what's important is John Mayer. Thank you Cajun for reminding me of that.

John Mayer inspires in me what religion inspires in most people. Faith in themselves, belief in a higher being, purpose in life. His liner notes are my Bible, Torah, Qur'an.

I select passages and apply them to my own life:

"I wonder sometimes about the outcome of a still verdictless life. Am I living it right?

"So scared of getting older, I'm only good at being young."

"Belief is a beautiful armor, but makes for the heaviest sword. Like punching under water, you never can hit who you're trying for."

This is the Tao of John. Fuck Machiavelli, fuck Aquinas, fuck Voltaire. The best manifesto for my money is deftly titled, Continuum. It's written in the chords between C and G. Disseminated over radio waves.

It's perfect.

A few weeks ago I saw him perform at Northerly Island here in Chicago, which made it the fourth time I've seen him live. I was in NYC in March and Don and I got tickets to see him at Madison Square Garden.

Ever been to an Evangelist service? Talk about spiritual enlightenment. I'd let him spread my gospel any day.

The sheer talent JM possesses is staggering. The way his fingers fly across the strings of some broken in guitar. As a woman, it makes me wonder what else those fingers can do.

His set lists are my commandments. His lyrics, my New Testament.

I challenge you not to drop your jaw when the Jumbotron closes in on his guitar solo during the encore of "Belief". Such passion, such inspiration.

So when those internal struggles get too intense, when my moral compass spins akimbo and all reasoning goes out the window, I find peace in my iPod...

Playlist John 3:16.

Bikini Freakend 2007

I just returned from the Funfest (not to be confused with Awesomefest) that was my weekend.

Here is a quick preview. There are a few key elements to this video: the dog trying to bite the bat the whole time, my Naziesque screams of "Get up! Finish!", and Kate's final words.

The full hilarity to come.

*Instead of completely reposting, you can find the full recap, here. Also, Don, I'm going to forget you ever said those blasphemous words about Xanga. You bite your tongue. You bite your tongue right now.

**You can view the photos from the weekend and every other weekend I've had since 2003, here.

Clarity of scope always comes too late.

feI miss the certainty and clarity of something that feels right. Living without hesitation. I haven't felt it for an uncommonly long time, for me at least, and it's making me nervous. Gazing into the mirror these days occupies an eternity because in my eyes I can see my future.

It turns out that it looks a lot like an old version of my past, dusting itself off and lying back down in the middle of the road, ready to be run over again.

Lately, I have stared long and hard out of dirty windows waiting for it to come back. I squint and strain, craning my neck only to make out vague semblances. Rudimentary versions of the real thing; patronizing in their briefness. Time and time again I think I see it, but then doubt jumps out from behind an open closet door, slaps me around a few times, steals my wallet and runs off. The strength of its elusiveness is my weakness.

For years I took that feeling for granted and now it haunts me.

And after all this time, the thing is, I think the hesitation is what finally saved me.

I feel like laughing. Fuck.

Sigh.

Even though the hindsight on this is pilot certified, sometimes you just want someone to love you so much they'll tattoo your name on their arm.

Under construction.

He is the architect of my happiness.

I could never create as he does, with my fumbling fingers and incomplete set of legos.

The only drawback is that before he plans his newest blueprint, he completely destroys me. Razes every inch of me, until there's nothing left, leaving me breathless and blank. I'm an empty stretch of land, waiting to be tracked. Desperately seeking meaning. Purpose. I am nothing of my former self.

He facilitates the unbecoming of me with one systematic swing of the wrecking ball.

I can't function without his vision, even though it wrecks me every time.

But the truth is, what he builds is breathtaking and I've become addicted to the process.

Timesharing my blog?

What's up with all the group contributing on Blogger? Am I just really that behind the eight ball? (Which, consequently, I have no idea what that means, but have wanted to use that expression since someone in a conference call used it last week.)

As a religious Xanga user, I've never rented my private blogspace out to anyone. Never wanted to. See this 3 in. x 3 in. square, motherfucker? Yeah, that's MINE.

So it's kind of surprising to see all of this sharing at playtime. Contributing bloggers. Split custody. I don't know about all this. I'm out of my element.

This vexes me. I'm terribly vexed.

27, swf, desperately seeking approval...

I'm told Blogger is where it's at these days. Considering I've never been one to hang out in the kiddie pool, I need to get in the action. Plus, this girl told me I'd up my traffic by like 85% if I started posting here. And, beginning way back in 1998 as a spritely freshman at the University of Iowa, I noticed while running to hide from Public Safety in the stairwell of our dorm, I do whatever she tells me.

Here's a little history.

I started blogging back when blogging what just a blip on the sonogram of popular culture as we know it today. I believe my first post was about my trip to Las Vegas for my 22nd birthday and all the Chippendale-induced hijinx that ensued. Since then, I've gone through about five different layouts on my Xanga site, about a hundred subscribers, a dozen too many drunken photos, one very huge heartbreak, and that same goddamn, douchebag Anonymous commenter that it seems we have all come to love. I guess some things are the same no matter where you go.

So, Blogger, let's get intimate.

I'm ready for that open relationship I've always wanted to have between two consentual blogs.

Let's do this.

*insert cheesy, 70's porn music here*