I tried online dating once.

After I got my heart ripped out, drop kicked, cut up and impaled on 4 different spikes on all corners of Manhattan (I'm exaggerating. It was 2 spikes), a friend of mine suggested I try online dating. I know you are thinking I'm way too foxy perfect for online dating. Maybe, maybe not.

I signed up, picked out the one picture of me not acting like a drunken baboon, creating the most wittingly charming profile the world has ever seen, and waited for the best.

[crickets]

Yeah, I got no replies. Apparently a profile drenched with sarcasm about the Yankees and Royal Tenenbaums quotes just may not attract, not only men I would want, but any kind of man in particular. Actually, I stand corrected. There were a few guys in the Philippines that contacted me. For what reason I can only assume to be is they confused me with a 12 year old girl, and sought me for some elaborate human trafficking ring.

I took matters in my own hands, and sought out a gentleman suitor for myself I found one guy that was cute (he had scruff, I dig scruff), and his entire profile was about hockey.

Let me tell you what I find attractive in a guy, because we may need to refer back to this later. They go in order of importance:

• Be funny - The most attractive quality of a guy to me is one with a sense of humor. And by "sense of humor," I mean he thinks I'm funny. It's all about me, isn't it?
• Be smart - I only date wicked smart guys. I hope that maybe I'll learn something through osmosis to date guys smarter than I am. Let's face it. That's not that hard.
• Like sports - I'm not saying you have to memorize the back of baseball cards, but I like my men to be men. I don't like guys who mangroom. I don't like guys who don't know what a 6-4-3 double play is.
• You.must.drink. - we all know my last experience with a non-drinker. Let's face it. I drink a lot. I want someone who can go out with my friends and I, who, mind you, drink the same amount, if not more than me.
• Be athletic - You don't have to be running marathons every other week, but I like my guys to be active. Not just sexually, but I would love a guy to go running with me in the morning. And I can't be faster than him. Even if you've developed a beer gut now, at least the guy can say he was all-conference on his basketball team at one point in his life.
  

That's it. Sure, looks are nice, but I've never been that picky in that department. Usually because my other standards are so high, I have to compromise somewhere and looks are usually the first to go.

I've only met one guy in the past year who had all those qualities, and he was the one who chopped up my heart into itty bitty pieces.

I digress.

So back to this dude. He had the sports criteria down. It appears he is a hockey fan, and being that I am a huge puckbunny, I was digging it. He also seemed to be a Mets fan. Word.

So we began to IM each other back and forth. I noticed he had a few grammatical errors in his IMs (he committed the egregious error of "your" vs. "you're"), but I know people who can write like fucking Hemingway and don't use proper grammar in IM's. So I cut him some slack.

We agree to go meet at a bar (surprise), and he suggests trivia. I think this is a good idea. Despite the fact that I can talk to most people, I still think any interaction with others are good to avoid the long awkward pauses. We sit down, order a few, mildly chat about the Rangers chances in the playoffs, and wait for the trivia to start. I let him write, so I could think. I love trivia, but I need to concentrate. Whenever I drink, I lose not only all motor functions, but any grasp of intelligence to which I am so desperately trying to cling.

Question 1: Name 6 members of the Peanut gang.

Crap, I'm already in trouble. Besides a Charlie Brown Christmas, I never really followed anything Peanuts related. I know the basics, Charlie Brown, Peppermint Patty, Lucy, Pig-Pen, and of course Snoopy. Neither of us can figure out a 6th character. OK...so maybe he just doesn't know cartoons. Fine.

Question 2: Name the kind of tree that never sheds its leaves.

Alright thank you 5th grade biology (I AM smarter than a 5th grader, dammit!), I know this answer. It's coniferous. Before the word can escape my mouth, I look down and and the dude is writing down evergreen.

"Excuse me," I say, "I don't think that is right. I think the answer is coniferous."

"What the fuck is that?" he replies.

"A tree, you know, like with cones? Like pinecones? They have needles (technically still leaves). Deciduous trees lose their leaves in fall. Get it CONiferous?"

[blank stare]

"Ok, just write down coniferous. Trust me."

So he does. But he is adamant that he is right until the trivia guy announces that the answer is indeed, coniferous.

Question 3: Name the 4 movies from 1971-1974 to win Best picture.

I give him a chance.

[more blank stares. Awkwardly takes a sip of his Bud Light while I am drinking a Stella.]

"Fuck dude. French Connection, the Sting, and the 2 Godfathers."

I mean, these aren't hard questions, right? RIGHT? In fact, I would say that my 3 year old nephew would be doing better than this guy at this point. Am I being too picky here?

Question 4 (my favorite): Name the tv drama that Andy Griffith stars as a defense attorney...(I tuned out the question at this point)

My date finally shouts, "Oh I know this! Matlock!" As he goes to write down his answer, he doesn't write Matlock, but rather Matt Lock.

Sigh. Check please?

Corey vs. Corey

I ain't gonna lie. My entire freshman year of college, I slept with a picture of Corey Haim above my bed. Clearly he was my favorite. However, with the premiere of this new show, I think it's about time I re-evaluate which Corey is the one with my heart. Let's begin, shall we?

Movies

Corey Haim - Best movie: Lucas, a heartwarming tale about a kid who tries to play football to impress the girl of his dreams. The movie teaches us how not to play football, and to make sure to wear your helmet at all times or else bad stuff happens. Also received top billing over Feldman for License to Drive and the Lost Boys.

Corey Feldman - Goonies, obviously. Other noteworthy appearances: Stand by Me, Gremlins, The Burbs, and Bordello of Blood.

Winner: Feldman. No contest. Yes, I did shed a few tears after watching Lucas recently, but the sheer number of most excellent films Feldman has been in makes him the obvious victor.

Sex appeal

Corey Haim was definitely the hotter of the two as kids. Feldman appears to have aged a little better given the fact that Haim looks resemble a beached whale. I would attribute this to drug use, but it appears our boy Haim had a stroke in the year 2000 so I'm guessing that's why his looks went on the decline.

Winner: Haim. Only cause little kids are hot, and I like guys with partial paralysis.

Drug use

It seems my boy Haim here went to rehab 15 times over his lifetime for his addiction to crack and Valium. Apparently he didn't get the memo that crack is whack. Feldman was arrested for heroin and cocaine possession. Both have admitted to feeling sorry for Lindsay Lohan.

Winner: Feldman. While I admire Haim's crack addiction, his Valium abuse is kind of pussyish. I mean, that is like kids play right there.

Current state of career

Well, both seem to have fallen off the planet in terms of their career which is such a shame. License to Drive was robbed at the Oscars. Robbed, I tell you! However, Feldman had a brief stint on the Surreal Life. Since this show gave birth to Flavor of Love, I hold it in the utmost respect. Where else can you see talent like Mini-Me, Bridget Nielsen, Uncle Joey, Da Brat, Ron Jeremy, Trishelle, Balki Bartokomous all forced together for our viewing pleasure? I mean, when I watch the Surreal Life, I can only liken it to Oceans 11, packed with star power. Haim, um, does he do anything else besides have strokes? It seems he is unemployed now. As I was watching the show, it seems Feldman is doing pretty well for himself. Apparently he didn't spend all his cash on drugs.

