Me, or something like it.

Lately I have been searching for something without a name. I follow it and it chases me. I hide and it finds me. It reels me in and spits me out a different person everyday. What I am with you now is not who I have been. I have to look into the mirror to remember that I’m not someone else. To remember that I’m not that impulsive, passionate, irrational, glowing face I see staring back at me.

I’m not that. But I chase it. I see you in the wake of it, casually begging me to catch up. Your nonchalance about this Jekyll and Hyde within me makes me want to keep up with you even more, prove to you that I am what I see in the mirror when I don’t recognize myself. Knowing you makes that seems attainable and inescapable all at once.

It’s not something that I embrace heedlessly. Most of the time it jumps up from behind or out from murky blue-gray shadows on horribly lit streets or I see it when nothing’s there at all. It’s something I have created that you have control over. It’s a prison with no bars that I sit in willingly and without cause.

I am disenchanted and I don’t care. It’s something, really. To walk around in a dream all the time, not knowing which person I am, torn between who I am with you and who I am with someone else. And it’s silly to think I can remain both.

Open Letter to 2009

Dear 2009,

Thank you.

I saw you come through different eyes than I will see you go. You gave me moments of happiness the likes of which I never believed possible for me. Winter wasn’t so cold. Spring wasn’t so wet. And Summer…well Summer I fell in love with you all over again.

Just like 2008, I stumbled forth blindly into your arms, seeking your gentle embrace, putting all of my faith into a reassurance I knew wouldn’t come, but continued to foolishly hoped for.

2009 you have tested me.

You jumped on my back and laughed while I struggled to carry you, adding more weight when I felt my back would break with the burden of you.

And you gave me no choice. Time is cruel in its unrelenting pursuit of our most precious assets.

At some point during your pursuit I surrendered to the notion that I have no control over what you had in store for me.

But 2009 you didn’t get the best of me.

I gave you an effort that was unmercifully halfhearted. A reluctance that was unmovable. I unleashed a stubbornness to fight you that made it impossible for me to accept the plan you had so circumspectly mapped out for me.

I sat under you, kicking my legs, heaving you off of me, escaping your defeat of me every time you tried to force me to submit.

And I fought so hard I became tired. And ultimately I grew too weary to deter you any longer.

What happened at that point changed everything.

And even on the very last day of you, everything is still changing for me.

2006, 2007, 2008, you put me to sleep. 2009 woke me up.

So thank you.

I somehow think you always knew I would submit to you, sagaciously encouraging me in your own way to keep hauling you around; that the end somehow would justify a means so burdensome.

You reinvented me 2009.

In my new opinion, 2010 doesn’t stand a chance.

Happy New Year everyone, but mostly I think, to me.

Love,
Megan

Today

Today is a day.

Just another day.

A day so ordinary it makes my insides ache for change.

Waking up today I realized I'm about half way down a road I didn't choose to walk down. And my thoughts, they've betrayed me. And writing isn't helping me untangle this big, messy ball of yarn that is my life.

I find myself a bit lost, yet again. Tumbling about in plasmatic limbo, white knuckled, eyes closed tight, not knowing where I'll land.

It sucks.

And all I know is that there is not enough White-Out in the world to cover up the mistakes I make daily. Hourly.

But today is a day.

Just like tomorrow will be.

And even though walking this path wasn't a choice, today I can choose to dig in my heels, swivel myself around, and propel myself in the other direction. I've chucked the map and am traveling on instinct.

And I can't believe I couldn't figure this out earlier.

But, today doesn't care. Today has not betrayed me.

*edit* Today is the day.

Evil genius.

I just succeeded in pulling the most brilliant April Fool's Day prank in my own personal history. Thank you, Facebook.

Grace in Small Things

Stolen from Molly.

1. Girl Scout Caramel Delites Cookies.
2. Pushing the "Send Calls" button on my work phone.
3. A full hour of Danny McBride in Outbound & Down waiting for me on my DVR at home
4. Merrell sneakers. Heaven to my feet.
5. Shell Gas Station Fat-Free Vanilla Lattes.
6. Going through old voicemails and hearing the little voice of my nephew: "Hi Auntie Megan." *whispering from my sister* "What's up?" *more whispering" "I'm at the crib just shooting some hoops." *whisper* "This shot is for you." "I MADE IT AUNTIE KATE I MADE IT!!!" Click.

