Faces: Pros & Cons

In the past month, I have been called everything from a "6 and a half" to "naturally beautiful" to, as of last week, a "FUCKIN' UGLY BITCH!" (The verdict is apparently in, if volume of voice counts for anything)

This broad and meaningless range of comments has got me thinking more about these mugs of ours and the undeniable power they hold over so many different aspects of life, including who we spend time with, what we do with that time, what we concern our thoughts/conversations with, etc. Ultimately, the random arrangement of a few holes and anatomical parts atop our necks can end up determining the path of our life, for better or worse.

Research has documented that babies as young as 2 days old prefer to look at faces that are "symmetrical" (the alternative being the ever-ominous "asymmetrical", a label that routinely triggers images in my mind of both Quasimodo and my high school math teacher).
2 DAYS?? I mean, I understand the evolutionary purpose of being able to recognize and prefer certain faces early on- a skill that allowed our ancestors to discriminate between harmless family/acquaintances and potentially harmful intruders...but at what point in our evolutionary past did these facial recognition patterns become so acute that at age 48 HOURS they could rival those of a Miss America judge?
Just who do those shallow, self-proclaimed beauty critics think they are?\

Fuckin' babies. And their cute fuckin' faces.

But...what is a face? And WHY does its physical makeup influence so much of how we perceive others, ourselves, and the world at large?

Imagine a world without the burden of our ever-criticizing eyes. Imagine a world in which the top of our bodies is merely unperforated skin stretched across an oblong frame, with a few hairs coming out of the top (Alfalfa-style). No eyes that are too close together, no eyebrows that are too thick, no nose that's too prominent, no lips that are too thin, no teeth that are too crooked. Nothing to make superficial judgements about, nothing to divert our attention from more meaningful, lasting qualities...just an unassuming blob of skin.
Think of how much more we could accomplish in life without the distraction of a beautiful woman's alluring eyes or a meth addict's hideous pock marks. Or, on a more serious note, without the cosmetic (surgery) industry, without the pervasive self-absorbed media, without racial, ethnic, or "attractiveness" discrimination/stereotyping.

Most days I vacillate between the above contemptuous feelings towards our society's obsession with faces, and the other, more instinctual feelings of warmth and familiarity that I receive from seeing a close friend or family member.
FACES!! Who am I to wish they'd morph into nothingness?? They are beautiful, wonderful; they are US. The lid to our bodies, the canvas of our souls, the first thing we notice, the last thing we kissed.

Both blessing & curse, obstacle & aid, our face is our face. It's how we express ourselves emotionally, smile at a stranger, speak kind words to a friend, see/hear/smell/taste the world. Without them we'd be...well, if nothing else, an excellent candidate for a role in Sleepy Hollow. And that was like the worst Tim Burton movie ever.



So yeah, faces. For me, one of the ultimate trade-offs in life.

Can't achieve complete clarity/objectiveness with 'em, literally could not survive without them.

Unless, of course, you happen to be the subject of a Magritte painting.

Get Out Your Dick

This summer was my most unforgettable yet. I went to NYC to work for a non-profit that accompanies adults with developmental disabilities on vacation trips all over the east coast. Besides meeting a slew of eclectic/unforgettable personalities and making hilarious memories, I also had the opportunity to explore arguably the greatest city in our country.

So now that I'm done with my politically correct, self-aggrandizing intro, I can continue on to the good stuff.

Within my 5 weeks spent in NY, I went on 3 5-day trips. Every trip had 3 leaders and 11 developmentally disabled participants, whom we would drive around in a 15-passenger (read: Rapist) van, along with their 5 pieces of luggage each, unnecessarily containing enough clothes and supplies to last Napolean's army through a Russian winter.

My first trip was to Maine, and by far the most memorable participant was a 6'3" Eastern European dude named "Ivica". He had a bald head, buck teeth, and thick curly hair that grew in patches on his back, surrounding a smattering of suspiciously-large moles. His favorite ritual performed before every meal was to bear hug me and tell me I looked "nice". Because why the fuck would you offer thanks to an invisible old man up in the clouds when you could show your gratitude towards the hot chick right next to you?

My second trip was to Baltimore on a "baseball roadtrip". We used the term "baseball roadtrip" loosely for, let's all slobber over Megan all weekend. Seriously, a game on the car ride home was "What was your favorite outfit of Megan's this weekend?" (My two co-leaders were, you guessed it: men)
Despite (because of?) enduring countless advances/comments from 50 year old mentally retarded men that would more than qualify for sexual harrassment, the baseball roadtrip was by far my favorite of the 3 trips.

The last, however, proved to be the most worthy of blogging about.
For a whole week, I was stuck with two obnoxious female co-leaders. One was a 6'1" German tank (weighing in at at least 250 lbs), who I had Nazi nightmares about every night we slept in the same room. ("You eat my schnitzel or I call Herr Hitler!") The other was an exasperatingly BRIGHT and HAPPY Irrrish girl, who had an distasteful affinity for Lady Gaga and never stopped consuming caffeine of some sort.

On the last day of the trip, we were driving back into the city from Massachusetts, when we landed ourselves smack in the middle of a summer downpour and back-to-back Sunday afternoon traffic. We were on i-95 coming into the George Washington Bridge, going about .25 miles an hour. One of our participants (I'll name him "John") had been complaining for some time that he had to go to the bathroom, and I could feel my own weak bladder muscles giving in to the liter of water I had downed in the past hour. Because of John's expressed urgency, (and a few failed pee-in-a-cup attempts of mine) we decided that screw it, we were pulling over on one of the busiest interstates in New York, and John and I were gonna piss on the side of the road in the pouring rain.

Goooood times.

Well, I didn't think much of it until a few days later, when I was called into the office to complete my "exit interview" at the end of my stay. Overall, the program leader had very positive things to say about my work over the past month. About 15 minutes of praise went by and then...
"So there was one thing that I wanted to ask you about...on your last trip both of your co-leaders (Nazi tank + Gaga Mick) mentioned on their evaluation sheets that you told a client to quote "Get out your dick" before peeing with him on the side of the road. Now, I wasn't there and I don't know the context, but...."

While she continued, I sat there speechless as I felt ALL the blood in my body rush up to my face. Holy. Shit. Dicks.

Although I never remember saying "get out your dick" to John, the truth was that I couldn't put it past a tired, hungry, bladder-about-to-burst Megan to say something to this effect.

Anyway, I pretended to be horrified and vehemently denied having said this... or did I? I was leaving NY that day, probably never to see this woman again...so I may, just MAY, have said something like "Well, in my defense, he was taking an awfully long time to remove his penis from his pants."

Either way, I'd like to think I left on a totally good note! Ah, they loved me.

Primitive Post Office Panhandler & Megan: A Love Affair

An unspoken agreement has gradually been forming between myself and the unseemly bum located atop the stoop of the US Post Office on the corner of Stockton and Clay. Basically, if I continue to ignore him and never offer change each time I pass, he will continue to scream obscenities and make references to the (imagined) bastard-child-status of the boy I babysit, as well as my (somewhat imagined) whoredom.

May I take you back in time to when our paths first crossed...
I like to imagine that his unconventional (and most likely unprofitable) post as a Chinatown derelict emerged after a brutal PCP-induced Union Square bum fight, in which his well-deserved, imminent defeat led to his eventual banishment from all tourist hot spots. After this degrading and humiliating episode, he was left with no choice but to migrate north of the Stockton tunnel, to the land of pink "Thank You" bag ladies, cash-only tourist shops, and that smell you can never quite label (it's cigarettes, fish, and green tea combined, BTW). Amidst all the seemingly unfavorable aspects of this new land, however, he couldn't help but bear his toothless grin when he realized what good fortune had been bestowed upon him - he had finally found a place where people were too busy (read: don't know the necessary English) to tell him to bug off. So he stayed.