Winner: Feldman. Only cause he has got a lot of cash, and I like that in a man.

Relationship status

Feldman is married (dude, his wife is smokin' too). Haim is single. Grrr, baby. Grrrr!
Winner: Haim. I ain't a homewrecker, yo!

The Funny

I ain't gonna lie, I was surprised how pussy whipped Feldman is. Cut the leash man. While Haim is quoted as saying during the show, "Dude, if you're this anal I'm going to break you. Right here, right now." and, "Do I look like I've been laid lately?" (I hear ya, brother) Well, well, well, looks like the Haimster likes sarcasm. I actually laughed out loud at him a few times. Granted, once was when he asked out loud if the olives were, "the regular kind or vegetarian?" Not the sharpest crayon that is for sure.
Winner: Haim. Mainly for calling Feldman out for being such a douche now.

Final Score: 3-3. A tie. Damn you! I need your help people. Which Corey do you love more?

UPDATE: I just witnessed Haim start crying over Ninja Turtles 2, and the Lost Boys 2. Hey Haim, strap on a pair and remove your vagina.

Yo

I'm at the 'Stache again today peeps. Check it out. And leave me more comments than Garrett.

I don't feel like posting anything tonight.

Suck it.

ps, Schiller's bartender, you can especially suck it.

I want to be a part of it, New York, New York.

I work in the Empire State Building. Before you guys get all jealous and wish you were me, please let me inform you that the Empire State Building is nasty. The toilets are old and look like someone shat pizza oil all over the bottom of them that even bleach cannot remove. There is a dead cockroach in the corner on the way to the bathroom that has been dead for a good month now, but no one cleans up. I've also seen a total of 3 roaches (not including the dead one) since I started working there. Not jealous anymore? Good.

Every day I leave work, I leave out the 33rd St. exit of the building. For those of you not familiar with New York, the Empire State Building sits on 5th Avenue between 33rd and 34th streets. There are three entrances, one for each street Naturally, I take the 33rd street entrance every time I arrive/leave the building to avoid the shit show of tourists on 34th and 5th Avenue (34th St. gets all Macy's traffic, 5th Avenue is the main entrance). 33rd St. is kind of sketchy. Lots of parking ramps and parking ramps.

There is also a few porn shops. My favorite is the one with nipple clamps in the window. Yes, this store is about 100 ft . from the biggest tourist spot in all of New York. This is why I love New York, natch.

There are a few other porny shops too--more lingerie, one that sells videos, and of course, there is a nudie bar.

Every day at 5:30 pm I walk by the nudie bar just so I can see someone come out and stare. More often than not, it's a well dressed man with a Blackberry exiting in a hurry as not to be seen. I mean, who goes to a nudie bar at 5:30pm? I've only been to one, and it was in Queens at about 3am. Most of these men have wedding rings on, so I have no doubt they left work early to go see some tig ol' bitties at the local joint before catching a train home to their boring wives and bratty children. It's kind of awesome. And I get to see this shit every day. OK, now you can be jealous.

Welcome to Brazil

There are good things about not having someone to have sex with on a regular basis. I don't have to worry about unwanted pregnancy. I don't have to worry about how I'm going to kick the guy out of my bed in the morning (note: this is why you should always, Always, ALWAYS go home with them. It avoids the awkward conversation, "Um hi, I gotta go walk my dog." "You have a dog?" "Well, no, but I'm going to get one now so you will fucking LEAVE.), no money spent on birth control, I can improve upon my masturbatory skills and watch loads of porn....you get the idea.

There is also the strange phenomenon that seems to have taken over Manhattan that is rapidly spreading throughout the rest of the country that I get to avoid: the Brazilian bikini wax.

Maybe I was just ig'nint, but this shit did not go down when I was in college and high school. You shaved your lady parts and that was that. Upon moving to Manhattan, however, I have discovered that every fucking girl here gets this done.

Now about 90% of my friends here are from the West Coast and the Midwest. I thought they were all like me, only breaking out their razor to trim it down to prevent a bush so long you can braid it.

Not so.

After 6 months of moving here, my friend from St. Louis was complaining about how she had to go during lunchtime to go get it done. It was like we were 13 again, and she just saw a penis for the first time.

Megan: Whoa, what was it like?
Friend: Not that bad.
Megan: [gulp] Did it hurt?
Friend: It wasn't that bad. Don't worry.
Megan: So, should I get this done?
Friend: Megan, like everyone is doing it.

Of course, like in high school, I didn't do it.

A few years ago I was talking to my friend back in Minnesota, and she was explaining how she gets Brazilians too. For those of you not in the know, a bikini wax is simply a wax around your bikini line. A Brazilian, however, removed every inch of hair from your lady parts. And you better believe those lady parts include the two hole. All the they leave behind is a little landing strip, that let's face it, could have flashing lights and a big arrow and most guys couldn't find my clitoris.

I knew I had to do it eventually if it was making its way to the 'sota, however, I didn't want to do it, hate it, and have my boyfriend drool over it every time he saw it. It costs about $50 a pop (that's at the cheaper places) to get this done. It's all very Draconian, I know. Who pays $50 to get hair ripped out of your mons pubis (that one is for you girls)? Well I did.

Once I became part of the single crowd, I figured I should get it done so in case I were to eventually have sexy time with a fella again, he wouldn't have to dramatically pull out a weed wacker from his closet to come say hi to the little lady (did I really just call my poke hole "the little lady"? Did I just call it a "poke hole"?)

I went to a place in Soho that my friend recommended. It was all Dead Man Walking. I was more nervous for this than I was to run the marathon. As I wait in the lobby, I notice all of these attractive females coming out from behind the closed doors. No screaming. Good sign. I thought to myself, "Hey, if these skinny bitches can take it, why can't I?"

Finally a petite blond lady who's accent I cannot place calls me into her chamber of vagina death. She asks me to undress from the waist down (hey lady, you going to at least buy me a drink first?), and then climb up on the table.

She comes back in about 2 minutes later. I tell her it's my first time, and to please be careful. She says she will do her best. She applies the very hot wax the front of my bikini line, applies the paper, pulls my skin taught, and !!!!!!!!!!!!

Holy fucking hell that hurt. She applied more wax, puts another strip down in a location near where she removed the hair before, and !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That one hurt too. I begin to sweat all over, and my eyes begin to tear.

This goes on for a few minutes, and it's agony. Then she applies the wax a little farther back. Oh no no no no lady. Not there. Not there. Not there. Rrrrrriiiiiiippppppp!

And there goes my vulva. I swear to God no one's labia was as attached to its pubic hair as mine was. I just shivered thinking about it.

Oh no, but it's not over yet. She keeps moving farther back. Oh you know where this is going. she applies the wax to my 2-hole. And I wait. And wait. And wait. Nothing.

I relax a little and !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh.my.god.

Once she is done with the longest 3-5 minutes of my life, she rubs baby powder all over me, but what I really want is a shot of morphine. She thanks me, and quietly leaves the room. I thought 3rd base was supposed to be fun? Let me tell you, this was not fun. And forget anyone who says, "It's not that bad." You know what? IT IS. Remember that shot of Andy in 40-Year Old Virgin after he gets waxed and is walking home? Remember seeing the little spots of blood from where his hair was so violently ripped out from its resting place? Yeah, well that shit happens. Except this time it was all over my white underwear.