What are your small graces today?

Me, only 11 years ago better...

State of Megan - In Five Parts

Hey guys, I know I've been mysteriously absent lately. I've decided that in order to update you appropriately, that I would tackle one topic per day for a whole week.

Today's topic iiiiiiiiis.....

Part One: MOVING!

Moving is never fun. I don't think I need to tell any of you that. This move, however, was unusually nightmarish due to some insane outlying factors. For one, I am currently embroiled in a lawsuit with my old property manager over the whole water damage mess I wrote about here. It's a total catastrophe. A headache beyond all proportions of headaches. I asked for a simple request. A barter if you will. Something Americans all the way back to the days of Conestoga wagons and the Oregon Trail have been doing, quite easily, might I add. I asked for a twenty-four hour extension to my lease from my landlord and in exchange, I would drop the issue of reimbursement for damages to my personal property due to their negligence.

Seems like a pretty opportunistic trade, no?

No. No it was not.

Not only did they refuse my offer, but they countered with kicking me out of my place even earlier, by 2 p.m. on Sept. 30th. So from 2 p.m. to 8 a.m. I was bound to be homeless. Not just me. Me and all my shit. AND I HAVE A LOT OF SHIT.

After selling half of what I own on Craigslist (god bless you, Craig and your inimitable List) and moving every last nail and screw and dust particle to my boyfriend's apartment, I successfully was out of my place by 2 p.m. Keep in mind this is taking place during the day on a work week, so it is JUST ME moving ALL MY SHIT, eighteen boxes, a bed, ten thousand books, three wardrobe boxes of clothes, one for JUST COATS. MY COUCH.

On a side note, my boyfriend's apartment is the mirror image of mine. He has a roommate, so the space for all my stuff was limited to a 10x10 area behind their couch in the dining room. I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but he lives across the hall from me. Everyday I live an episode of Friends. It's incredibly convenient. I never had to pack an overnight bag or leave a toothbrush. All traces of me, safely locked behind my apartment doors. When I lock myself out, I just buzz the intercom and voila, I am ushered inside. Low on butter or milk? Just don't want to cook? Walk across the hall. Need something heavy brought down to my car? Not even a phone call needed. Want a 60" rear projection flat panel HDTV to watch Cubs games? Um I'M THERE. It's been great. And now, it has served it's purpose as my very own storage solution.

But I digress. The night before my move I was freaking out. I know I am 28 years old and that is certainly old enough to be doing things on my own, but I've never lived alone and I've never had to move alone and what if the movers try to screw me into buying seventeen rolls of packing tape and what if my property manager catches me moving out the front instead of the back and decides to fine me $100 and what if I get to my new place and my keys don't work and the movers throw all my stuff into the alley and my head explodes?

Freaking out.

I end up waking up around 5:15 a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep I was so anxious. So I'm sitting up in bed at 5:20, just sitting there, knees pulled into my chest in the darkness. Boyfriend's hand grabs at mine and he sleepily mutters, "Go back to sleep." I think about that for a second and then climb over his lifeless body, nearly kneeing him in the crotch and say, "Um I'm gonna go to Dunkin' Donuts. I'll be back." He gives me a quizzical look and just buries his face in his pillow.

So now it's 5:30 and I'm in my car in the dark on my way to the Dunkin' Donuts down the street. It's oddly crowded for this time of the morning, I order my dozen donuts and three bottles of water and leave. When I get back, I notice that the loading zone in front of the bar below my apartment is totally empty. This is a huge score. I pull my car right into the middle of about two and half spots and go upstairs. I arrange the donuts and waters artfully on the kitchen counter and by this time its about a quarter after six.

Boyfriend's roommate is sleeping on the couch, so I gently nudge him to get up and move to his room. The TV is blaring ESPN. After several failed attempts, I leave him and go to the window. A fucking van is parking in the spots I have so circumspectly saved!