And here's where I enter our story...
I was lucky enough to find a job nannying for a family who lives on the edge of Chinatown, despite their un-Chinese ethnic status, which I guess is allowed and all...but like, WHY?? (would you want to live in C-town?). Dad is a typical American jumble of European descent; mom is Indonesian. As you can imagine, their son (Josh) looks absolutely nothing like my German/Irish half-ginger ass, and so I'd like to imagine that people who see us walking around immediately think "nanny". Not to mention, he's 7, and I'm 21, which would've put me at a ripe ole' 14 years old if I had actually given birth to this kid. Not only was I not even menstrating at age 14, I also still believed I only had "1 hole" down there, and probably couldn't have picked out a penis from a line-up of other, completely different male organs to save my life. Oh, how times have changed.
Point is - I DO NOT look like this kid's mom, in any way, whatsoever.

Anyway, back to my point...Josh and I walk through the Stockton tunnel to get to his house when we come home on BART, because it's either that or waiting for 2 hours for the tourist-infested "World Famous(-ly overpriced)!" cable car. Although now that I think about it, that line would be a really good time-filler for the duration of my babysitting hours...("Megan, what did you and Josh do today?" "OOhh, ya know, touristy stuff...")

God, is it possible for me to write a sentence without going off on a tangent? If you think this is bad, just imagine what it's like to be a neuron in my brain, innocently floating along my neural pathways. "Yes!! I'm finally being use-----SHIT!" "----HAhah succckkka, my tur---FUCK!" "Bitches, ya'lls know I be---hey, is that??" "--wine? Yep, it's me. You're all fucked now!"

Okay, okay, fine, I promise I can end this story.

So, as I was saying a few paragraphs ago, Josh and I walk through the Stockton tunnel occasionally. In mid-May, on a typical sunny-yet-cold-as-shit Friday afternoon, we had just emerged from the tunnel, and were just about to cross Clay street when all of a sudden, stars aligned:
"'Scuse me miss, couldja spare some change?" -Chinatown Post Office Bum (CPOB)
"Oh sorry, I don't have any cash on me." -Me
"FUCKING WHORE. Bitch got fuckin knocked up fucking whore!" -CPOB
"Oh sir, please, hold on while I rummage through the dark (and oftentimes, damp) depths of my purse in order to scrounge up some change for you and your kind words. In fact, is there an ATM nearby? Now more than ever would I love to give you some of my hard-earned street money!"

Okay, damnit, I don't really have that big of balls. Instead I just pulled Josh towards me and quietly, yet super-humanly quickly, continued on my way. The NOIVE!

Alas, our first encounter will forever live in my memory as what could've been. Our subsequent meetings have amounted to little more than a "bastard!" here, a "whore!" there, and, if I'm lucky, a half-hearted saliva ejection. Every chance he gets, CPOB entices me more and more... begging, not for money, but for attention - an eye gaze, frown, derogatory-under-the-breath-comment, ANYTHING. That scumbag wants it, he wants it bad, but I ain't giving in.

Because god damnit, I may be a prostitute with a bastard brown child, but I will never, EVER, stoop (pun intended) to the same level as a Primitive Post Office Panhandler.
I have morals, ya know.

A Left-Brain Manifesto

Last night I did the most San Franciscan (read: hipster) thing I have ever done.
I:
-saw a play
-about disabled people and sex
-in the Mission
-in a theatre that doubled as an art gallery
-that sold PBR
-and had gender neutral bathrooms, as in "Yes ma'am, you may come in to powder your nose after that man who just took a huge shit has finished wiping his ass."

If that ain't the most San Franciscan thing ya ever did hear, I dunno what is.
ANYWAY, the play was a composition of various monologues done by people who are disabled in some way or another (handicapped, victims of stroke, deaf, etc.)...so basically it was Megan Heaven. I was enjoying some bits and pieces from each act, but frankly it was a little more sex and a lot less crippled than I had hoped for. So I wasn't surprised when what appeared to be a woman approached the stage wearing head to toe lingerie: corset top squeezing her monstrous jugs up her nose, lacy booty shorts that left little to the imagination, and a garter belt with thigh-highs attached. While this "woman" had no discernable handicap, i think I agree with whoever put her in the show's lineup: any person trying to squeeze THAT body into THAT outfit is most definitely off their rocker (or, wheelchair, I suppose?). That, or morbid obesity is now being categorized as a full-fledged disability, a possibility I wouldn't doubt in San Francisco.
Okay fine, I'm exaggerating a little... she wasn't morbidly obese, but she was obese enough to accidentally snap off one of her garter strings about 30 seconds in to her "dance", an event that left me stifling bouts of laughter for the rest of the night. This runaway string soon proved to be just the beginning of what turned out to be one of the most confusing, unnattractive, so-horrible-you-can't-stop-staring stage moments I've ever witnessed.

Her act (a dance + monologue) encouraged the audience to "breathe into her lungs", "live inside her body" (not a wholly impossible request of some, given her measurements), and do other metaphoric actions that my left-hemisphere dominated, un-San Franciscan brain was incapable of comprehending. Many of these phrases were sung in her deep tenor-like voice, and the "dance" moves were played out with such unbelievable force that I swear to god there was an earthquake every time she jumped. Which isn't saying much in San Francisco, due to the high probability that there WAS, in fact, a little earthquake each time she jumped. Regardless, it was evident through the earnest devliery of the message and hearty applause it drew that people were actually "moved" by this performance, in an almost spiritual sense.
What the hell? I never get "spiritual experiences" (one of the reasons I was doomed when God placed me in a religious family), much less those induced by watching a 400-lb display of stretch marks move around a stage like a gorilla.
In fact, the closest I've come to any sort of supernatural-esque feeling of euphoria is while playing classical music on the piano, and even that is probably just the calming sense of accomplishment I get from hitting all the right notes. Oh yeah, and I'm usually drunk.

As a child, I used to internally reprimand myself for my so-called "evil" thoughts and actions in church: opening my eyes during prayer, passing notes to my sister, giggling at the crazies who'd flail their arms to heaven while singing, etc., hoping that my guilt trips would eventually drive me to feel what all my friends supposedly felt when they prayed, sang, and did other religious activities.
But to no avail... I was left even more confused and conflicted with my alternating thoughts of shame, doubt, and artificiality.
What was I missing?? I could smile, nod, and pretend all I wanted, but at the end of the day, I simply had NO IDEA what my family, teachers and peers were talking about when they praised the Lord's "mercy", "love" and "grace". The only visible proof to my mind that God loved me was when I'd get an A on an exam or win a soccer game, both common (at least in America) but nonetheless egocentric and idiotic interpretations of a personal god's omnibenevolence.

Back to the Mission theatre. As I sat on the gender-neutral John for the 3rd time that evening, probably contracting some STD from the toilet seat, I began to make parallels with my religious past and wonder about Elephant Woman's relative transcendency. If the other 100 people in the audience were able to watch in amazement and complete sincerity, seemingly being lifted to a place of understanding and enlightenment, why couldn't I even temporarily deny my urges to simultaneously crack up and barf? It was like being 13 again, my parents forcing me to participate in church activities with the promised bribery of a Chili's lunch afterwards if I would just PRETEND to be enjoying myself.

What was (is) wrong with me? And more importantly, who could (can) I blame for my emotionally- and spiritually- devoid behavior? An abundance of testosterone? A mom who wore the pants in my parents' relationship? The autistic-like behaviors said to result from years of having an eating disorder? (seriously)

Nope, only my current, conscious emotional literacy was to blame for this lack of sensitivity. I had to man up and be a bitch. Because in a society driven by idealistic, proverbial notions and circumlocutions, where everyone pretends to know what the fuck they're talking about (but really hasn't a clue), sometimes, ya just gotta join in, raise your hands for Jesus, and clap for the fat girl.

Daly City: Where Dreams Go to Die

People will do just about anything in order to avoid admitting wrongdoing/regret/guilt, usually pointing the blame elsewhere in order to obtain the easiest way out.
A recent trip to Daly City's Dollar Tree was enough to remind me of this universal fact.