I'm not really sure why, but I've gotten a few more done since then, then eventually gave up. I was clearly jinxing my sex life. No one was coming home from war. The bedroom was sitting there untouched.

So while I complain all the time to my friends about not getting any, at least my 70's porn star bush and I can keep each other company. Apparently it wasn't my absence of bush/presence of bush that is preventing me from getting laid. It's probably more the fact that most guys are meatsticks that make me want to take a dull blade to my wrists every time I talk to a new one. Either way, my mons pubis hasn't been this happy in a very long time. And for the first time on this blog, I don't mean that in the sexy way.

A dialog from Sunday.

Megan: [wearing bikini] Hey mom, can you put sunscreen on my back?
Mom: Sure.
Megan: [Walks over to mom on couch while grabbing a hand full of Cheese Puffs. Hands her sunscreen.]
Mom: You look good.
Megan: Thanks.
Mom: You know, [Eldest sister] lost 20 pounds.
Megan: I know. I think it is great.
Mom: How much do you weigh?
Megan: [Says weight. Not suitable to post on a blog, but BMI index is certainly below 25]
Mom: Hmmm.
Megan: What?!!?
Mom: Well, I wouldn't have guessed that low. I would think you could lose 5 pounds.
Megan: [Squints eyes while giving mom a most menacing stare. Pops another Cheese Puff into her mouth. Dreams about the hypothetical snapping of her mom's neck.] Yeah.

The End is Nigh!

I'm going to let you guys in on a little secret. I'm not really as cool in real life as I pretend to be on this blog. Hard to believe, right? I know.

The the truth is, I'm kind of a nerd. Okay, that is putting it mildly. I'm a huge fucking nerd. Is it because calculus was my favorite subject in high school? Well, it was, but no. Is it because I have a blog? Hmmmm, again true, but no. Give up? Okay, I'll tell you.

I love fantasy shit.

Let me rephrase that as you might interpret that sentence as me having an adoration for unicorn excrement.

I love fantasy/science fiction stories.

God, that was hard to type out. Let me try again. Hi, my name is Megan, and I like fantasy stories/science fiction. No really, Lord of the Rings: the Two Towers is my favorite movie of all time. I can watch Star Wars on repeat, and one of my favorite authors is H.G. Wells. I guarantee you if I was born male, I would be playing Dungeons and Dragons in my parents' basement as we speak looking forward to a night alone with my Wii remote (rather than being female looking for a night alone with my vibrator). Umm...nerd alert!

So what's my point?

You may have heard of this book called Harry Potter coming out. I've been waiting for this for years religiously checking Muggle Net (dude, I'm not kidding) for any clues as to what will happen in the 7th book. And now the time is almost here for my Harry Potter adventures to cease. The End is Nigh! At 12am Saturday morning, I will be in possession of the key to the magical universe.

I remember when the 6th book came out (a Friday, I believe), my friends and I decided to go to happy hour at the Boat Basin. It was July 2005, and life was good. I figured it was more important for me to be social than to wait in line for a book at 12am (with 12 year olds) that will still be available on Saturday morning. So I drank. And drank. And drank. Between about 10 people, our bill was $600. I know what you are thinking: "Megan, that's only $60 a person. Don't you normally spend that on a night out in New York?" Well, yes, sometimes. But we were ordering buckets of Corona at about $4 per Corona. Sure, I had some dinner, but if my calculations are correct, I had one margarita, and about 8 or 9 Coronas. Just so we are clear, after 6 beers I am thoroughly drunk. 8 drinks and I am belligerent and start wearing sailor hats and shoving straws up my nose. 10+ drinks, and I'm asking garbage men for a ride in their truck at 5am.

At about 12:00am, we pay our bill and decide to part ways. My stomach is starting to turn just thinking about this night. I do remember going into Duane Reade and insisting that my friend let me buy her a Cinderella kiddy thermos (Dude, I totally forgot about that til now. I bet she threw it out! Slut.), and then hopping on the subway with about 3 copies of each of the free periodical/advertisements offered in the breezeway of the drug store advertising gay sex.

I think you get the idea. I was a hot fucking mess.

My friend and I get on the subway to head downtown. She lived in Chelsea at the time, but I had yet to move there. I was living in Murray Hill so I decided to take the subway with her cause it would be fun, and I would have company. Obviously the night would not be worth is until I annoyed the most amount of people possible by using the subway pole as a stripper pole.

I'm still holding about 8 pounds of paper when the train comes. The train is pretty crowded, but a few of the passengers take one look at me and get up to offer my friend and I their seats. Now I'm shouting at random people. Probably something to the effect of, "OH MY GOOOOOODDD I'MMMMM SOOOOO DRUNNKKKK!" Yeah, I was that girl. It's okay to spit on your computer. I deserve it. I'm not proud of how I behaved. Now we're about two stops away from my friend's stop where I was to take a cab across town or die, one of the two, when I turn to my left and I see someone reading the new Harry Potter.

They say when you are drunk and you get a rush of adrenaline, you sober up. Well, I didn't, but I did get excited enough to decide that I was getting that fucking book that night whether I had to blow up Borders to get it or not. I checked my watch. It said 12:45am. It takes about 15 minutes to get across town from where I was. The Borders near my apartment closed at 1am. I was going to do this. I immediately threw the papers at my friend, and yelled at her that I was leaving. I had to do this. It was my destiny. Apparently after I left, some guy asked my friend, "Uh, you sure you should just leave her? To which she replied, "Oh, she is fiiiine." I.love.my.friends.

You know in movies where someone is in a hurry in Manhattan, and they just in a cab, throw money at the cab driver and say, "Take me to this place, and step on it!" Well, I tried that, except it came out more like, "o98S&r98awyq3jb34 hij2y78^^A576$^A%W$s65QR32!!!!!"

I believe God was looking over me that night, and in a moment of clarity the cab driver asked me again where I was going, and I was able to utter two words, and two words only: 31st. 2nd.

Time was running out, but I could definitely make it there before 1am. That is, until my cab approached a garbage truck just parked in the middle of the street. I checked my watch: 5 minutes til 1am. I was about 10 blocks and an avenue away. It was going to be close (just for those of you keeping score: 20 blocks is about a mile. An avenue is about 2 or 3 blocks). I threw some money at the cab driver (when I woke up the next morning, I checked my wallet and concluded I gave him a $20 on a $5 fair) and fucking ran. This wasn't a light jog. I was like Prefontaine in flip flops and a skirt leaping over heaps of garbage on the street with a single bounce.

At literally 12:59 am, I reach the door of Borders just as the security guy is locking it.

"You just made it, honey." He says.

"Iyaerhewkjhriequryq9ew783834uy3^%@#%@GHNweruaittArHQGE!!!!!" I reply.

Now as I was running I somehow had it in my mind that I would simply walk in the bookstore, get my book, and go home. No, this place was a shit show. Children and adults alike waiting on the longest line I have ever seen. Some people were dressed up. These were my people, and I felt at home. A woman thrusts a number into my face as a greeting, and I'm instructed to wait. I'm in the back of the line. God damn.

