Stop. It's too late.

On snowy days I feel like people finally understand me. Well, people in cars. People driving cars. I drive like it's a snow storm all the time. Slow, overly cautious, lights on, wind-shield wipers wiping. So snowy days are the days I fit in.
Also, snowy days are the days when it's ok to do the things I want to do all the time. Take naps, watch movies, take more naps, imagine how great life would be with a snuggie, eat soup.
It's snowing so I think I'll take a nap.

Flume

I google myself. I do so under the pretense of maintaining a professional respectability so that employers will find only the most complimentary information when searching my name. This pretense is a lie. I google myself because I’m a narcissist. But for me narcissism isn’t so much a self-love as self-fascination.
This fascination with myself has led to a competition with other me’s. The rest of the Meg Morleys in the world, thought I don’t think they know that we’re competing.. Meg Morley the London-based belly dancer was hard to beat. But beat she was, and now “I Should Be Deserving To Be To Mars” is the first google search result for Meg Morley. I Should Be Deserving To Be To Mars is the name of my blog. It’s what I want people to know about me, my musing on webpages. Readers know Meg Morley saw this, or Meg Morley thought that. Meg Morley writes this way, therefore, this is Meg Morley.

There are those moments of distance, when I recognize my own existence. When I realize I’m not only my body in a time and place, but something abstract and large. I hate those moments. They feel nervous and strange, as though I’m lost somewhere in the universe. And in those moments my name is all I have to bring me back to earth. Because when floating through the stars, headed toward a black-hole of uncertainty, battered by the same question, “who am I?” I can answer, simply, I’m Meg. And again I’m back to Meg, in my time and place, doing what Meg’s doing, sleeping or laughing or writing an essay, unconcerned with the identity-swallowing void that lies beyond.
It’s a delusion of course. A delusion I buy into, because it’s safe. I believe that I’m Meg because it feels nice to believe. But in reality I know that Meg is merely the label for this marked time. My parents gave me Meg because they needed something to call me. Because they knew that others would need something to call me. Because I would grow up and do things, and those things need to belong to someone. But what I really believe is that my existence started before the nurses at Cottonwood Hospital wrote Megan Morley on the medical records 23 years ago, and that my existence will continue after Meg Morley is engraved on my tombstone. I believe that in that void beyond, as scary as it may be and as uncertain as I feel, I’m not Meg. I’m the before and after of Meg.

It’s fascinating, isn’t it? A name. That the name takes you and I places like the top of the google search list, or the class role, or a bank account. But in the end we’re not our name, we’re what we’ve done with our name, and we’re looking back on who we were with our name. Narcissistic? Ok.

Not like you do

Jacket= I'm cold
Jacket + elbow patches= I'm cold and scholarly.

And I'm getting old

There are things that I'm obviously grateful for. Like, health and family and chocolate frosting. But that's not what the focus of today should be. No, it's about the little things on this day of giving thanks.

I'm thankful for the restroom in the gas station at the mouth of the canyon. Because three miles is a long way to run with a full bladder.

I'm thankful for whoever cleans the restroom in the gas station at the mouth of the canyon. They deserve a pay raise, cause that place was classy.

I'm thankful for the sudden rush of nostalgia I experienced while catching a whiff of the car fresheners on the shelf in the gas station at the mouth of the canyon, especially the one that smelled just like my first boyfriend's car.

I'm thankful for the memories I have of my first boyfriend and how I laughed when he kissed me. Not giggled, laughed. Hysterically. Doubled over, couldn't breathe, tears.

Where are you Nick? If you read this I'm sorry for telling the whole blogosphere.

And Mom and Dad, I made this up. I don't kiss boys.

Sexy Sadie

Facebook has decided to act as my conscience. It's killing me with its suggestions. "People you may know"... you're right. I do know that person (how did you know that you freakish gypsy machine), and yes, i've neglected to add them as my facebook friend. I guess it's time to get over that fight we had in the third grade. Also, "You haven't talked on facebook in a while", with the thumbnail of a Latvian underneath. FB is telling me as gently as possible "You are a horrible returned missionary. Don't you know how important it is to keep in touch with these precious souls? Did you even read the white handbook? How do you live with yourself?". And my favorite facebook suggestion ever: "People you may know: Meg Morley. Add as a friend". Somehow FB knewI was being hard on myself that day and it was time to remember what's really important. Because if I can't be friends with myself, all is lost.

you're shakin my confidence

In Praise of the Diet Cola
I drink diet coke. Often. As I sit typing this essay it’s noon and I’m half-way through my second can of the day. Addiction? Oh, I don’t know. I’d be ok without it. But just ok. I wouldn’t be great like I am right now as I sip the cool, carbonated, artificially sweetened beverage.
My adoration is often met with mixed reviews. “Full of carcinogens”, “Habit-forming”, “God hates Caffeine”, I’ve heard. To this I stroke the silver can and say, “You’re so misunderstood”. And I mean it. Because diet coke is there for me.
I rarely fall ill. A friend watched me purchase a two-liter bottle and with a disapproving look began yet another that’s-so-bad-for-you-you’re-going-to-die speech. Her particular kicker this time was “we clean toilets with coke”. I assume she meant to suggest that anything used to disinfect toilet-bowls should stay out of the body. I think she’s wrong. diet coke is my personal weapon against sickness. Just as it cleans a toilet, it cleans my insides, killing viral intruders. As those around me cough and sneeze I sip and smile.
There is a price to be paid. About 75 cents a can, more specifically. Plus dental fees. I recently had my first cavity, and my cola and I had our first fight. We took a day or two apart as I contemplated the nature of our relationship, and diet coke sat patiently in my fridge. It was not long before I missed the bubbles, the icy coolness, and slightly bitter aftertaste of my beloved drink. As I opened the fridge, the record player of my mind plaid Peaches and Herbs, and with the first sip I sang along, “Reunited and it feels so good”. From that point on I’ve been fully committed.
Diet coke is the oil that burns at midnight. Every “A” paper written past midnight, which has been all of them, (all have been written after midnight- not all have been “A”s) is thanks to diet coke. A fresh can come about 2 am lends a caffeine-induced clarity of mind otherwise lost to heavy eyelids and a bobbing head.

Come on, skinny love

Do you think librarians read a lot? Or are they just really good at the Dewey Decimal system? If the latter, I'm qualified. Here's why:

(Te be performed as a rap)
"Hi! My name's Dewey. And I work in the library. I got a ladder, long arms, and one day my boss said to me: 'Hey Dewey! Are you busy? I need reference right away!' 000-099, grab the ladder climb and climb!"

And they say the public school system isn't good for much.