So then I run downstairs and bark at the guys unloading their van. "My moving truck is coming any minute now! You can't park here!" One of them looks at me like I am a crazy girl. The other one says in a thick Eastern European accent, "We are painting all day in apartment upstairs. Where we go?" This is me, frantic, "Um I don't know, across the street in like ANY of the open spots? Please, they have nowhere to park. It will be gone in a half hour. Please, just move your van. PLEASE?" Then the one guy mutters something to the other two and they keep unloading their stuff onto the sidewalk. I just stand there and stare at them with eyes burning into the back of their heads hotter than the fire of a thousand suns.

Finally the gang leader turns around and says again, "Where you want us to go? We paint ALL DAY."

Then in a voice that I didn't even know existed inside me growled, "I don't CARE where you go, just MOVE YOUR VAN."

It was seriously something out of Ghostbusters. "There is no Dana, only ZOOOOOOL!"

The other two guys stopped unloading and came around the other side of the van to look at me. Then for about a whole uninterrupted thirty seconds, the leader just stared at me. It was kind of intense. I just stood there in the typical mad girl stance. Feet wide, hands on hips, scowl on my face.

He said something to his crew in another language and then they moved the van across the street just as the moving truck was pulling up.

Oh I forgot to mention that the reason I had to move my shit across the hall is well, number one, because they wouldn't extend my lease and number two, because my new landlord told me that I "couldn't possibly move in any earlier" because the current tenant was also moving out at 2 p.m. on the 30th and they needed time to paint and clean before I moved in. This is even after I begged and pleaded with her....told her I would do the painting and cleaning myself. Told her I would let them paint the apartment occupied after I moved in. Told her to take pity on me and my homelessness. Finally, she said "I'm deeply sorry" and I walked away dejectedly with slumped shoulders.

Another defeat.

Little did I know the battle was just beginning. After that I called to schedule the movers and could not find a single company that could give me a set moving time. One company told me anywhere between 10 a.m. and 1 p.m. One told me flat out that I should have called two weeks ago to schedule a move ON THE BUSIEST MOVING DAY OF THE YEAR. Uh huh, yes. This is why I don't do anything alone. Because I fail when it's just me. I don't know these things.

One last call to make. Done Rite Movers. This place sounds legit, right? Haaaaaaaaaaaaa. HA. I left a message and tried not to sound like I had just been sobbing earlier. Still sniffling, a woman called me back. She said they had a cancellation and that they could schedule the move on the 1st for 7 a.m.

HALLELUJAH! "And so shines a good deed in a weary world."

Now. The key pick up mishap.

I swear to you this is last disaster I will outline.

After I scheduled my move-in time, I emailed my new property manager to let her know that I would be moving in the morning on the 1st and if I can pick up the keys the day before.

"Oh no" she replies "that is just not possible." "Your key pick-up and your move-in date need to happen on the same day and our office does not open until 9:30 a.m., so you will need to reschedule your move-in."

"You will need to reschedule your move-in."

As if I can just make a call and magically reschedule to a time that is better for her. Poof! You now have a 10 a.m. move in time and the movers will pick you up in a diamond covered chariot with horses that shit money.

I calmly explained to her that I had already put down a non-refundable deposit on the movers and that if she had wanted me to move in at a specific time, she should have said something other than "Just let me know your move-in time." in her last email.

I don't usually say this about other women, but I'll make an exception for you, Tiffany from Enterprise Realty.

You are A HUGE BITCH.

The queen bitch among worker bitches. The wickedest bitch in the Midwest. You are such a bitch I bet you bark every time you hear an ambulance pass by. BEEEEEE - OTCH. Bitch.

On that note, she told me that if I agreed to let her paint the apartment after I moved in, she would give me the keys early. I said, "Whatever. Fine. When can I get the keys?"

Her response was this, "I have 65 apartments moving this week so the only time you will be able to pick up the keys is Monday from 12 p.m. - 1 p.m."

I said yes, even though a one hour window seemed ridiculous. This would mean I would have to drive 45 minutes out to my office in the morning, drive 45 minutes back to Lakeview at noon, pick up the keys, drive 45 minutes back to work, then drive 45 minutes back to the city to come home. That's four trips back and forth, a whole tank of gas. And at $4.89 a gallon, it's also expensive. I guess "Tiff" never had to commute.