There I am, standing in line with my 2 wine glasses, 9 taper candles, and box of microwave popcorn, a combination that, in retrospect, was probably one item short (condoms) of making me look like a cheap, desperate hooker.
Any way, either those rubber divider things have become completely meaningless in society (probably), or the cashier was on crack (more likely), because before I knew it, my lone box of popcorn was being rung up for the person in front of me, despite the words "That's my popcorn" coming out of my mouth a mere 5 seconds beforehand. The customer in front of me had actually only wanted change for his $5 bill (he may have took the whole "dollar store" thing a little too literally), so as he began to walk away without the bagged popcorn (and only 4 $1 dollar bills), the cashier yelled after him, "you forgotcha popcorn". After yet another declaration of ownership of the popcorn from me, the cashier let out a dramatically vocal sigh, followed by an intercom beep that brought over her equally incompetent- and pissed- looking manager.

"What?" the manager asked flatly.
"This guy here (points accusingly at change boy) didn't want nothin. He just came in my line and didn't buy nothin. He wanted change, but I charge him for the popcorn, but it ain't his," the cashier eloquently explained to her boss.

After surveying the scene and allowing the necessary seconds required for comprehension of the cashier's English to pass, the manager turned to me.

"Just give him a dollar," she suggested in the same flat tone.

Um, excuse me? Walk your lazy ass 2 feet over to the register and give him a dollar yourself, bitch. Why should I have to pay (literally, in cash) for your employee's mistake? It's called voiding a sale, and if you're incapable of performing this simple action, well, that would probably explain why you're a manager at The Dollar Tree. I understand I'm at a dollar store, and that the words "respect", "professionalism", and "accountability" hold absolutely no weight within these walls, but...REALLY?? Be a MANAGER, and do the right fucking thing.

Instead of actually saying any of this, I politely informed her that I was unfortunately without the means to employ her ingenious solution at that time. Another Oscar-worthy sigh and eye-roll from the cashier later, the sale was voided, the $1 was given to change boy, and my wine glasses were wrapped oh-so-elegantly (and effectively, I guess??) in plastic bags ...within a plastic bag...so that I could be on my way to complete the rest of my day (which no, did not include a drunk, candlelit movie date followed by paid sex...unfortunately).

This anecdote is simply the tip of the iceberg that is our fast-paced, quick-fix society: a mix of band-aids, scapegoats, and the accomplishment of jack shit.

Last week, my psychology course's textbook informed me at the bottom of a paragraph on teen depression that "antidepressant drugs are the most common treatment." While I understand and have seen first-hand the drastic results of antidepressants, it makes me a little sad (pun intended) that most psychiatrists/doctors/therapists aren't even willing to try HUMAN therapy that addresses possible causes and how those can be dealt with, before simply supressing symptoms via expensive chemicals. And not just any expensive chemicals... chemicals whose development is so recent that we're still unaware of all their possible long-term effects on health, and not to mention the ways in which the darn things actually WORK.

Anyway, I probably lost most of you a while ago on this lengthy rant, but if you've made it this far.... hi Jeff! And also, SLOW DOWN. Our society just needs to breathe and know that the fastest fixes aren't necessarily the most effective...or in the case of the dollar store example, the most humane.

Take the time to respect OTHERS around you, know YOURSELF intimately, and balance the wants/needs of these two parties in a way that makes SENSE...not to be confused with cents, or 99 cents for that matter.

My Naked Body: An Impending Natural Disaster

As it becomes more and more probable that the Bay Area, or at least California, will experience an earthquake sometime within the next, I dunno, weeks, months, years...(shut up, I'm not a geologist) I have some reasonable concerns.
In fact, I often daynightmare (opposite of daydream) of an earthquake happening, not being prepared in the slightest, and being wiped off this planet accordingly.

That being said, my only fear of this impending natural disaster has nothing to do with the possibility of losing my house, possessions, or hearbeat...
Nay, my only fear lies in the extremely likely chance that when all this earthquake stuffs goes down... I'm going to be NAKED.
I mean, it's simply a matter of statistics: I'm naked about 75% of my life when you factor in sleep (and every other waking moment of my day spent at home).
The last thought to cross my mind will be, "Where's the nearest table to hide under?" or "Where's my care package, and what should I take with me?"


Instead, I'll be thinking, "Why aren't any of my thongs clean, I can't put on these pants with boy shorts, I'll get major underwear lines------"
the "------" signifies the point in time in which all mental thoughts of mine cease to exist due to a large wood plank crashing on to my head.

Does anyone understand my problem here?
I'M GOING TO BE NAKED...

You can't run to safety, whether it be under a table, into your backyard, or towards a public park, if you're fucking NAKED.
And for me, picking out a cute "Earthquake Damsel in Distress" outfit (because let's be honest... who wants to help ugly people?) would take longer than the earthquake and all of its subsequent aftershocks put together...

So for all of you who are worried of losing loved ones, homes, places of work, etc. in one fell swoop..will ya gain some perspective already??

Dunbar, WI - Population: Sucks

My brother recently went away to college to a tiny private school in an equally tiny town in the tiny enough state of WI, or as I like to call it, "WHY?!" After asking several of my friends who grew up in Wisconsin if they had ever heard of the town and receiving one too many puzzled looks and awkward silences, I became increasingly curious and decided to do a bit of my own research.

A quick Google search led me to a Wikipedia page (Dunbar, WI) shorter than that of my great-great-great-great-grandfather's (seriously: Samuel Kier), citing a total population of 1,303 people, with 97.62% of those being white. To make these statistics even more hilarious, may I please take you back in time approximately 2 months, to a conversation I had with my brother over winter break.
Me: "Why the fuck are you moving to Wisconsin?"
James: "Megan, you should really open up your mind and consider getting out of California. I mean, there is so much more out there to explore, you're limiting yourself by staying close to home."
(Because, you know, San Francisco is such a homogenous, provincial place to live.)

Please join me in a BAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHA

Yes, as much as I love my brother and totally want to believe in his sanity, at that moment I felt like cracking his skull open and making sure his brain hadn't relocated a bit earlier than the rest of his body. Instead, I simply noted the fact that I had indeed been out of California, planned on doing it again in the future, and for the time being will be residing in arguably the most diverse, spirited area in the country besides NYC.

Okay, okay, back to Dumb- I mean Dunbar. Wikipedia is notorious for its unreliability, so I decided to utilize some other Google search options. But both my subsequent Maps and Images searches were equally unnerving:

What is that, a total of FIVE roads?! "Yeah, we built 1st and 2nd street and then winter came and we said screw it and got the hell out of there."

Okay, so at this point I'm thinking... did my brother join a cult in the wilderness? Is he hiding dead bodies for a living? Just what the HELL is going on in these 5 streets?
The answer to my question came in yet another google search, this time for his so-called university, ironically titled "Northland International University". Yes, if by "international" you mean "in-the middle of fucking nowhere-ternational".

While I do appreciate their efforts towards housing a diverse student population (They have a total of 7 asian students according to the home page!!) and encouraging international study, I can't help but think back to my brother's wintertime "advice". Does he really believe THIS place to be the center of diversity, open-mindedness, and a well-rounded education?!
Besides their 9 eccentric degree options (6 of which would never fly in any accredited college) and overly creepy missions of "...teaching students to serve in local churches (The ones on 1st AND 2nd street) for revival, world evangelization, and the discipling of future generations" and "Preparing the next generation of servant-leaders for Great Commission living." ("Great commission"?? Good luck getting one of those with your Northland University Bachelor's degree in Church Ministries.), I think I'm most disturbed by what they consider to be appropriate photos for an "International University" 's website. In a random sampling of all of the photos I could bear to look at, a total of 100% of students were white, blond-haired, awkward-looking 18-21 year olds who look like they just got back from Pray the Gay Away Summer Camp.
That, or an all-day American Eagle shopping spree.


Am I judgmental? Superficial? Mean? Sincerely scared for my brother's future? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.
But I will tell you one thing that I am NOT:

EVER visiting Dunbar.

My Youtube Video: Over 1,200 Hits!

Are people idiots?? I guess it depends on who you ask, and the person in question, but I'd like to think that we all partake in idiotic behavior at some point or another in our lives. Some of us just have a stronger genetic predisposition towards repeating said behavior. Today I am talking of one of those "susceptible" types, namely, a guy (whose name I sincerely do not know) who posted a video of 17 year old drunk Megan dancing with her friends on Youtube. I know what you're thinking, "You have friends??", so without wanting to distract you from the purpose of my rant, I will quickly clear up the fact that NO, silly, I was 17, I USED to have friends.
Ahem, back to my point.