Now after 10 beers, not only turn into a belligerent dictator, but I also have a penchant for passing out in very inconvenient areas. And missing various parts of my wardrobe. Most recently I hooked up with a guy, and woke up naked on his bathroom floor with my clothes in a pile next to me. I'm not sure why I undressed in the bathroom, but apparently it seemed like a good idea at the time. I only hope that my intention wasn't to take a random shower in his apartment. Did I mention he had a roommate? Yep I'm classy. I know.

So back to Borders. I do my best to be sober as to not scare the kiddies and ask how long of a wait it will be.

"About an hour," someone tells me.

FUUCCCCKKKKKK.

I settle in for the long haul. I find a place on the steps of Borders and attempt to call my boyfriend. At this point it's like I have a concussion, and he is talking to me trying to keep me alive. Instead of a concussion though, he is trying to keep his obnoxiously drunk girlfriend from passing out on the steps of Borders with her skirt up around her waist.
I don't know how it happened, but eventually my number is called, and I get my book. I'm pretty sure my conversation went something like this for an hour:

Megan: "kfjhkfjhekjfhskljdbhksdjbgisuhi^^^^^%@$$gvcvvfwtq77!"
Boyfriend: "Meg, you can do this. You can't turn back now. You must finish! Focus!"
Megan: "zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....wha?"

I run home and attempt to read. Who tries to read drunk? Well I do. And it's fucking hard. I hard to use my finger to follow the words on the page. I believe I re-read the first paragraph about 37 times. That's the last thing I remember. I woke up drooling over the jacket.

But you know what? I woke up hangover free from all that running, rolled over, and began reading. I finished the book in 8 hours.

For this book I'll be in Florida with my parents so I doubt any booze will be involved, but I may have to stab a few old folks in St. Petersburg to get the book at 12am sharp. I am not making the same mistake twice!

Happy Harry Potter Day! I know some of you are going to enjoy Sunday as much as me!When the fuck did Harry get so foxy? I'd totally cougar his ass up.

For SpringFall Break 2007 in St. Petersburg, FL!

me: i'm so excited for our trip

4:45 PM meg: ME TOO

it's def going to be you, me, and lo

maybe carrie and maybe amanda

me: even if it was the 3 of us, we'd have fun

my parents have a king bed if anyone wants to go sexin'

4:46 PM meg: hooray!

me: and two double beds in the other room

but the king is for the sexin

none of my ladies are doing it on a twin

4:47 PM meg: you have such a good heart

4:48 PM me: i know

Just a note: no one will be sexin' with my parents, it's just their condo. They, um, won't be there. We hope.

A post about love...no no, don't go away. It's about music too!

There are pairings in life that are doomed for failure from the beginning. Cat lovers cannot marry dog lovers. Brandon lovers cannot love Dylan lovers. Yankees fans cannot marry Mets fans (hello! I went over this before. Sports bisexuality is intolerable. Either pick sex, or pick your team, but you can't have your fucking cake and eat it too). Chuck Klosterman said in Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs that people are either coke users or pot users. I've never done coke, nor would I ever want to, but I have smoked enough pot in my life to consider a career in hydroponics. I guess that makes me a pot person.

I was talking to Garrett (you remember him, right? My #1 blog crush?) again today having one of our usual in depth philosophical conversations about how great I am or something. I knew he was a Beatles fan, but when I revealed that I was more of a Stones girl, he abruptly ended the conversation citing my love for the Stones as a "deal breaker." Yikes.

You see, like Mets vs. Yankees, coke vs. pot, etc, you cannot have a Stones fan and a Beatles fan in a relationship together. It's just not systemically possible.

Now don't get me wrong. I love the Beatles. Like the rest of the world, I think they are one of the greatest bands of all time. I've Just Seen a Face could be one of my Top 5 favorite songs ever with You've Got to Hide Your Love Away following closely behind. I know Sgt. Pepper's is considered one of the greatest albums ever made, but I'm more of a White Album girl.

That being said, I still think the Stones fucking rawwwwwk. I can't explain it. I just dig the Stones. I've seen them in concert 5 times. I've seen the Beatles...um, well, none (mainly due to the fact that half the members are dead. Please, no comments about Keith Richards.). Luckily, my ex-boyfriend was a Stones guy too. Our arguments were more about which Stones album was the best. I was more of a Let it Bleed kind of girl, he more Exile on Main Street.

SIDE NOTE: There is a subcategory to either preference of Beatles or Stones: Dylan vs. Springsteen. Again, I like both. Love both actually. Thunder Road is one of the greatest songs ever written (along with my favorite line, "You ain't a beauty, but hey, you're alright." Classic), but my love for Dylan is steadfast and impenetrable. My ex-boyfriend would have Springsteen's love child if given the chance. Clearly this is the reason we broke up.

Now back to Garrett and I's conversation. We eventually reconciled when he ceded that Vs. was his favorite Pearl Jam album. I would agree with that. When I was beginning to let him back into my good graces, I told him that I already had our wedding song pick out. I've mentioned this before in a previous post. You see, I'm not one of those girls who plans her wedding from day 1. Fuck, I don't give a shit. As long as there is wedding night sex, I can carry a bouquet of dead Dandylions wearing a white see-through bikini a la Pam Anderson and be happy. I'm such a romantic, I know.

However, the song choice for the first dance is key. It dictates how cool you are as a couple. My song? Helplessly Hoping by Crosby, Stills, and Nash (no Young in this song). I think it is one of the most beautiful song regarding love ever written. You don't have to lose yourself to love someone, but loving someone makes both of you stronger. (NOTE: I haven't really been a true Dave Matthews Band fan since about 2000 as my moniker would lead you to believe. I gave up my allegiance to the band when I was at Soldier Field for a concert, and a chick in leopard pants and heals spilled beer on me. 1) No real DMB fan wears leopard pants, 2) no real DMB fan spills beer. My #2 favorite band, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young was then promoted to the #1 spot. Southern Cross is and will always be my favorite song of all time. Perhaps a name change to CSNYMeg is more appropriate?)

When Garrett informed me he was not a fan of my favorite band, along with the Stones, I knew it was over.

Garrett, it was good while it lasted. Thanks for all the cyber sex.

Sometimes I feel so happy. Sometimes I feel so sad. Sometimes I feel so happy. But mostly you just make me mad.

Dear Guy at Gym,
Hi there. Wait what? What's that? You're motioning for me to take my headphones off? You're wondering when I am done? I don't know, guy. Right now I'm listening to Rage (word!), and I'm kicking ass and taking names on this run. There are other open treadmills open though. You like this one? Oh I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you wanted me off this treadmill so you can walk at 3.5 mph on a 1 degree incline. Yes, I realize there is a 20 minute limit to the treadmill, but that is only if all the treadmills are full. I see about 4 open now. Oh you'll wait? Ok, cool. I love having people stare me down while I'm running. Watch this, I'm going to slow down from 7.5 to 5.0 mph because I'm "tired."

Eat a dick, asshole.