So my very altruistic and munificent boyfriend, upon hearing the patented "I'm gonna cry" waver in my voice over the phone, offered to pick them up for me, since he works ten minutes away from the Lakeview office.

A sigh of relief. I email her to tell her that he will be there at noon, with a check for $1342.50 for first month's rent (rent and half), to pick up the keys.

I get this email response on Monday morning at 11 a.m.

"He can't pick up your keys. He is not on the lease."

That's it. That's all. Just those two sentences. No alternate offerings. No I'm sorry, but I just can't do its. Not even any fake effort. Just straight up BITCH PLEASE.

Wow.

Ok so at this point I need to figure this out. Am I going to drive back and forth to get these keys? I have no other option, it seems, so I walk into my boss's office to tell her I might be a little late on my lunch break and start explaining the situation. Then I just lose it. The flood gates open and I would have lifted my arms to shield my hysterically crying eyes, but they were too sore from moving a hundred and fifteen boxes all by myself.

The she started crying, bless her heart. It was a genuine woman to woman cryfest. She told me she understood and to take the rest of the afternoon off. I told her she was the best boss ever and hurried my mascara covered ass out of her office.

The key pick up happens and now that I have some extra time, I head for Comcast to get my new HD-DVR cable box for my NEW PLASMA HDTV. Of course it's like 1:00 p.m. so why wouldn't there be a line of like twenty-two people waiting. I finally get to the front and tell her that I need to start new service and pick up my cable box. She gives me the run around about how the current tenant hasn't disconnected service yet, so I can't have anything installed until she does so. She calls said tenant and leaves a message. A stroke of luck. The tenant calls her back while I am at the window and says its fine, they can disconnect her service. That she's sorry she didn't call sooner, but she has been moving all morning into her new apartment.

I blink my eyes and say, "She said she was moving into her new apartment TODAY? As in THIS MORNING?" I ask.

Ok, let's reverse a second. I want you to scroll back up to the paragraph that begins "Oh I forgot to mention..." where the property manager explicitly states that I "couldn't possibly move in any earlier" due to blah blah blah BULLSHIT. I grabbed my DVR and fumed all the way to my car, then fumed all the way home, then fumed in my empty apartment by myself where I scrubbed the refrigerator down in rubber gloves, all the while fuming and gagging because THAT SHIT WAS DISGUSTING.

So in a nutshell, both my property managers screwed me over, one straight up lied to me, I made an unnecessary move of all my shit to my boyfriend's place for the night, had a mini-breakdown in my boss's office, almost killed a civilian at Comcast, and probably now have a hit on me from the Russian mafia painters.

Um, the movers were nice.

*think silver lining, Megan, think silver lining*

Oh and someone stole my front two hubcaps. Fuck you karma you bitch whore. Just the two? Seriously?

Post one.

Done.

A few things I've learned...

...in the last twenty-eight years.

Say please and thank you, even to strangers.

Don't scrimp on car or renter's insurance. Get full coverage.

If a family member needs you, you go.

Kindness will always get you further than cruelty.

If it's important, send it certified US Mail.

Anything work related can wait.

Look at people when they talk to you.

Respect other people's boundaries, even if you don't share them.

You teach people how to treat you. Teach them to treat you fairly and with respect or no one else will.

Call ahead before you fly.

Everything has a silver lining and if it doesn't, make your own.

Fake it 'til you make it, baby.

Do not grocery shop on Sundays. The stores are way too crowded.

There is absolutely no reason to be purposefully mean to anyone.

Excuses are unnacceptable.

Don't wait for people to change. Move on. They'll come with you or they won't.

Happiness is a choice.

Always let your cookies cool for five minutes on a cookie sheet before moving them to a rack.

Back up your hard drive every three months.

Yelling or screaming is not cool. Or necessary.

When people show you who they are, believe them.

Voting is a priviledge AND a right.

There are two types of people in the world: those who send thank you cards and those who don't.

You don't have to use a baby voice to talk to a toddler.

Invest the max percent of your paycheck into your 401k as soon as you enroll. Especially if your company will match it.

There is always a way.

Have an opinion, but don't offer it unless you are asked for it. Especially about politics.

Read every day. Your vocabulary will double as you see words used in context.

There you have it. That's one thing I've learned for every year I've been on this earth.

Please feel free to share your wisdom, too.