I was recently informed via a Facebook message about this video, which features a (former) girlfriend and I dancing drunkenly on a bed atop another (former) male friend of mine. There's music playing in the background, and for the most part we're just being normal drunk teenagers. As expected, I'm pulling my shirt up, slapping the other girl's butt and making weird, characteristically Megan noises like "ba da rum bum bum" and "ay yi yi". It's good to know that some things never change.

Anyway, it's not the CONTENT of the video that I have a problem with (believe me, the videos I make these days would violate all sorts of terms and conditions), rather it's the fact that this video is on YOUTUBE, for the fucking WORLD to see!!!! Look, if you're gonna be THAT sleazy, older guy at the party who takes advantage of drunk girls, can't you just keep that pathetic aspect of your life (and any "material" you happen to "collect") TO YOURSELF?? Why is it that the guys who couldn't get pussy to save their lives are always the ones who have cell phones / video cameras conveniently on hand? Wait, dumb question. Okay, so fine, you "need" this video to "assist" you in "troubled" times....WHY, then, POST it on YOUTUBE?!?! What is your purpose?? To achieve some sort of self-gratification through attention from people you don't even know via the internet?? Again I ask, WHY?! I mean, you're not even IN the video...oh, wait, I'm sorry, I won't discredit your one liner heard at the end: "take off your top!!"...increasing your sleaze factor by about 300%.

Spoiler alert for all of you males out there: NO I will not be providing the link to the video, but I am posting a still from the video, if only to prove the amount of hits. And can I just say that the shot below was extracted from the ONLY 3-second clip in which you can actually see our faces (making the "kissy face" was never one of my strong points), as opposed to the rest of the video, which should be titled "Megan and Olivia's (clothed) asses".

What the picture doesn't show you, and what I had to search around for for about 5 minutes due to my Youtube ineptness, is the fact that this video was posted on January 11th, 2007. FOUR YEARS AGO?!?! I know this news isn't flattering for the view count (I mean, that's an average of less than 1 view a day...damnit), but I had to mention it, because HONESTLY!!! WHY are you keeping a video up of yourself exploiting underage blacked out whores (sorry 17 yr old Megan, it had to be said) for 4 years, showcasing to THE WORLD your immaturity, disrespect, and all around CREEPINESS?? Is there a law in Sacramento that I'm unaware of that prohibits the action of GROWING UP?!

After viewing the video, I took immediate action and sent a message to whoever had posted this video (seriously, met the guy once, haven't seen him since, cannot remember his name), asking him to kindly preserve what little is left (after 1,200 hits) of my dignity.
He quickly responded with his specialty, a one-liner: "No problem". Well, apparently asking him to remove the video from Youtube was a little more than his sleazy, miniscule brain could handle, and now this image pops up when you click on the link:

Ya, I'm sure you're REAL sorry about that, Youtube.
Welp, I'm just going to look on the bright side, and say that although I didn't exactly get what I wanted, I'm doing my part to help at least one person achieve his bodily needs. Sigh, all for the greater good I suppose.

ATTN You: Shut Up.

Seeing as I have about 2 friends to date, I really don't have any business being picky when it comes to acquiring new ones. However, in concordance with my self-contradictory nature, I am. Like, reeeally picky. In addition to my growing misanthropy, I've also been developing a deeply rooted aversion to an increasingly popular breed of humans, those which I have taken the liberty of calling "Leeches".

You know the type: One week they're into yoga, then religion, then some newfangled diet/rhinoplasty operation, then a new career path, then a certain vacation destination, then a new significant other, then some new club/clothing style/friend group; the list goes on and on, and with each new interest comes the conviction that THIS thing is THE ANSWER to their problems, emptiness, dissatisfaction, etc. Searching, searching, searching, always to no avail. All talk + no action = the most annoying people to have a conversation with.

Regardless of whatever it happens to be that strikes their fancy for the duration of one whole week, all of a Leech's interests have one thing in common: they're being used by said Leech as an outlet in which to find some sort of overarching fulfillment/happiness/purpose in life.
They're being used as a means to an end: one that hasn't been clearly defined, or even proven to exist, but rather subsists off of idealistic, delusional egos housed within the self-obsessed minds of myopic addicts.

Yes, addicts. Those who are addicted to the impossible idea of discovering peace (another debatable concept, but one that I like to define by at least a 90/10 happy/sad feeling ratio during any given week) through physical objects, new-aged practices, other people/places/jobs, and any/all other earthly matter that isn't WITHIN THEIR OWN THOUGHTS!! What Leeches fail to notice, and what most certainly cannot be politely pointed out to them during a conversation about their NEW (BOOB) JOB THAT IS GOING TO MAKE THEIR LIFE SOOOO MUCH BETTER, is the fact that no amount of outside factors is going to create a lasting sense of accomplishment or tranquility. Contentedness with life is something that you yourself must create within your own head, at least if you wish these feelings to endure beyond the week, month, and even year.

People give me shit for being obsessed with Woody Allen, but I absolutely must give his overly-repetitive films due credit for exposing me to the cyclical, somber reality of life (and Scarlett Johansson's sexiness) at an early age. Nothing goes the way we (THINK WE) want it to in life, and, frankly, none of our earthly efforts amount to jack shit.

Depressing? Fear-inciting? Well-maybe-if-I-buy-every-manufactured-good-offered-to-mankind-it-will-change-this-bleak-situation?
No way: simply... LIFE.

Life boasts too many different shades of gray. Explore as many as you can, without bringing any sort of society-instilled expectations, and for the love of God, without changing your mind every god damn month. BE OKAY WITH YOURSELF AND YOUR PLACE ON EARTH FIRST, then venture out into the world. If you let them, exciting things will happen.
And then you will die.

And don't forget: those who had the newest iPhone version (at time of death), visited over 30 countries, and/or did yoga 3-5 times a week get first dibs on who they are in their next life.
Keep on truckin'.

Jesus, Version 2.010

Ah, Christmas. A time for giving love, spreading joy, relishing in traditions, and, if you're me, seeing how much creepier your parents' church has become during the last year.

That's right folks, even the most devoted of atheists such as myself must step down from their high(ly complex and evolved) horses once a year to attend the comedian's gold mine - a suburban church.
Really, any church could be considered a breeding ground for hilarity, but these increasingly popular, mass-marketable chain churches, like the one my parents attend, have got to be the most borderline-absurd in all their irony.


Places of "worship" such as these can usually be spotted from any major freeway, and are recognized by their warehouse-like exterior, complete with a 200-space parking lot and not-so-witty billboard (or, most likely, a digital version thereof). The particular one my parents attend is conveniently located between two strip malls, just north of yet another 300-unit tract home village in Folsom. GO TEAM 'MURKA!

The reason this place creeps me the fuck out, however, has nothing to do with its location or awfully drab architecture. Nay, the eeriness of this church lies within its plasterboard panels. Allow me to paint a picture, if you will.

You enter the concrete walls through towering, ominous glass doors that usher you into a massive foyer, just as a breeze rushes through, whispering Old Testament Bible verses into your ears. Carpeted floors surround you, providing various routes that all lead to a center stage hall that could hold at least 3 movie theatres inside. If you aren't ready for the main event just yet, feel free to venture along the laminate floor pathways that stem from the lobby. Towards the right, you'll find an over-sized, sinister corridor whose walls are ridden with Jesus art and reek of damp, close-minded hypocrisy. The left bears an even more frightening reality, the infamously overpriced church coffee shop and bookstore, complete with smiling, robotic saleswomen. Because nothing says "I love Jesus" like throwing down $20 on Christian books/movies/needless shit after a Sunday sermon! Beyond the mini mall, you'll find inconspicuous elevators that carry you up, up up, into more, more, more rooms in which to worship Jesus within. It's fucking creepy, I tell ya! Get lost in that building every time I go.