Love,
Megan

Dear Bank of America,
Hi, remember me? I called you Thursday when my wallet was stolen. You said you canceled my credit card(s)? Yeah, well I just checked and the assholes who took my wallet and are going to town at Macy's and Daffy's all weekend. I don't understand this. If I was going to steal a credit card, I'd be off to Bergdorff's to get me an obnoxiously priced YSL bag. I'm sorry. Back to the fact that you never canceled my card. What's my card number? Oh..umm...well, I don't know cause it was stolen. I'll hold for a transfer. Sure. Hi, yes. Yes, my card was stolen and I need to cancel...wait, my card number? But it was sto- sure, I'll hold for a transfer. Hi, who is this? The Identity Protection Department? Yeah, but I just wanted to- ok, I'll sign up for the free service. We're done? Can you transfer me back to the credit department to I can cancel my card? You don't have that capability? What are you, a robot? How did I get here in the first place? Who? Where am I? I want my mommy.

More like Bank of My Ass.

Love,
Megan

Dear Tourists of New York City,
I know. You are excited. I love this city too. But you see this building right here? The one where you just asked me the location of about 20 feet outside from where we are standing now? Yeah, look up. I know! It's so tall! However, you see, it's still an office building, and I work here. Yeah, I know it's the most recognizable landmark in all of New York, but when you hold hands with all 7 members of your family like you're about to play Red Rover in front of the turn style, I can't get to my office. Can you wait til I walk by to finish taking your picture? Look man, I just got to walk 10 feet past you. I'm trying to be nice so I don't ruin- ok, no seriously. Stop taking pictures. I don't want to be part of a family al-DUDE, how many pictures do you need of a wall? Stop, I'm in this one too- no, wait. I'm almost-I SAID NO FUCKING PICTURES!

You don't see me going down to Initech and taking pictures of your cube, now do you?

Take your fanny packs, and your sensible walking shoes, and shove it.

Love,
Megan

Reason #134,551 I hate Time Warner Cable

I'm sitting in a pool of my own urine from laughing.

They all say that great minds think alike. So do not-do-great minds. And also drunk minds.

Most of you think I forgot my helmet at home, and missed my ride on the short bus home from work. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to my friends. And they are just as bad as me. I apologize for not embedding, but Xanga is for 13 year olds who are still using their parents' old Gateway computer (sorry Gates).

Video 1.

Megan, why are you running like you have a wooden leg? Didn't you used to be an athlete? I love the end when someone (who?) starts screaming, "FIIIINNNIIISSSHHH!" Megan does her best impression of Monty Python's Olympiad Athletes with No Sense of Direction at the end:

**I just spent 5 minutes laughing at the Marathon for Incontinence. Focus, Megan (me). Focus!

Video 2.

Kate does her best impression of a drunken fool, and succeeds admirably after breaking her humerus. Pay close attention to Gracie, the dog, and what Kate says at the end. Also notice how Megan says "revolutions" like Kate may be attempting to storm the Bastille later in the day.

Video 3.

My friend Katie. The newest member of the Crypts [I'm leaving this up only cause it's so funny]. Or the Bloods. Or is she Ted Kacsynski? Whatever. All I know is I have no idea what hand she is about to play! What a Poke Her Face!

Sigh. I wish I could have been there.

Coffee Pot, Coffee Pot, I love you!

On Saturday I went to the Bohemian Beer Garden in Astoria to have a few ice cold brewskies with my friend Meg (and just to clarify people, since there seems to have been some confusion this weekend. I am Megan who is occasionally called Don, DonJuan, [Megan's last name to prevent google search]. Meg is Meg. And Megan is Megan. But sometimes she is Gates. Or Gatesy. Oh, and Meghan may also be Megs, but frequently she is Meghan, but more often than not she is Han. She does not have a blog. What? I TOLD you guys I was a narcissist that only hangs out with people of the same name as herself. Moving on)

It was at this beer garden when I met the famous Curly McDimple of Ham and Cheese on Wry. As soon as I met her I knew I liked her. We bonded on our way to the bathroom, giggling like school girls as we walked. Actually, it was probably a little more like, "Get the fuck outs my way ho's! I gotsta pee!"

As we were waiting in line for the bathroom, we noticed a gathering of strange props just to to the right of where we were standing. Included in this gathering was a small metal crutch for midgets with curling ribbon wrapped around it (I never saw it. Apparently a drunk girl in heels took it before I had the chance to myself), a regular wooden crutch missing the rubber stopper at the end, and a coffee pot without the carafe. I turn to Curly, "Dude, what if I just take the coffee pot and walk out with it?" Curly's face lights up, "Do it!"

I grab the coffee pot, electrical chord dangling, and go to leave the indoor restrooms. As I'm about to walk outside, I notice there is a security guard standing by the doorway. I know that she stands in the way of all my coffee pot glory, so I hold my baby tight and walk by her like this is an everyday occurrence. She glances at the coffee pot, then turns her head away. I walk past her as Curly is attempting to stifle every bit of laughter attempting to come out. Now I'm outside holding a coffee pot walking among about 1000+ people in a beer garden in Queens. I wish I was like the Terminator and could have replayed the looks I received from people as I was walking outside. I get to my table, and everyone is looking at me like, "Where the fuck did you get a coffee pot?" I explained the situation, and everyone laughed. The table next to us called me over after about 10 minutes of watching me hold a coffee pot while drinking.Guy: My friends and I have a bet here of why you are carrying around a coffee pot. We have come up with 3 conclusions.
Megan: OK let's hear them.
Guy: Postpartum depression
Megan: No, sorry. That's just a beer gut. I am not aware of having anything growing in my uterus.
Guy: Bachelorette Party?
Megan: Yeah, that would be one awesome bachelorette party! 'Hey guys! I brought the coffee pot! Let's paaarrttyyyyy!'
Guy: Hm, ok. Third, you're crazy.
Megan: Your most viable conclusion yet. Actually, I'm just carrying it around for fun because there was a coffee pot in the bathroom, and I have no idea why. SO yeah, I guess I am crazy.
I spoke to them for a few minutes longer, then went back to my own table.

Meg deepthroated a toaster, then made out with a microwave later.

Eventually the novelty of holding the coffee pot wore off until I was about to leave. Everyone I was with insisted that I must leave with the coffee pot. If security was to question where I acquired my possession, I must either a) get indignant and scream, "WHAT!?! You let me take Coffee Pot in, but not OUT? I can't leave without coffee pot!" or b) throw the coffee pot over the wall, run through the door, and seemlessly catch Coffee Pot on the other side. Considering I'm not the bionic woman, I chose option a. I was kind of hoping that someone would approach me, but only one security guard noticed I was carrying a coffee pot under my right arm, and all he did was laugh.
So I'm on the street, alone, in Queens, carrying a coffee pot now. I don't drink coffee, nor if I did, would be sure the damn thing would even work. I start looking for a trash can when my internal dialogue kicks in.

Megan: You have to take this coffee pot home with you on the subway.
Megan: You're a genius, Megan.
Megan: You're going to be Crazy Coffee Pot lady!
Megan: Suuu-weet!

Now, many of you probably don't believe me. Lucky for all of you, I'm not afraid to make an ass out of myself in public, so I documented the event in pictures.

Coffee Pot gets ready to leave Queens. Awwww!