Guest Blog by E.Lo

Since I am in Florida all week for work with limited blogging time, I enlisted my good friend E.Lo's help as a guest blogger.

What started off as a joke took a hilarious turn when I somewhat lightheartedly suggested she blog about me. Well, leave it to E. Lo to write one of the most pointedly tongue in cheek, inimitably flattering blog posts I've ever read. Please enjoy the smooth lyrical stylings of my partner in crime and the hottest piece of Korean ass you will ever know....E.Lo.

Top Ten Reasons Why I Love Megan Gates:

10. Megan Gates is vain. Megan is unabashedly vain in a charming way. She's really hot so it's not like it's a desperate attempt to work with something she doesn't have. I was bored on my first day of work and wanted something to do. This is the email she sent me that led to this blog post:

I would love LOVE you to guest blog for me! of course the topic would have to be why I am so very awesome and include photos with many clever captions, but only the good photos where my jawline looks flawless and my eyes sparkle.

Luckily, she pretty much looks like that in every.freaking.picture.



9. Megan Gates has an amazing rack. For a girl, I'm kind of obsessed with boobs because I really don't have any. Don't cry for me, Argentina because I believe in "The Secret." One of the book's mantras is "If you see it in your mind, you will hold it in your hand." Basically, my mind is always thinking of Megan's boobs (I know, friend, you too) and one day, I will hold them in my hand. Eww, not like that, pervert. I'll metaphorically hold them in my hands. I've actually held the real ones in my hand and to quote Seinfeld, “They are real and they are fabulous!”



8. Megan Gates loves the Food Network. Megan is one of my only friends who knows what a mirepoix is (aka the holy trinity of French cooking). I can say, "Did you see that mac and cheese challenge where…" and she finishes with "that cocky lesbian was totally pissed she didn't win and freaked out with the home cook also had three dishes?" BTW, did you see that? She was a raging whorebag; she really was. And Megs is the only other person I know that would do Alton Brown. God, he knows everything which is so sexy!

7. Megan Gates makes shopping an Olympic sport. There are few people that can shop as long and hard as I can. Few. When I lived in Boston, I shopped the shit out of the original Filene's Basement in Downtown Crossing for a record six hours. I didn't eat, drink or pee. I thought I basically had the gold medal in the bag and then I met Megan. I think our antics in the Nordstrom Rack shoe section might rival that of monkeys in heat. No matter what happens between us, even if she bones down my husband, steals my car and spills cranberry vodka all over my Gucci purse (God forbid!), I will always love her for forcing me to buy these Etro Shoes:



I know. It makes me sick to my stomach to think that I could have let them go. SICK. Until recently, I was unemployed and I was running through my savings. I had taken a few trips, bought more than a few rounds and I was really at my limit. I promised myself I would just window shop but then Megan spotted her: burgundy and metallic bronze with a swagger that gave me a hard on. She was gorgeous. Etro heels originally $695 for $119. But friends, I didn't have $119 to spend on shoes; I really didn't. I sat there clutching the shoes to my (flat) chest. Megan looked at me and said the most important words I've ever heard in my entire life: "Eleanor, if you let those shoes go, you will regret it for the rest of your life. You will dream of those shoes. They are here; they are your size; they are your destiny." Megs is a very light-hearted girl and so her somber words rang even more true. Needless to say, I bought the shoes and I put them on everyday in the house before I go to bed (I'm not wearing them out until I have health insurance and I'm not even kidding you. Even a trained professional like myself knows not to fuck with 5 inch heels) and every night, I whisper to the goddess in the sky, "Thank you, American Express. Thank you, Megan Gates. Please give me bigger boobs. Amen."

6. Megan Gates is the best aunt ever. I have to give a shout out to our friend Katie who is also an exceptional aunt. I guess they tie for best aunt but since Katie is neither a blogger nor a glory whore, I return to our favorite person at large, Megan. She loves her pumpkins immensely. Recently, we went to Target to pick out Jack’s birthday present and we settled on this awesome dinosaur. With the push of a button, his big, angry dinosaur wings flap. I thought we did a pretty good job but Megan was tortured by the fact that it was blue and not green, Jack’s favorite color. TORTURED. She held it every which way stared at it like it was Gerard Butler’s ass, as if staring would somehow make it green. As a compromise, she got him the dinosaur and a remote controlled snake that was…GREEN. (In my mind, I just said it out loud and I waited for the studio audience to say “green” the way Kat Deeley makes the audience say “judges” on “So You Think You Can Dance.”)