And this is what people are dealing with EVERY WEEK. Luckily, my parents (being all too aware of my black sheep status in the family) only force me to attend church with them on Christmas Eve, so I only have to deal with this weirdo-haven one day out of the year. But I must say, if it's going to only be one day, they've definitely picked the creepiest.

During Christmastime, this church is a straight up theatre production with ALL the works. If you so wish to attend one of their 10 Christmas showings, you must order tickets beforehand and collect them at the box office or print them out online in order to be allowed to proceed indoors. Don't forget to GETCHA CANDY! and GETCHA POPCORN! in addition to your playbill on the way in, folks, cause you're in for quite a show. Two enormous overhead screens garnish the stage's backdrop, in addition to a 40-ft Christmas tree, displaying more ornaments than the warehouses of Walmart and Target combined. The massive center stage could potentially hold an entire orchestra band, but unfortunately, mostly just houses 8 emo 20-something fucks who bring their "creative, hip talent" to the stage with insightful, edgy "Christian rock" music. The unbearably over-dramatic kind, that probably only serves the purpose of aiding middle-aged upper middle class conservative suburbanites in believing that they're young, open and progressive... because they sing songs about Jesus to a generic drum loop.

I think my favorite song I've heard so far at this church is "The Jesus Song". I'll attempt to explain the necessary melodic components of this song in my most layman of terms, but forgive me if I lose you due to my advanced musical knowledge. The Jesus Song is performed by playing the ever-enigmatic C chord approximately 50 times, while simultaneously singing the word "Jesus" each time you hit the chord. Although tricky, and certainly not a song for an amateur, the church never fails to produce a dedicated pianist to lead the performance. Okay, fine, I'm totally just bitter it's never been me, damnit!

But by far my favorite part of the ceremony, passed the obvious glitz and glamour, is the more humble, meaningful "candlelight" segment. Lighting a small, personal candle is a valued Christian tradition, symbolic of the light of Jesus that glows within each and every one of us. But, of course, being the trendy, gaudy church that they are, the audience is instead given...wait for it... NEON GLOWSTICKS to...CRACK! Seriously?? Seriously. Rave, brah! In fact, the only reason this is my favorite part of the service is due to last year's (incredibly predictable) event in which MY (and only MY) glowstick failed to "light" once it had been cracked. Not even Jesus himself could've knocked off the silly grin that spread across my face once I realized MY glowstick was probably 1 of 10,000 that was broken. "Mommy look! I don't have the light of Jesus in me!!!!", I gloated euphorically (and probably a little louder than I should have).

I am so going to hell.

Anyway, enough of all this horribly malignant church-bashing.
Let's remember the REAL reason for the season: to be indoctrinated with subjective interpretations of a 2000 year old story book filled with even MORE subjective interpretations of a dead Jewish man's life.

Yayyyyyyyy CHRISTMAS!

Diary of a Mor(m)on

Dear Diary,
SLC > SFX. Here we are, arguably the West's most sinful city. But no fear, secularists, my fellow Elder and I have arrived. For the next 2 years we will infiltrate SF's homes, misguided places of worship, coffee shops, and heck, I may even go out to a karaoke bar while I'm here (under the condition that it not serve spirits of any kind - alcohol or demons; haha, what's the difference, right?).
We are stationed in an area of the city titled "The Sunset", a lovely place that we are told is far away from nightlife, hot girls, homosexuals, and/or any other threats to our livelihood.

Dear Diary,
Converted our first (straight and married) couple today! Equipped them with everything they need for their newfound Mormon faith: 19th century underwear, several phone numbers of eligible SLC women (to add to their marriage), and the inability to rationally relate to anyone ever again.

Dear Diary,
Today my partner (okay, maybe not the best word to be using in SF) and I took our first publicly provided transportation ride. That's right: MUNI. Top feared only behind the New York subway and MARTA.
We boarded the bus and immediately spotted the seats reserved for Elders (thankfully located at the front, and far away from any Canaanites). As we sat down, we made sure to keep at a 2 seats to 1 Elder ratio, so as not to imply any relationship other than fellow followers of Christ. A young female, despite being clearly intoxicated with the smell of the devil, was nice enough to show her respect and admiration by snapping a photo of us. Unfortunately, due to the excessive distance between my partner and I, I doubt she was able to successfully capture our faces, even at her awkward, totally obvious, phone-held-as-high-as-possible-to-enlarge-field-of-vision-for-camera-phone angle.


Dear Diary,
Got shanked today, and it is only by the grace of Joseph Smith, Jr. that I am alive to write the tale. Evidently there is a patch of evil amongst, well, a bunch of expensive Full House-esque buildings. It goes by the name of "Western Addition". As my partner and I were walking home from another blessed day graciously given to us by Jesus, we were viciously attacked by ... I think we all know:
The Dark Descendants of Cain, so dubbed by our very own Brigham Young.
By the grace of the Lord Jesus Almighty, my Book of Mormon (BOM) was in my jacket pocket, and the knife struck a hole in the book, guarding my earthly flesh, but wounding my eternal soul. Of course I'd rather it had been the other way around, and my BOM spared, but through this incident, Jesus has revealed to me something that I would never have dared to even think before today: that my life is more important than a book.

But not just any book, my friends, no: this is the most sacred text of all sacred texts. You know, the one that an angel brought to Earth on golden plates in 1830, so that it could be "translated" from an "unknown" language by a racist, polygamous man to reveal an indigenous American tribe's history.

I haven't quite grasped my tiny Mor(m)onic brain around this act of God, but the mercy he has shown me today has only deepened a passionate desire within me to spread more, more, more, of Joseph Smith's gospel to the ends of the Earth, disregarding all low SES areas, of course.

Just as soon as I get my hands on another BOM.
Gonna go use one of my 5 phone calls and ask mommy if she can send one, BRB.

Substitutes, Apples, and Knives: A Tale from Public Education in the City

Substitutes. Remember all the amazingly positive connotations that accompanied that word?
Don't have to do work in this class! Let's talk them out of giving us that assignment! Who wants to play hookey??

Well, when you actually work for a school district, substitutes suck.
I should know, I used to be one.
I'm not speaking of actual teacher substitutes, only "teacher's aide" substitutes (TAS). Yes, it is the second shittiest placement in a school after janitor, thank you very much.
Anyway, being a former TAS myself, I know how incredibly difficult the application and hiring process is for this occupation. Allow me to walk you through it:

Step 1: Submit résumé into the school district's website.
Step 2: Receive a phone call within 24 hours, informing you that you have been hired.
Step 3: Get fingerprinted and begin working on the same day.
Step 4 (optional): Irritate the hell out of all the people you work with, because you FUCKING SUCK.

I, of course, have never ventured to complete this 4th step, but pretty much every sub I've met in the 2 years I've worked for SFUSD has. And this should come as no surprise, seeing as the job requirements to become a substitute teacher's aide are a computer and a pulse.
Okay, plus like 60 units of college work...but still. These people are legitimately insane. Ask anyone who is actually qualified to work in schools.

To some of these people, there is a very fine line between "paid employee" and "creepy elder sitting quietly in the corner and staring at children for 6 hours". And they cross it...all day long. Most of them, if not already in a deep sleep (true story), only get up off their ass and out of their chair when it's time for their "breaks" (seriously, you need 3 in a 6-hour work day?? jesus, no wonder you don't have a real job) that they themselves have taken the time to conveniently plot into their schedule, unbeknownst to the rest of us who are actually, oh I dunno, WORKING.

I kid you not - our class had a sub last week that did not know how to SLICE AN APPLE. She wasn't a foreigner, and she wasn't in a placenta, so it's not like she had never encountered this strange fruit before. Granted, she was pretty ghetto, so she may have never eaten one before, but certainly, she had at least SEEN one....right?!!?

Anyway, after our teacher asked her to slice a few pieces for the kids' snack time, she turned to me for approval with two distraught eyes, "Megan, is this right?"
I stared down at her cruel annihilation of a perfectly harmless apple. This was the oddest rendition of "slicing a few pieces" I'd ever seen, with the fruit cut into rock-like bits of all different shapes and sizes, quickly browning in all their pathetic-ness.
"Well, that's certainly not the most conventional way I've seen it done," I replied grimly, as I assured her that I would step up to bravely attempt the difficult task at hand.
"Oh I see, mm hmm...oh yeah, okay" -her intermittent comments during my stellar apple-slicing performance.