The look on that guy's face made my year.This guy insisted on a photograph with Coffee Pot as well. When I was about to take the picture, he he stopped me to put his sunglasses on. There is a very attractive woman sitting behind him (hidden by Coffee Pot) that I believe he was trying to score with. This guy was so cool, I hope he scored as well.This guy wanted to hold Coffee Pot too. When I was done with the picture, his cunt of a girlfriend muttered just loud enough for me to hear, "Don't you ever do that again!" Yes, sweetheart, clearly I wanted to fuck your fine man meat specimen of a boyfriend right there on the subway. The key to seducing random guys on the subway is to be drunk, and carry a coffee pot. Breaking News: Coffee Pot makes it to Manhattan! Sees the Flatiron Building for the first time!These ladies like white things, like me and Coffee Pot.Coffee Pot goes to Home Depot. Maybe a little Bed, Bath and Beyond. I don't know if we'll have enough time.Hard to see, but this is a remote control Monster truck some guy was driving down the sidewalk (God, I love New York). I figured Coffee Pot could use a little fornication (couldn't we all?) and I set her down for some good ol' electronic pumping.Coffee Pot enjoys a good "blowout sale" at Burlington Coat Factory.These guys had so much fun with Coffee Pot and me, they invited me for a ride in their Shaggin' Wagon. I declined.Coffee Pot finally makes it home. Possibly a little wiser, somewhat haggard, and mostly definitely knocked up with an illegitimate toy monster truck child.

THE END.

I am the Connect Four Champion, bitches!

Lolo thinks she has a chance!

I'm very strategic as I plot red's annihilation.

Champion. I love the utter look of defeat on her face as she tries to figure out what went wrong with her game plan. Sometimes when confronted with greatness, people just don't stand a chance.

UPDATE: Apparently Lo is pissed that I did not mention she won one game. Yes, readers, she won one. I will not say how many I won for fear of embarrassing her, but let's just say it's between 3 and 5, not inclusive. Love you, honey :)

The Blog Crush

There comes a time in every lady's life when she grows breasts (some larger than others), diddles the man in the boat (some more often than not....mainly, me more often than not), and develops her first blog crush. You don't have to have a blog to have a blog crush. The rules are finite however, and must be adhered to exactly to have a proper blog crush. I'm sorry Todd, I may profess my love to you every time I see you, but you don't count since I actually know you.

1. You must have been reading there blog thoroughly for at least a month - One post isn't going to do it. You need serious commitment for this to work. Occasionally, your blog crush may turn borderline Fatal Attraction, and you find yourself checking his/her blog every two seconds waiting for a new post. I've never done that. Riiiight.
2. Like I mentioned above, you absolutely cannot know the person. Considering I actually know about 75% of the people on my blogroll, this has proven difficult for me to retain an actual blog crush.
3. Guys can have no other blog crushes besides me. And maybe her. And her. And her(s). And her. OK and her too.

Got it? Good.

Now over my years of blogging, I have developed several blog crushes. Grrrr, baby, grrrrr! Now I'm going to let you see inside my great blog crushing world. And being that I just ate about 5 pounds of grapes, anything I do at this point might be crushing.

1. Dan at [redacted] - So he has a girlfriend who he appears to be madly in love with? So all of the female/gay male "blogosphere" (God, please kill me for just typing that) seem to be in love with him. His was the first blog I started reading. Without him, there may not be a dmbmeg for you to love and enjoy. For that reason alone, we should all love him.
   
2. Dr. Monkey von Monkerstein - he named me as his blog crush first. Anyone who digs me, I am obviously into. I am happy to return the favor. Plus, he seriously hot. Check out his Flickr on the right side bar while you are checking out his site.
3. Jebus at JebusHChrist - sure, he seems to love himself a little too much. Sure, CrimeNotes seems to love him a little too much. But hey, no one ever accused me of being that picky. You got a pulse? Sure let's go!
4. TK at Uncooked Meat - TK is my unsung hero. While a vicious anonymous "female" commenter attempted to circumcise me with words, TK immediately jumped to my defense. Sure, he is married, but his infinite number of posts regarding resumes just gets me so hot.
5. Garrett Reid at This Blog Is Not Funny - When I read a comment from Garrett at work, I'm usually doing something really important (like building the ultimate paper airplane or perhaps trying to bite my toenail(s)). Occasionally he will IM me, and I will get a funny feeling down there. Not sure what that feeling is. My mom says it's a naughty place that I shouldn't ever touch.

Gentlemen...you know where to find me. Ok maybe you don't, but just pretend like you do, cool?

NOTE: They go from least amount of crushing to most. I only like to count up, not down.

Hey asshole!

If you are going to steal my wallet and charge over $800 in 3 hours on my check card, as well as $500 at Macy's (duh, you have no taste. Go to Bloomingdales next time!) on my credit card, best not to use it to pay your fucking wireless bill.

Asshole.

And Victoria's Secret is for trashy girls with bad dye jobs.

And to the asshole who stole my old blog address

Say hi to my mother. She'll probably like you more than me.

You Don't Look Really Great Shithead

S.P.U.D.!

I got my passport ready and headed into Brooklyn for a BBQ chance to drink out of a Solo cup in the middle of Prospect Park last Friday. During the course of the evening, props were brought to entertain all of us, mainly waterguns and a plastic CareBear ball. Word.

Eventually I start feeling all sporty, like a fucking drunk Mia Hamm in flip flops. But hotter. Not like beautiful hot, but hot hot. It's hotter than balls here lately. Eventually I start kicking FriendshipBear or BedtimeBear or whatever CareBear is on the ball around. A few of my fellow BBQers join in. We got a nice little game of "Let's Pretend We All Are Really Good At Soccer" game going.

Suddenly, I get an idea. An idea so genius even I was impressed with myself. We're going to play S.P.U.D.

Did anyone else play this? Back in Minnesota, the kids in my neighborhood and I used to play it during the summer at night while all of our mothers tried to drink as many gin and tonics as they could in the small time period their kids were not around.

The game involves everyone standing around in a circle. One person throws the ball up in the air as high as they can while shouting someone else in the circle's name. That person called must then catch the ball. As soon as the ball is caught, they must yell "SPUD!" as loud as they can so everyone running can stop. The person then has four steps (a step for each letter in S.P.U.D.) to get as close to someone as possible, then throw the ball. If it hits the other person (you can dodge the ball, but you cannot move your feet), they get an "S". If that person catches the ball, the thrower gets an "S". The person receiving the letter, be it the person throwing or dodging, is next to throw the ball in the air and calls someone's name. Once you acquire all 4 letters, you are out. This goes on until there is only one player left.

Awesome, right? Right.

Now once we start playing, everyone is into it. I don't know about you, but I always enjoy balls flying at my head. After 10 minutes though, you can see the game is wearing on us. I'm sweating profusely, and panting. Now I'm not even in that bad of shape, but this shit is hard. I remember playing this game for hours as a kid too. Now at the end of the game, half of us are keeled over on a park bench wondering what became of our youth, while the other half are smoking.

Clearly we aren't kids anymore.

Anyone up for playing in Central Park with me soon?

A combination of lack of sleep and really shitty news...

Is preventing me from actually writing anything noteworthy (uh, like anything I write is). Anyways, please accept my night off, and watch this. It had me giggling for hours. Why are we not as cool as the Japanese? Seriously!

M-I-C-K-E-Y....GET THAT FUCKING THING OUT OF MY HOUSE!