5. Megan Gates has excellent taste in television. Speaking of SYTYCD, Megan and I have the exact same television tastes (making her taste obviously impeccable). Not only do we watch copious amounts of the Food Network, we love SYTYCD (one night watched the “Bleeding Love” routine over a dozen times and I can do an uncanny impression of Kherrington’s chest pound/ neck roll from her “Dreaming with a Broken Heart” routine), Project Runway, My Boys, Rock of Love (Heather’s hair was the 8th wonder of the world), A&E’s Intervention and- wait for it…Tori and Dean Home Sweet Hollywood. We love Dean. We are going to share him as our future husband and we’ll go shopping when he goes scuba diving. I’d also like to use this opportunity to say R.I.P. Mimi LaRue. You will be missed.

4. Megan Gates drinks Boone's Farm. Classy. Delicious. Cheap. Like the woman herself.



3. Megan Gates is endlessly complimentary. She always compliments my (admittedly dwindling) intelligence, tells me how much she wants my legs (take ‘em), assures me that he really didn’t mind when I puked all over him, tells me my cooking is the best and tells me I look like movie stars that are a million and one times hotter than me. After I (drunkenly) tell someone to fuck off, she assures me that I handled myself with great aplomb and my hair looked great when I was doing it. That part is the truth; my hair looked awesome.

2. Megan Gates is an amazing writer. That is why you stopped by, is it not? (BTW, sorry you stopped by to read some real, creative, inspiring writing and found this pile of shit.) Oh, you stopped by to see her tah-tahs? Fair enough. Megan has more talent in her pinkie than I have in my entire body but what you do not know, dear reader, is that she is not just a writer but an artist period. She paints pictures; she can paint originals and she can copy the great works. She is endlessly creative with her outfits. Girlfriend makes an outfit out of a scarf, belt and pair of hoop earrings. I can go on but really, it just depresses me and as much as it’s about her, since I’m writing this, it’s more about me.

1. Megan Gates is a true and loyal friend. She is the kind of friend will bring you a big gulp of Diet Coke and a pack of smokes and listen to all your inane shit, interjecting only to offer her sapient advice. She will hold your hair after you drink an entire bottle of Malibu (I don’t even like Malibu; only god knows why I did it) and tell you that you are a very pretty and dainty puker. She calls when it’s been a while. She takes you to the burbs for a relaxing weekend when you’ve had a truly foul week and need a break from life. She dry cleans your pashmina after borrowing it for a wedding. She’s in it for the long haul. When I sing the “Cuz it feels just like I’m walking on broken…” she sings the background, “walking on, walking on broken gla-aaas” because some days, I just need to the sing the melody and she’s fine with being my backup. Megan Gates is a great fucking friend. After writing all this, I’m like two cocktails away from banging the shit out of her.



Thank you, E.Lo (pictured above) for making my head even bigger than I thought possible. You are the greatest!

Dear current boyfriends, potential dates, interested parties, and waiters in the wings,

Let's get this out of the way now.

You won't like me.

First of all, I'm weird. I do weird things that are irrational and inexplicable. I act weird, seemingly senselessly and ambiguously. I'm a cross between a romantic obsessive compulsive and a fatalistic wet blanket.

I don't believe that the glass is half full because I'm the one drinking out of the 12" tall glass cowboy boot.

I am moody, messy, and seamlessly emotional. I am a walking contradiction, a caster of stones and careful architect of my own glass houses. I own several and rent out the ones I don't live in.

I don't sleep. But when I do, you'll never understand how. I've calculated the exact temperature in my bedroom to quantify the perfect amount of sleep. I am addicted to white noise and reading in bed. I'm afraid I'll never find anyone who will put up with my odd sleep patterns and insane bedtime routine.

You won't like me because I don't mind little white lies. I discourage dishonesty, but only in certain situations.

You won't like me because I won't keep my politics to myself.