Because my idiot-tolerance has been at an all time low during the past few months while I struggle through a (hopefully brief) dry spell in my sexual life, I honestly expected myself to explode on the spot. Instead, I shoved all of her useless apple rock pieces into my mouth to shut myself up, and began handing out my ...well, NORMAL, slices out to the kids. I've never been more proud of my (previously not recognized as existent) culinary abilities.

All right, so I admit I went off a bit on a tangent, (seriously, who doesn't know how to slice AN APPLE!?!?) but the moral of the story is:
1. subs suck
2. ghetto people need more fruit in their lives. And knives with which to learn how to cut said fruit.

No, no, wait. Definitely just the fruit.

The End of an Era

This week, something tragic happened. No, it wasn't me getting a bad grade on an exam, getting fired from a job, or failing horribly at my personal life for the 549th time (all things that did, in fact, happen this week). No, something even worse.

I found out that Saltines are made with high fructose corn syrup.


Now, stop right there: I know what you're thinking.
"Umm, DUH!"
or, perhaps even,
"Saltines? who gives a fuck? Those things taste like shit anyway"
or, MAYBE, if you're really dumb enough, even,
"Who cares? High fructose corn syrup's in everything, why try to avoid it?"

But you don't UNDERSTAND!!!

Throughout my entire 21 years and 20 days on this planet, Saltines (and the eating thereof) have stood as THE symbol of utmost comfort and sentimentality to my heart. You see, when my mom was pregnant with me, her most frequent, bizarre food craving wasn't ice cream, cheese, pickles, or all of the above puréed together in a blender. No, my friends, it was Saltines. Humbly consumed by placing one cracker at a time, salty side down, onto her salivating tongue for a period of 1-2 minutes, or until said cracker was completely soggy. I'm not sure that you can even call this peculiar routine "consumption" when, once fully soft and salt-free, the cracker was then taken out of her mouth and thrown out. Maybe an anorexic could/is the only person that would care to make a case for this practice passing as "nourishment".
Regardless, it was Saltines (or, at least, their salty tops) that stood by my preggy, moody, ruthlessly demanding mama's side during her 9 months carrying what would soon become her most regrettable orgasm yet.

And, as a result, it has been Saltines that have been there for me, unfalteringly salty, crispy, and ready for toppings, in my most darkest of dire, hungry, shit-i'm-poor-where's-the-cheap-snacks? moments.

Alas, I now have no other choice but to search for my beautiful mother in her second most frequent craving while she was pregnant with me.
(No, not sex with my dad, sicko!)
Fat, siamese cats.

...yeah, screw that, where's the Trader Joe's version of Saltines??? Anyone??
Nooooooooooooo

Eat Shit

An important part of growing up is realizing that the majority of modern life is one huge fucking lie. It starts at a fairly young age, when you realize that your parents have been lying to you about any/all imaginary characters (tooth fairy, santa, easter bunny, etc), and continues all the way up through adulthood when you realize that people (including yourself) lie... well, all the time. Most of them aren't even trivial verbal or written lies, like those found in RSVP phone calls, on job resumes, and all over the news and advertising. Nope, most of them are even subtler, silent illusory lies that can be so buried and suppressed below a person's outer appearance and character that they can go unnoticed and un-dealt with for an entire lifetime.

Enough emoness for one day. One of the most prevalent (verbal) lies in a young adult's life is the notion that "You can be whatever you want to be!!!" "Dream like there's no tomorrow!"

Well, fact is, you probably can't, but should do your best to succeed with whatever shit life throws at you regardless. Unfortunately, this truth doesn't exactly look as nice written out next to cute puppies on a colorful Scholastic poster.

You can work your ass off saving up money to take that test to get into that college to major in that degree to apply for that job only to... not get the job. Or, get that job and be left horribly unsatisfied. And of course, there's the failing at any one of those points along the way that can make you want to give up your dreams altogether.

An even more important part of growing up is learning, or simply FORCING yourself to accept, the reality that one must (for sanity's sake) adjust to life's curveballs and make the most of situations. As one of my favorite authors wrote, "Nobody teaches life anything" (Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera), we must accept the fact that life isn't going to change for us, it was here first, bitch! We must must must learn to adapt and apply ourselves wherever the road of life leads us. I'm preparing for the possibility of being hit with this reality all too soon, with grad school applications just around the corner. What if I don't do well on the writing test? What if my GPA is too low? What if I DON'T GET IN??

...to China we go? Who the fuck knows...but life will move on, and you bet your ass I'm in it to love it.

A perfect and, let's face it, dreadfully hilarious, example of the fact that people change their minds constantly is my life. Right now, I have a pretty good idea of my purpose on this Earth, but it hasn't always been like that, and who's to say it always will? An AIM bot (member those?? No? You had real, live, human friends?? Your loss!!) once told me I was the "most fickle person" they'd ever chatted with. This made me both proud of my newfound title and eager to find myself in a situation where I could appropriately whip out the word "fickle" to impress my 11 year old class mates.
Anyway, I would now like to take a moment (or, half of a blog post, whatever) to list just a few of the professions that I've seriously considered pursuing at one point (point = anywhere from a day to ...2 days) in the course of my college career, or what would more accurately be called my "Megan Spends a Total of 408 Hours Online Trying to Figure Out What She Wants to do With Her Life" phase. Please know that I am not exaggerating any of the following information, and have parents/friends to back up my claims.

[Quick background note: I'm a bit of a retard fanatic (blame Star from Rio), and have finally decided that my place in the world belongs to Special Education. So that's what I'm studying as of now. I know, I know what you're thinking, the only thing that could make me more of a white girl stereotype would be majoring in either communications or psychology. God damnit. Well, before you judge too harshly, please know that I put a lot of serious thought and effort into choosing my major, and like, totally used to want to be other, random non-white-girl things... please see awe-inspiring list below]

On to the list!

1. a professional ice skater (I hear it's really easy to get into at age 17 with no previous experience)
2. a funeral director (seriously?? seriously. I think I just liked the ring to the title "Megan the Mortician")
3. someone who makes prosthetics (I forget what they're called? And why the fuck I was interested in becoming one...)
4 a "geographer" (If the possession of 2 maps and a globe doesn't guarantee you a job in this field, I don't know what does)
5. a mathematician (I never actually took advanced college math, I just wanted to sit at a desk and add fractions all day. And wear like, cute glasses or something.)
6. an air traffic controller (WTF???)
7. a librarian (I imagined myself smelling new books & reading Nordic mythology all day... 2 things that I don't think any librarian has ever done..)
8. and (I love this one) someone who just does Peace Corps missions over and over until they die ...in a 3rd world country ... from malaria

Ah, college girls.
I'm sure I'm forgetting many others (My parents once composed a list of about 30 that they'd heard me express interest in), but as you can see, I was (literally) all over the map, and by the time I realized that god damnit I was headed for the inevitable, ultimate white girl stereotype of education, I'd actually learned quite a bit of information about...pretty much every other occupation. Thus came my nickname "college counselor", as I began advising all of my friends on how to navigate through their major's coursework and achieve their specific degrees. I'm pretty sure it's the only reason some people kept in contact with me. Why not study to become a college counselor you ask? a) not enough retards go to college and b) It's even MORE white girl than studying special education.

To sum up my most random, off track blog post yet:

Life brings you shitty shit. I encourage you to (in the words of a Tenderloin crack whore I overheard this morning), "Eat your shit. You know, like, pick it up and eat it."

Dr. Tran

As mentioned previously, I'm in a "death class" (Gerontology). As you can imagine, the weekly lectures are so unbelievably captivating and thought-provoking, that I have no other desires than to offer them my full cognitive attention and time during the 3 hour class.

NOT.

Instead, I spend most of the class period mentally revising the incoherent & erratically designed powerpoints, thinking about how hot the girl that sits behind me is, and, most importantly, trying to figure out if my professor is a tranny or not.

