TKO

Everyday it's a struggle to get up in the morning. Everyday. Every morning I play a game with myself; the one that always leaves me feeling like I've lost, even when the rules tell me I've won.

There's this sneaking suspicion that weighs in like a heavyweight, arms in the air prematurely celebrating a win. It's always there. Always two steps behind me, bobbing and weaving, ready to knock the wind out of me when I least suspect it. It's the uneasy thought that some kind of superior happiness is just beyond my reach.

Maybe if I work harder, or do gooder, or smile more, it will tie itself into a ribbon of gold and fall into my lap. But instead, I sustain on nothing. Gain nothing. Tread air.

This type of suspicion will always leave me a little dissatisfied. Never living in the now.

It's making me older every day.

I hate waking in the morning because that abrasive sound of the alarm always reminds me to be cautious. In between its shrill beeps I can hear it whispering,

"Shhhhh...Megan. That punch in the gut is just around the corner."

Things you only tell your diary and/or Blogger readers.

The same ghosts still haunt me. Lately I have been existing on the fumes of a prior life. My engine is screaming for maintenance, but I refuse to fill up the tank. Instead I turn up the volume of my present, constantly trying to drown out the noise of those old ghosts. The bass bellows, the feeback shrieks. And yet I forge ahead unrelentingly.

I should be happier, but I'm not. My life looks better on paper than it ever has, and yet I can cherry pick the days I don't have to force a smile.

I have a relationship that my indifference toward has exceeded the need for. This life that I've flash built in a year's time feels more foreign to me than ever. And then I think it was never that comfortable, but I wanted it to fit so badly I cut off my feet to wear the shoe.

I'm not ready to get back into bed with my past if that's what you're wondering. Nor am I able to leave my present in the middle of the night, with only a warm spot beside it as a parting gift.

But I am willing to give the future a chance.

The one that I didn't choose years ago because the alternative came in a prettier box.

And I know this is all pretty cryptic and might not make any sense to many people, but for so long this platform has given me clarity and scope and room to breathe.

And right now, that all sounds pretty amazing.

I love you Eddie Vedder and I promise not to stalk you.

Last night the stars aligned and my karma finally kicked back into gear. I drank with Eddie Vedder.

Here's how it went down. My friend Katie works for the Cubs. She books all the talent and celebrities for the 7th inning stretch and to throw out the first pitch. It's basically a dream job...hang out at Wrigley all day and entertain stars and professional athletes. Anyways, Eddie is just one of her many celebrity friends.

So she texts my roommate to come down to Stanley’s, which is the bar below my apartment. I'm lazing around on the couch at my neighbor's place when my roommate runs in and is like, "Didn't you get my texts?" completely breathless. I said no, and she was like, "Get up, get dressed. We're going to Stanley's. Eddie Vedder and Chris Chelios are hanging out down there and Katie got us the in!" So I go down there and who the fuck is she sitting with, but Eddie motherfucking Vedder? I almost shit myself. No, you know what? I may have shit a little.

This man is my god. I don’t have religion, I have Pearl Jam. It was insane. A warm wave came over me. My cheeks started burning and my hands grew slick with sweat. This is one of those once in a lifetime moments, I thought to myself.

But I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even bring myself to make eye contact with him. I was totally frozen with apprehension. It was as if my whole body had petrified upon taking one step into the bar. I was cemented to the ground.

I've met a lot of celebrities and I've never lost it like this. This man made me LOVE MUSIC. See this post about Pearl Jam. Now you understand the reason for all of the above.

I did end up loosening up, as my roommate can attest. At one point, as we got up to leave, we made eye contact briefly. And no, it wasn't soul shaking, it wasn't awestriking. He's just a regular guy, like me or you. I threw up the peace sign and he graciously flashed it back. My insides warmed.

I had my camera, but felt that these moments should be memorexed in my mind. These type of moments are so rare and not everything needs to be captured. You end up missing the real moments with your face behind a camera.

So I snapped the above shot as we were leaving. Just one photo.

I can die happy.

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

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.