Hello, lover.

Dear BCBG,

Thank you for always being there for me. You have truly been the one consistent happiness in my life.

I remember when we had our first moment in college together. You were wedged between a Juicy tank and a hideous green Donna Karan halter at TJMaxx and I almost browsed
right past you. You were black and silky and mysterious and on sale. It was love at first sight.

Then again, at the Maz Azria store in Northbrook Court, shopping for a New Year's dress. I saw you in the window on a mannequin, swathed in a golden, glowing light. This time you were lavender and bubblegum pink, peppered with silvery sequins, in a soft jersey knit with a key hole halter strap. I whisked you off to the fitting room and we fell in love all over again.

Even during my hardest moments, like when I took a scissors to you the next New Year's, crying and cutting, I transformed you into something completely new and you stood by me. Making me look even better than a year ago in that Max Azria fitting room. You were with me during my own metamorphosis, urging me on, highlighting my great collarbone.

Almost always I run across you in the shoe section in a towering, sexy pink stiletto, with lace-like insets cut out on the sides. Or, in a casual tan and cream wedge, offering me a sensible but still fashionable alternative to high heels. You are more the perfect complement to me than any man could ever be.

And again, late last fall I found my fingers running over your heaven spun thread at Nordstrom Rack, in the form of a cream colored, off the shoulder, curve hugging cashmere sweater. With asymmetrical lines and sleeves that danced above my fingertips, you kept me warm and stylish through what seemed like the harshest of Chicago winters.

And now, you have fulfilled me yet again. Always consistent. Always even better than what I expect. You were waiting for me in the dress section of the BCBG Outlet, thirty percent off and screaming, "Wear me to your next wedding!" With your halter neck, deep V'ed empire waist, floor length and gorgeous navy color. We ambled off to the fitting room like old friends, not having seen each other in several months. Sigh. Another perfect fit.

Thank you BCBG. Thank you for making me feel beautiful in the midst of a lot of ugly clothes. Thank you for helping me make ex-boyfriends jealous and new boyfriends drool. Thank you for making my ass look good in jeans. Thank you for always showing up in a store window when you know I could use a friend.

Oh, and thank you Mastercard for making all of this possible.

Faithfully yours,
Megan

Painting epiphanies.

It's a shame I don't have enough talent to paint me into a landscape without you. Each stroke more involuntary than the next, the canvas pulling my brush around until the end result resembles the shape of your face. I am never surprised by the finished product, though I always hold out for the hope that I'll be struck by a different muse, just once.

I've taken enough art classes to be able to draw a portrait with a slightly askew composition. It never ends up being balanced, acceptable, textbook. It never mirrors what I really see, no matter who or what is sitting in front of me, anxiously awaiting a masterpiece.

For that reason alone I've laid down my brush, keeping it hidden in a blue, wooden box in my closet amidst a myriad of muddled, half-finished images waiting to be redrawn. I am conscious of them, always, propped in the back of my closet, silently proclaiming my imperfections.

It is only in the past month or so that I've realized that there are people out there that think flawed can be beautiful. And worthy of display. And unique and wonderful and all the things I see when I pick up my brush but cannot seem to paint.

Perhaps it's time then to get out my hammer and nails and hang them as is, a testament to a life in progress.

Bye bye Gracie girl.

Just tear my heart out right now. We have to give up our dog!

The latest.

I just received confirmation from NPR that they are including my essay on "Why I write" in their This I Believe segment.

Check it out.

This means more to me than being published in any flimsy book.

Mint condition.

Like baseball cards, I trade one emptiness for another. And they come and go, passing through my hands in little plastic sleeves to protect them from fingerprints.

Their depreciation is tragic.

I think it’s time to sell the collection, don’t you?

I swear I'm not dead.

Just kidnapped and being held hostage by work.

Highlight of my life.

Newsflash: Awesomefest9000 to begin in less than 24 hours.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Awesomefest, take note.

I will leave this post about the last Awesomefest experience as evidence and to attest to the true debauchery that these weekends almost always exceed.

Please cross your fingers that my flight remains uncancelled for the duration of this 16-hr period before take-off. Yes, I'm the asshole who flies American. Please please please please please. Please.

I need to get to NYC and purge some sins. Bad.

Giddy up, Donnelly!

Confessions of an Insomniac

There is a pounding in my heart that comes with night. I can feel a clear vibration rattling the frame of my bed so that the whole house feels it. Into the silent corners of my room the thoughts scramble away from my head like convicts from a prison. The moonlight picks up on their black and white stripes. They tear about the room and up and down the walls, scrawling their depths and making their mark on even me.

In the morning I wake up damaged, completely wrecked and panting. Sour from sweat and aching from tossing, I gamble with getting up. I swear I have woken up in someone else’s skin. My eyelids feel heavy and my soul swells, stretching the skin tight against it. There is nothing I can do about my nights. They come and I try to sleep. But this is who I am and if this is not me then I must be somewhere else. My room comes apart around me during the day; it has no power without the night to disguise it.

Last night was the first night I dreamt of you in a long time. Maybe that’s why the rattles were so clear and my thoughts so muddy. I gamble with getting up, but I risk going to sleep again.

Every night I risk because I want and I can’t help it.