Here's my case:

1. Person. "She" is a single, middle-aged woman living in SF. With "middle-aged woman", we're talkin' 50+, horrible overuse of jewelry and perfume, an ever-increasing FUPA, you know the one. Based on some previous classes, I've been able to deduce that she was once married (she's constantly mentioning the fact that "you can't depend on men!" and "some marriages don't last forever!" ...well, yeah, would YOU stay married to someone you found out used to be a man?? I think not.), which you may find to be a flaw in my argument, but I think this fact only strengthens my point. She's a divorcee, and I'm willing to bet it has something to do with the fact that she doesn't have a vagina. One more thing that I believe is worth noting: her name (I'll leave it out to protect the innocent), while feminine, is spelled completely wrong, with random letters left out/added. This either screams "annoying, pretentious parents!" or "I'm a tranny so, with complete disregard to proper spelling, I just added 1 letter to my real name to make it sound like a female name!"

2. Appearance. Okay, so, couple things to note with regards to her physical appearance. One of her most obvious peculiarities is her hair, or, what I believe to be her mildly-convincing wig. It's this matty, thick, highlighted ...(for lack of better words) "patch", that literally looks like it was set in place by a construction crane. The front part consists of curtain-like bangs that cover a good 70% of her face's upper half, including eye area, which may be a possible cause of her powerpoints' scatty organization and unappealing aesthetics. (If ya can't SEE the thing...)
As far as body type goes, I've already mentioned the FUPA, usually characteristic of women, BUT this extra deposit of fat could also be a beer- or fast-food- belly. Her boobs aren't particurlarly big, her arms are overly shapely (this can't be from working out..) , and her hands, OH, those hands... Yeah. She's a man.

3. Voice. Now, I've always said that if there is one thing my major (Communicative Disorders) is good for, it's convincing people to NEVER have kids! Like, EVER! But, I must admit I have taken one other useful (and pretty fucking obvious) piece of information away from my coursework. I've learned that if someone is continually stressing their vocal cords (this can be done by attempting to talk in a higher pitch), they can develop vocal nodules that will manifest as a very painful soar throat. While my professor does have a medium to high pitched voice, she also has never been seen without a liter jug of water and about 50 cough drops in her purse. I swear to god, She goes through Ricola bags faster than my gay friends go through condoms. Her weekly "throat" expenses are probably more than her gas and food combined, and no, not just because she lives in San Francisco and most likely has no gas expenses, damnit!

In addition to the above mentioned points, I am concluding with the somewhat far-fetched argument of her mental state being similar to that of Michael Jackson's. She is incredibly oblivious to all things sensible (which, granted, arguably so am I), and hardly ever answers a student question straightforwardly. I get a migraine just listening to her dance around words and topics like a nervous prepubescent teenager on a first date. I'm attributing this characteristic of hers to possible drug usage, years of "masking" her true self, and... well, I don't know, but she reminds me of Michael Jackson, and god damnit he was a fucking weirdo!

This post is a perfect example of why I never joined a speech and debate team in high school.

I know my professor is simply a middle-aged divorcee who likes to plaster on makeup and damage the shit out of her hair, but to be completely honest, there's nothing more interesting to do in class than to contemplate these situations.

The Diaper Days

For my birthday, I received some amazingly appropriate gifts, one of them being Sarah Silverman's "memoirs", The Bedwetter. Reading it has got me to thinking of my own enuresis memories, and consequently, the fact that I am still one of the most annoying people to go on a road trip with. (Every 10 minutes... "umm...no rush but, I'm going to wet your passenger seat if you don't pull over RIGHT NOW" ... "I DON'T CARE IF THE EXIT'S NOT FOR ANOTHER 2 MILES, damnit!!")

Allow me to explain: I was a chronic bedwetter from an early age (as far back as I can remember) up until my teens (last documented case: age 13, save for a crazy, blacked-out night in college when I peed in, oh yes, a GUY'S bed! ...needless to say he had moved to the couch downstairs by the time I woke up drenched in my own urine).

Enuresis can cause obscure phobias in young children, most notably that of spending the night ANYWHERE but home, in your own (plastic-sheet-on-top-of-mattress) bed, where your mom routinely and oh-so-thoughtfully places your Depends diaper for the night while you're brushing your teeth. At a time when most kids around the country are calling home, begging their parents to "pretty pretty please" let them stay the night at Johnny's or Katie's, I was putting my stellar fabrication skills into action, explaining that I had to get up early the next morning for "church" or "soccer", or at least scheming on how to subtly slip a diaper into the bottom of a sleeping bag for a weekend sleepover party. Getting it on while sandwiched in an already-zipped-up bag is a whole other story (Megan, what are you DOING under there??? Oh, you know, just my nightly crunches...).

As if it wasn't enough embarrassment to have actually wet about 5 other beds than my own by age 10, my parents decided I should seek "medical help". Doctor's offices are daunting enough for ANY reason really, but the worst are the so-called "non-emergencies", because then you just feel picky and overly-privileged. My skin needs this, my depression needs that, those are the usual run-of-the-mill cases, but nope: Dr. Padilla saw a 10-year-old Megan who was still wetting the bed (and slowly outgrowing any and all sizes of diapers). Anyway, I was given (wait for it) a PAMPHLET along with a brightly colored piece of paper (photos thankfully not included) outlining some "routine exercises" to perform while on the John. Seriously??? Isn't there like a pill or shot for this yet??

Although I must give the doctors credit for their practice (and stupid pink pamphlets), because these exercises are what (I'm assuming) caused my urethra to finally grow strong enough to HOLD THE GODDAMN PEE IN UNTIL 7 AM!! ...at age 14.
To this day, however, I am known for my frequent (and record-breakingly-fast) bathroom visits. I'm quickly becoming the San Franciscan George Costanza with my spontaneous bladder emergencies around the city (In addition to knowing public restrooms, I can also list 4 different Starbucks' bathroom codes). Whether the fact that I pee every half hour (not an exaggeration) is due to the abnormally large amounts of H2O that I inhale throughout the day, or simply the fact that my bladder is still the size of a goddamn pupil, well, I don't think we'll ever know. But we love me anyway, riiight??

right?
mreh.

Your Name Sucks

Have you ever been harmlessly chatting up someone at a bar, sharing drinks and a possible common hobby, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere...BAM, they feel the irrepressible need to introduce themselves, complete with a hand shake and their retarded ass name.

And it's not even like their name is bad for, say, a company lunch function or street fair; it's just unacceptable for happy hour.
The name has to match the mood, ya know? You can't say "Hey, I'm Sandy!" or "Nice to meet you, the name's Glenn" after 3 beers in a dive bar without instantly killing someone's buzz.
No es bueno.

My favorite go-to happy hour name is Liza. It's sexy, concise, easy to remember, and hopefully won't bring up too many execrable images of a 60 year old in drag belting out showtunes.

to sum up:

No's: Pete, Nancy, Melissa, Damien, anything that starts with a Y

Yes': Veronika, Adam, Sam, Christian, Cara, Norah

Santa Sucks

Society confuses me.

I mean, why do we put so much effort into convincing our children that some fairy tale characters exist, while others don't? For example: Jesus exists until you're in high school or forever, depending on the family/culture, Santa (as well as the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, and Leprechauns) exists until you've reached age 8 or 9, and then there are some characters that have never existed outside of story books (Greek gods, little red riding hood...to name two, completely unrelated ones).

It's Christmastime, which means the two front runners are Jesus and Santa. I think Jesus is an awesome role model to talk to your kids about.
Santa, on the other hand, I fucking hate.
Here's why:

1. He portrays obesity in a positive light.
Santa has a huge nog belly, chows down on chocolate chip cookies at every non-Jewish house in the world within a 4-5 hour period, and is STILL jolly? I think not. I've seen fat people like Santa, and believe me, the 40% of the day when they don't have food in front or inside of their face, they look pissed. They tend to smell like complete ass, and always seem to be putting way too much effort into continuing to breathe at a volume audible from the opposite end of a MUNI bus. When not in their happy place (kitchen, restaurant, or anywhere food happens to be) most of them bear a disgruntled "fuck the world" expression on their face, which, admittedly, may be due to the fact that their cheek fat has malformed their eyes into miniscule slits, giving them a sustained skeptical look. If anything, Santa seems to be saying "hey kids, it's okay to be fat! Don't buy the hype, you won't be self-conscious, depressed or putting your body through life-threatening harm, so throw back a few more bags of gingerbread men and have a happy holiday!"
The last thing we want is for Santa to get hit with the old myocardial infarction, especially when the kids depend on his fat ass to deliver toys to them.