If you are eating, I am warning you, please put your food down. What you are about to read could make you throw up in your shoe. Actually, scratch that. It will undoubtedly make you throw up in your shoe.

Sunday morning I woke up from my self imposed "night off". It's amazing how a night of not turning tricks will make you feel refreshed. I got out of bed, stretched, and inhaled deeply. There was a slight foul odor in my room. I looked around making sure I didn't by accident leave an empty or half empty pizza boxes scattered in my room. Hey, it's been known to happen.

I kind of dig through my laundry on the floor a bit. Not dirty laundry. Clean laundry. You see, I have this thing. I'm messy. Not dirty (Well, a little dirty, but the good kind), but messy. I will do laundry, but then leave it in my laundry basket until I have to dig through it for clean underwear. That's the motherfucking high life right there, I tell you.

So I kick around my clean laundry a bit, and take one more glance around the room before I head into the shower for a boozy brunch with my friend. $15 "all you can drink"--clearly they have never met me before. I digress. As I am going to leave determined to show them what "all you can drink" means to me, I turn off my A/C which has been blasting air all night since it's about 175 degrees here now. I leave my apartment.

About 2.5 hours and 5 or 6 Bloody Mary's later, I am greeted at my door by a blast of warm, sticky, putrid air. Seriously. It smells like hot garbage in my apartment. I mean, I bet you could use Lindsay Lohan's vag as an air freshener, and it would smell better than this shit. I am convinced I have eaten a live salmon or something while drunk, and left the remains in my bedroom under my pillow or something. I go in and attempt to follow the stench.

I turn on my A/C again thinking that will clean out the air. I notice out of the corner of my eye there is something on my wall, right below the outlet. I adjust my eyes. Then I see it.

You see that? That ain't Mickey Mouse folks. That's a really dead, electrocuted mouse. And it's in my bedroom. Did I mention it smells like hot garbage?

I have yet to utter a sound. I run back into my living room, and immediately look who is online. The only friend that lives somewhat close to me is Flop. Flop calms me down and tells me not to touch the thing, dial 311 (like a step down from 911 here), and have them come over to remove the mouse. Cause you know, I don't want to end up like my little friend here, shitting all over myself as I have 8 million volts cook me alive.

I call 311. A nice lady answers, and I immediately start shouting. Those of you who have heard me speak know my voice is already like nails on a chalkboard. When I get excited, it gets louder and goes up about 8 octaves. I'm pretty sure I broke every piece of glass within a 2 mile radius with my shrieking.

Megan : THEREISADEADMOUSEINMYELECTRICALSOCKETANDIDONT
WANTTOGETITOUTORIWILLELECTROCUTEMYSELF!
Operator: I'm sorry?
Megan [deep breath]: There is a dead mouse in my electrical socket. I don't want to remove it and get electrocuted!
Operator: [gasps]
Megan: I know!
Operator: I feel so bad!
Megan: I know!
Operator: For the mouse!
Megan: Wait, what?

The operator then tells me that any removal of dead animals from private property is the responsibility of the super/landlord. Yeah, uh one thing though. My super isn't answering his phone. And my landlord uses a management company. It's Sunday. No one is fucking working.

I ask her if she can make an exception since my safety is at risk. "I have to check with my supervisor," she tells me, "Please hold."

She comes back two minutes later, "Ma'am I'm sorry. We can't do anything." She wishes me her best, and we hang up.

Ohfuckingjesuschristimgoingtohavetotakethisthingoutmyself.

I call my super one last time to leave another rather panicked message. This time he picks up, but informs me he won't be back into the city until 9pm or 10pm. In "super talk" that mean I probably won't see him til 1pm the next day. It's 4pm. Dickwad.

I IM Flop again. He reminds me to only use wood (thanks, Flop), and to be very very careful. I grab a wooden spoon and a rubber spatula, put on my flip flops (don't they always tell you to wear rubber shoes?), hold my breath and go to work.

In case you can't tell from the picture, the little guy really got himself wedged in there. The only part of him showing is his ass, his tail, and his left leg. The rest of him was wedged behind the socket on the right (Note: for some reason or another, a cover was never put over the socket since I've been living here for about 2 years. I just figured they didn't make that configuration cover). I go to touch him with the spoon...I make contact...

AND HIS FUCKING SKIN FALLS OFF.

That little fucker was fucking decomposing. IN MY BEDROOM. No wonder it fucking smelled so badly. I seriously want to throw up knowing that thing was crawling around possibly at nice over my face while I was sleeping peacefully. What if that shit caught on fire and I died? It would be a death by mousing.

Anyways, after his skin falls off, I do another squeal and run in place for like 5 seconds. You know, what chicks and really pussy guys do when they encounter something gross. I run back into the living room.

I then try calling everyone in my phone. Well not the girls, but literally every guy. I'm all for feminism til it's something I don't want to do. Then I'll be the first one saying, "But I'm a giiiirllll. I don't waaannnnnaaa."

When no one immediately responds, I start calling friend's for their boyfriends help. The only one I can get a hold of is my friend Chris. I tell her the story, and beg her to "let" her boyfriend come over and help me. While she is equally as horrified as I am, she informs me that her boyfriend is studying for the bar.

Don't these people have any fucking priorities? I'm dying over here.

I call my super one last time, BEGGING for him to come sooner. He says he will "see what he can do." Dickwad.

I return to Flop. My last chance at any kind of help. I offer him what any girl would do in my situation. Not sexual favors, no. Money. He kindly offers to come over free of charge as long as I "keep working on the thing." [Fingers crossed behind my back]. Sure, Flop, no problem. I then do the usual chick thing, "No Flop. You don't have to. I'll find someone else. [SIGH]" Flop in turn replies, "I'm leaving in 5 minutes. I'm not going to fight for the privilege of rodent dislodgement activities."

Ha.

So he comes over about 15 minutes later, and I'm telling Megan on the phone what is going on by giving her the comparison of the image of the mouse's skinless body to a raw chicken breast. But darker. I hang up with her.

Flop comes with me into my apartment. I make sure to walk before him with air freshener to make sure he doesn't smell 100% pure hot decomposing mouse garbage. He takes one look at the thing and says, "I ain't getting that shit out. Let's go get a beer."

Flop is nice enough to keep me company for a bit, until my super randomly calls back. "I'm upstairs," he tells me, "come on up." I swear to god I was like Mighty Mouse (HA!) out of that door. And yes, I do have the most wonderful, shady bar directly below my apartment.

I meet my super upstairs, open the door, and he grimaces at the smell. "See?" I say. He puts on his gloves, turns off the remaining electrical circuits that might give him a shock, goes over to my dead friend, grabs him by the tail and yanks him out in one shot.

And that's the end. The most traumatic moment of my life over in 10 seconds. What am I doing tonight? Re-washing all the clean laundry that was on my floor, as well as my sheets, and dry cleaning my comforter. I slept on the couch last night in fear. Every slight movement from the cars outside had me convinced my little friend had come from the afterlife to seek his revenge.

And to the hero of the story, Flop, my only friend in my time of need, I dedicate this song to you. Without you, I might still be sitting in an apartment with dead things in it.