I will be overbearing when it comes to global warming, women's reproductive rights, immigration policy lenience and civil rights. You'll want me to shut up. You'll want me to stop forwarding you emails about the next big campaign. I'll hit send and send and send again and I'll do it shamelessly. You won't like this.

I can't imagine anyone does.

You won't like me because I live more on paper than I do in real life. Because I'll keep my most intimate moments for myself on my hard drive and in softcover journals. This will drive you crazy. It will make you jealous in a way you can't describe.

I'll know you better than you think in a shorter time than you think and this will unsettle you. It would unsettle me.

You won't like me because there will always be that one percent of you that doesn't trust me completely. I thrive in that one percent. It's not intentional, it's just where I feel the most comfortable keeping you.

Also, here's the thing, you will need to embrace my inability to give up without a fight and laugh with me at the same dirty jokes. 

You'll wince when I tell you my guiltiest pleasure is eighties glam metal. You'll cringe when you hear me humming the chrous from Ratt's "Round and Round" while I text message.

And I text message. A lot. More than you can imagine. More than someone my age should.

And that doesn't just go for text messaging. I feel uneasy and anxious when I'm more than ten feet away from my computer. You'll hate that I'm this connected. That I have a desire to be this connected.

I'll check my emails at movie theaters and in your bathroom after our second glass of wine when I tell you, "I'll be right back."

I'll explain that I'm not a workaholic, I just don't want to miss anything.

You'll shrug.

Here's something else. You'll watch me believe in ghosts and not so much in religion. You'll look at me funny when I cry in theaters and during presidential debates.

Please don't also discount my quiet insecurities, my loud stubbornness, and that I'll withhold and disclose at arbitrary moments. Look past my penchant for arguing and my proclivity for wanting to beat you at your own games.

It is possible that you'll learn to love the fact that I always have one drink too many.

But probably not.

You won't be able to relate to my priorities. I don't want to own a house. I don't know if I want kids. I may never get married.

But I do believe in a home, a family, and true love.

All of this will puzzle and confuse you and just when you think you've got me figured out, I'll change.

And this is why you won't like me.

With all sincerity,
Megan

A few things you may not know about me.

I don’t believe honesty is always the best policy.

I whistle in the car when I'm by myself.

Marriage makes me uncomfortable, but I believe strongly in monogamy and fidelty.

I always leave a big tip.

I make the same mistakes over and over again. It's not that I don't learn from them, it's just that I choose to ignore the outcomes.

Libraries make me nervous. Too much selection.

I can’t sleep in a completely silent room.

I’m jealous of the life I lead in my head.

I really, really, really dislike milk.

I steal snapshots of moments in my days and relive them when I’m sleeping. Sometimes, I change the outcomes.

I don’t regret even the worst decisions I've made in my life. Honestly.

My sister, Kate, is the most important thing in my life. Without one second of hesitation.

I love being alone, but when I want company, the urge is overwhelming.

Certain paintings make me cry.

I don’t believe that every person is supposed to have only one great love in their lifetime, but many.

I don’t like my hands.

I am obsessed with the scent of vanilla.

I can’t take naps.

I absolutely adore horror films.

I can read in French better than I can speak it. And understand it spoken better than I can read it.

I don’t sing in the shower, but I do when I take a bath.

I still remember my junior high school locker combination.

Cooking shows relax me.

I have three scars on my right shoulder from rotator cuff surgery.

I have very little self control when it comes to love.

I prefer white wine to red, but think red wine is sexier.

I look at things and see what they are not.

I like cheap, dirty jokes.

I can count to ten in Japanese and can say “Go upstairs and put your sweater on” in Greek.

I don’t like to think about my future. I used to all the time, and it was making me sad.

I used to have a dwarf hamster named “Biggie Smalls”.

I never learned to type with the right fingers.

Sometimes I wake up and think my dreams from the night before are real.

I will always forgive.

I am more optmistic now than I have ever been. This quality suprises and enriches my life every day.

I think people’s flaws say the most about them.

Algebra is my Achilles’ heel.

I love winter. Even in Chicago.

I’m not afraid of death; but I'm afraid that doubt will kill me.

I’d rather know, than not know.

I make a pretty convincing monkey face.

Make me laugh and I'm yours.