2. He's the poster child for Laziness.
Prominent figures in society carry incredible responsibilities, and work their asses off to maintain successful execution of these duties. That is, unless they're Santa Claus, and they only have to work one goddamn day (technically night) of the year. I mean, he doesn't even make the toys he delivers and gets credit for giving, he already administered that job to the poor elves- who, by the way, do all of Santa's bitch work, and receive no cookies in return. His one and only shift out of the entire 4,380 day hours in a year is, while a graveyard one, only about 5 hours long. I did the math, and this means that Santa works .1% of the year, whereas an employed adult working 40 hours a week works about 46% of the daytime hours in a year. What the hell does he DO the rest of the year? Tying back to point 1, I think it's safe to say that he doesn't do ANYTHING besides chill out in front of his environmentally-damaging fire eating our cookies all day, err day. Bastard.

3. He hands out non-renewable resources like it's candy.
So much for being green, for the past god knows how many centuries, Santa has been annually mining coal, an endangered (and very non-renewable) resource, blasting it into little bits, and then going around putting said bits into the stockings of kids who have been "naughty". Can you say ironic?! Look Kris, (can I call you Kris?) I may not have put a dollar in the red Salvation Army tin, or visited my sick grandma when she was in the hospital, but hey, at least I'm not going around DESTROYING THE PLANET!! I mean, why coal? Couldn't you just leave Naughty Johnny an encouraging note, like "hey john, had a rough year, try harder in 2010, I believe in you", or perhaps a gift that seems like it's a nice gesture, but obviously says "I regifted"? Throwing out some examples here: fruitcake, a Starbucks giftcard, a decade-old Christmas VHS starring Tim Allen or Arnold Schwarzenegger. That would at least send the message that the child was in your thoughts, and it's more comforting than a piece of the ground that could've kept a small house warm on Christmas morning. Every child is naughty at one point in their life, it's about staying positive and pointing them in the right direction, not passive-agressively giving them a shitty gift.

4. He singlehandedly undermines the true meaning of Christmas to about 99% of children.
It's not rocket science:
Christmas is about family, friends, love, and goodwill.
Santa is about bingeing on partially-hydrogenated, saturated-fat-filled cookies, forcing hard work upon helpless little people for extended periods of time, futilely destroying the Earth's natural resources, and taking credit for parents' hard work.


This holiday season, don't give in to the mass marketing of the North Pole.
Spread the true meaning of Christmas wherever those with an open ear will dare listen.

Education is the answer, and it sure beats lying to your kids for the first decade of their lives, risking distrust and rebellion in the preteen years.

To sum up:
Truth > Santa = obese Earth-destroyer = defiant teens. Obvi.

Not Your Average "Theatre"

Originally, I thought my weeks in Sri Lanka would inspire me to write a lengthy, boring, holier-than-thou note about how much volunteering in a developing country had opened my eyes & dramatically altered my world-view and blah blah blah... Those days are long gone, and now that I'm here, I really just want to tell you all about my visit to a Kandyan hospital. So here goes... (side note: this note contains WAAAY TMI, and is not recommended for the weak of stomach)

A few days ago a mosquito bit me in a location that will not be disclosed, and after relentlessly itching the bite, I paid the price of my wrongdoings when it became infected. I couldn't sit or lay down (oh, there's the location for ya) without subjecting myself to excruciating pain...of course, I'm being overdramatic, but it REALLY hurt, all right?

Anyway, after about 2 days of nonstop throbbing (and not to mention the acquisition of a further abundance of mosquito bites, blisters, and zits that were pulling on my last nerves), I decided to tread into No Man's Land and check myself into a 3rd world hospital. It's the place your mother, doctor, ...or common sense warned you about: where many may enter, but few return unharmed (or at least in improved condition). Sri Lanka has both public and private hospitals, and after seeing the public hospital's morose line of over 200 people, I decided a private hospital would better suit my immediate needs...and future health.

As I cautiously approached the waiting room counter, I attracted the usual white-skinned girl stares, accompanied by the fierce, inquiring glares of 3 intimidating receptionists. I aimed for the most human-looking one and immediately began explaining my problem. Initially, she returned a bored, expressionless stare, but as I continued in my best broken English, her look turned into that of disgust as she realized I had just told her I had a huge infected mosquito bite on my ass. Class-less Americans!! After a few too many seconds of awkward silence, another clerk showed me to a small room furnished with a desk and patient bed that was in dire need of fresh paint, a fan, and a cheap-looking pastel-coloured painting of cats. I was told to wait for the doctor, who, after giving my ass a good rub down (feel up?), along with 3 of his other pervy "colleagues", informed me that my infection had become an abscess, and they would need to drain it. Sorry if this is TMI, but A) I warned you and B) Imagine how I felt, with student nurses giggling behind every (what they thought were) closed door, and the words "right buttocks girl" following me around everywhere I went like a black rain cloud.

One $75 deposit (do I get my money back if you accidentally kill me?) later, I was admitted to a pleasant room with a comfortable bed and adequate space. Nurses took my blood pressue and urine sample (I was hoping at least a hospital would have toilet paper, but was gravely disappointed), and injected an IV full of antibiotics into my wrist...the usual shabang. But by far the most interesting moment came when a nurse I hadn't seen before (and who I cannot think to describe as anything but a curious lesbian) came into the room and began to unnecessarily shave my down belows, an area that I had worked so hard at making as Sri Lankan as possible.
After CL had cleaned and smoothed me up, like a satisfied, glowing customer after a barbershop visit, I was wheeled into the (dun dun dun) "Operating Theatre". And theatre it was. The doctor and his brigade of nurses proved their incredible acting skills by assuring me I would feel "no pain", a line they probably use on everyone from chemo patients to expectant mothers. Sharp utensils and strips of gauze began flying every which way as I lay on my stomach and situated my IV just so in preparation for the "show". Presumably, as soon as the curtains were drawn, and the doctor began his act, I was in tears, clenching my hand around and pulling on my ponytail as forcibly as possible without going bald. At one point, the pain was so excruciating (yes, I can rightfully use that term now) I cried out in pain, creating a harmonic duet with the newborn baby next door. The doctor politely requested, "No yell, ok? I have job to do". Ok doc, I'll be sure to get right on that, when you get your SCISSORS out of my BUTT CHEEK!!! Thankfully, the operation (show? Performance?) was over before my voicebox was, and my tears of pain quickly transitioned into those of sheer loneliness. Being in a foreign hospital alone was by far the most depressing experience of my trip, if not my entire life.

After I finished drenching my pillowcase with salty droplets (and after the nurses finally gave up on their somewhat consoling attempts to sequester them), I was wheeled back to my home-for-the-night to rest (a hard thing to do at 2 pm on a full night of sleep).

A few uneventful hours passed until I was allowed to eat. The crowd of inquisitive nurses that regularly checked on me kindly offered me sandwiches, and after 3 failed attempts to discover "WHAT'S IN THEM???" (their repeated answers: "orange juice?"), I was delightfully surprised to find solo egg whites pressed in between the numerous slices of bread. After polishing off all but 2 of my "sandwiches", I lay my head down and slowly drifted off to the incessant buzzing of the AC and the lovely sight of my blood-stained IV bandage.

And now, here I am...
$250, a brazilian shave, and a 1" deep cut-in-ma-butt later, healthy as can be!!!

As we say in Sinhala, stoo-thi (thanks) to all the staff who made my one and only (let's hope) appearance at the Suwasevana Hospital's Operating "Theatre" a success!!