There's a hero
If you look inside your heart
You don't have to be afraid
Of what you are
There's an answer
If you reach into your soul
And the sorrow that you know
Will melt away

[Chorus:]
And then a hero comes along
With the strength to carry on
And you cast your fears aside
And you know you can survive
So when you feel like hope is gone
Look inside you and be strong
And you'll finally see the truth
That a hero lies in you

It's a long road
When you face the world alone
No one reaches out a hand
For you to hold
You can find love
If you search within yourself
And the emptiness you felt
Will disappear

[Chorus]

Lord knows
Dreams are hard to follow
But don't let anyone
Tear them away
Just hold on
There will be tomorrow
And in time
You'll find the way

[Chorus]

Thank you, Flop. Thank you.

I told you I wouldn't leave you!

Hey dudes.
Glad you found me again. As you may have heard, my mom found my blog. Unlike some people's mothers who are cool with the life of a single 20-something in Manhattan (i.e. sex, drugs, and motherfucking rock & roll. Ok no, I lied. I'm actually in my pajamas on a Saturday night watching Clue. Go figure.)

So I suppose I should give you a little background on what happened.

It was Tuesday morning, and I was in a great mood as I was getting off work at 1pm for the 4th to go drinking with all them cool New York blogging kids. It's always a great chance to tell each other how great we are.

Anyways, at around 10am, I get back from a meeting and hear my cell phone beeping. It's a message from my sister. She says with a very somber tone, "Megan, it's [your sister]. Call me right away."

I immediately think someone is sick or dying. My palms are already clamming up, and my heart rate has increased. Just in those 10 seconds. Most of you know my mom is sick, so a little part of me freaks every time I see a family member calling at an abnormal time of day during the week.

So I call her.

Megan: Hey [sister], what's going on?
[sister]: Mom found your blog. Apparently she read all this stuff about your vagina, and how you are back together with [ex-boyfriend].
Megan: uh...
[sister]: Yeah, she is flipping out. She is telling me, "I didn't raise my daughter like that."
Megan [thinking]: Yeah, well maybe if she stopped shopping long enough to know I was her kid...
Megan: Look [sister], I make no apologies for my blog. Truth is, there are people there who enjoy it. Anyone who knows me know it is an extension of me, not all I am about.

This went on for another 10 minutes, but I was at work and felt it was inappropriate to talk about there. Not to mention I was furious at my mother for trying to get the family against me rather than talking about it directly to me, because then apparently my mother then tried to force my dad to read some of the entries. Remember the one about how I was contemplating having sex with my ex? Well, yeah, that's one post she found. My mother is hardly that computer savvy, but over Christmas, I had to edit a post. Thinking I deleted out all the history from her computer, I went about my business.

Apparently not.

When looking to google something, she realized my blog history was still showing up in her browser. She then discovered 3 posts which she called "emails", one of which was the Ex Sex post (which I, in horror of finding out your whole family knows about your sex life, deleted immediately), and the other being the one about my visit(s) to the gynecologist. My mother, being the woman that she is, then interpreted that as I went to a baseball game with my ex-boyfriend (it was actually my roommate) that I am secretly dating again (we haven't spoken on the phone since September), and that there is something wrong with my vagina. Other than the lack of attention she (my vagina, not my mother) is receiving lately, I assure you there is nothing wrong with her.

2 hours after my initial phone call from my sister, I receive a rather seemingly scathing email from my dad, not about the blog as he had enough class/sense to know that he shouldn't be reading it, but rather about how stupid I was to leave any evidence of the blog for my parents to find. AND HE CC'ED MY SISTERS TO MY WORK EMAIL. God dammit.

I received some feedback from people saying I should say, "Fuck all y'all!" However, why ideally that would be sweet, I have always been ridiculed and teased in my family. While I am very extroverted in all other aspects of my life, when I am with my family I am withdrawn. I have never felt accepted by them as they (and I'm somewhat generalizing here. Some family members are better about this than others) have, and still to this day always looked at me like I am 12. It comes with the territory I suppose of having sisters 9 and 10 years older than you. Everyone wants to take care of me. I guess I can't blame them though. I am adorable.

And yes, maybe I do have the maturity level of a 12 year-old, but in reality I'm a soon-to-be 27 year-old woman with a healthy sexual appetite that enjoys making people laugh. I mean come on, it's not like I had been snorting lines of coke off of guys' dicks here.

Did I also mention that I am the only ardent liberal in a family of Bush voters? Yeah, my whole life has been, "Oh just wait until you start paying taxes, then your feelings will change." Now that I am paying taxes it's, "Just wait until you have kids, then your feelings will change." I swear to god, when I through a fit about Reagan when I was 5 (actually it was probably a fit about my 64 pack of Crayola Crayons missing Raw Sienna), my family said, "Just wait until you get to elementary school, and your feelings will change."

You know what? They're not going to change.

My sister (the one I'm pretty close to) and I were giggling about the fact that she had to listen to my mom talk about "penises like pencils" and "bajiners"--that's Brooklyn for "vaginas". I'm giggling again. I'm sorry she wound up in that position though.

So that's it. The only person from my family I would consider let read this would be the sister I am close to. But even that's a difficult pill for me to swallow. I love her to death, but to have your sister who has always looked at you as her "little sister" now look at you as the "mature" woman you are now is a little fucking scary.

Ooooooh. I said FUCCCKKKK!

To revise what Jay-Z once wisely said, I got 99 problems, but a blog ain't one.

OK now back to the funny. Or the stuff I think is funny that is usually received with blank stares.

EXPLETIVE EXPLETIVE EXPLETIVE!

I accidentally deleted my whole entire blog, and was only halfway through transferring the archives.

Does anyone know how to get this back? I feel like I just lost a part of my life.

I'm drunk, I'm pissed, and I'm about to rant.

I'm horrible luck. Shitty horrible luck. Every time I go to Yankee Stadium those fuckers win. I've been to Yankee Stadium about 20 times in the 4 years that I've lived in NY, and literally every single time they have won.

So tonight my friend emails me with tickets, and you know of course they are playing my beloved team. Boof is pitching (I never get tired of saying his name, BOOOOOOOF!), so I have some faith. Better than that ass-hat Carlos Silva. And what happens? The coldest player in baseball, Bobby Abreu, goes 3-4 with a go-ahead homer, and fucking Father Time himself, Roger Clemens, pitches 8 innings with 2 fucking hits. TWO FUCKING HITS. 5-1. I didn't even get to throw some Viagra at him. Can you hear my heart breaking?

Not to mention I accidentally went up the stairs in the wrong section (um, hello vertigo!), and had all of the Tier level catcalling me.

"Honey, you lost?"
"Baby, I got your seat right here!"
"Santana blows!"

How original. Go try and suck your own dicks, assholes. You're still behind the Twins in the Wild Card race. By quite a few games. And such harassment would never happen to a respectable young lady as myself at the Metrodome. I'm so offended!

See how angry I am? This is what Yankee Stadium does to me. I'm normally so lovable! No, really! I am!

PS. Joey Mauer... I'm single. Call me! Kisses!

Oh yeah, and I did threaten to beat up a kid who kept on yelling, "the TWINS SUCK" on the 4 train at me on the way home. What? The little asshole deserved it. I could probably sit on him, and he would die. Die I tell you!