Feeling

31st December 2017

Have you ever climbed up a really steep, grassy hill with a big bit of flattened cardboard? And slid to the bottom of that really steep, grassy hill on that big bit of flattened cardboard? Me too. I’m making the broad assumption that all of you have done that, because you really should have; and if you haven’t, you probably need to for the sake of your unfulfilled childhood.

To me, December is like that very last bit of the slide. It is, arguably, the most fun; it’s the fastest; you accumulate the most grass-burns; and you’re desperately trying to pull all of the fraying bits of cardboard together before you inevitably embarrass yourself in front of all of your friends by dislocating some body part. Which is when you regret all decisions leading up to that moment of utter chaos, right before you decide to climb up the hill, and do it all again.

Or maybe that’s just my December. And maybe the slippery climb to the top of the hill, the dodging of other cardboarders, and the regulation of breath so that nobody can see how truly unfit you are has just been my 2017. It probably isn’t though, which is a relief. If there’s anything more comforting to someone who is making their way through the cyclical mundanity that is existence; it’s the knowledge that everyone else is panting like pug dogs as well.

I know existence isn’t just mundane. It’s lots of other things too, but you get what I’m saying. Like, to me, 2017 has been a year of movement, discovery, bad choices, medicinally induced acne, and Tinder. All of which were, most likely, imperative to my formation as a young adult; but they mostly made for a very uncomfortable trip around the sun.

“But Meg, you had a great year. You did all of those fantastic things, and your Instagram looks fab.”

Yeah, I did have a great year. And I did do all of that fantastic stuff. And my Instagram isn’t as aesthetic as I’d like, but it does have photos of the aforementioned fantastic stuff (follow me). You’ve got to understand though, that it’s still been pretty difficult. Not in a, “my life sucks, and I can’t believe I have to vacuum again, somebody help me,” kind of way. Not even a depressed, “I can’t get out of bed.” It’s more of a, “I’ve completely forgotten what normal people feelings are, what the fuck is happening to my heart? Are these stable people emotions? They’re actually so shit.”

I recently read an old journal entry of mine, and in it I said to myself that I wanted to be able to write about normal people things. To experience things like love, and hurt, and disappointment, and joy, in ways that weren’t tainted by my disorder. To get to the core of that journal entry, is to say I wanted to feel. And not just feel, but to own it and say that my state of being is mine.

“Shit, she’s talking about feelings. Tap out, tap out.”

Wait, you have to stay because your validation means a lot to me. For a long time, I’ve had very close to no autonomy over my thoughts, moods, and emotions. So as I’ve progressed though my life; I’ve become accustomed to my turbulent mind, and the ensuing numbness of treatment. But this year, I began to learn to feel again. 

“Oh yay, Meg! That’s so good!”

Yeah, but it’s actually also very awkward.

So like, when I was obviously in the grip of the grossness that is bipolar: I was going up and down the hill with very little awareness about what was happening. I’d knock people over, I’d forget my piece of cardboard, and throw myself from the highest peak with absolutely no idea what was going on. With the medications; I could tell that I was going up and down the hill, and I could see everything moving in a blur around me, but I couldn’t interact with my surroundings, and so just rode out life with my brain on autopilot. It’s like the piece of cardboard was carrying me, if you know what I mean.   

Now, here I am. With time, hard work, and relative stability: I can see almost everything. I can see height of the hill from the bottom, and the view from the top. I can see how far there is to climb, and to fall: to enjoy, and to lament. And, my God, how do you sane people do this every day? How do you navigate normal emotions like boredom, and infatuation, and fear, and loneliness, and happiness, and contentedness, and neutrality? How do you allow yourself to be disappointed? Or to be loved? And excitement, that isn’t mania, is just the weirdest thing ever.

Adjusting to stability is so strange, and I am so tired. In fact, I am currently face down in the dirt, and bum up in the air, after losing my piece of cardboard way back in June. I think somebody stole it, but not sure. And I wish I could say with definite optimism that the coming year will be easier, and that my piece of cardboard will be even sturdier. But that would be a lie, and lies make me feel guilty. I have no idea what’s going on, and emotions are confusing and stupid. But I shouldn’t complain too much, because normal emotions are exactly what I asked for. And I'm excited for them, I just need to learn to own them.

Are You A Christian?

11th November 2017

Look, I really couldn’t tell you. This question seems to come up quite frequently, and the best response I can give is, “Uh, I’m a bad Christian.” It’s either that, or, “Mm, not a very good one. Haha.” Which obviously elicits further questions like, “So, are you a part of a church?” Or, “Are you religious?” And to both I answer, “no.” Which is entirely true. I go to the occasional church service, but I don’t see myself as a member of any congregation. Nor do I see myself as religious. Maybe one day I will. I mightn’t even completely devote myself to Christianity (as I did when I was eleven). Maybe I’ll get really into Judaism, or Islam, just to spite the freshly baptised child Meg.

Nah, I doubt it. But life’s weird, so who knows? Buddhism does seem kind of fun?

Something I really hate responding with though, is, “I’m spiritual”. It sounds really special (pronounced with a lisp). And what makes it feel more special (lisp) for me is that it’s completely true. I’m a very spiritual person; and whenever people ask me for my views on religion or philosophy, all I can offer them is, “I believe that we’re all connected, and in the energies of the universe, and God, and love. Love is my religion.” (Vomit.) I could get away with saying it if I were a devout vegan yogi who doesn’t own shoes, with hair down to my bum and a ready supply of weed. But I’m not that person. I just got a new pair of really cute leather sandals, and my hairdresser is really good at pixie cuts.

But like, I still say it. Because it’s the best I’ve got.

It would make sense for me to say that I don’t really see myself as a proper bona fide Christian, because I’ve been let down by the Church, like so many others. But that’s not true. One: because I’ve never been majorly let down by a church, or anyone in a church. Sure, some people have said and done things that haven’t made me, or the ones that I love, feel welcome. And some of the people I just plain don’t like. But for the most part, they’re goodhearted people. Two: I don’t root my spirituality in other people. I love other people. Don’t get me wrong. And maybe I’ll meet someone extra, extra special, and be like, “you are my religion.” (Again, life is weird.) And you might be a people religion sort of person, but for me it’s too personal to be founded within a group of humans (chickens, however.)

If we get down to it though, the real reason I have difficulty calling myself a Christian is because I’m really unsure about the resurrection. And, you know, that’s the soft, gooey, all-eternal-life-promising core of Christianity. And the reason I’m questioning the resurrection is because my understanding of God is constantly evolving. The more I learn about different people, the more I experience, and the more I observe the natural (and not so natural) world: the idea of God that I had as an eleven year old continues to be warped, and stretched, and all sorts of other things.

God, to me, is larger than the personified version we learn about in Sunday School. And I really couldn’t tell you much more about the guy, except that the reality of him is, most likely, not as simple as some big man in the sky who only allows a select few to experience eternal life in heaven. (That sounds elitist to me, and not very gracious at all.) I reckon God’s a life force with every aspect and feature of humankind represented in some… thing. It’s been challenging to be so open to ideas that contradict what I’ve been brought up with. But I’ve enjoyed it immensely. Humbling, is probably the better word. To know that I don’t know for sure opens me up to so many fantastical concepts, and I’ve found that I’ve been able to love more easily as a result (which is great, because I’m a full on romantic).

My spirituality comes from a strange sense of total awareness, and an appreciation for how everything came to be, even if I can only grasp tiny fragments of what that is. I believe in an abstracted version of God. I believe Jesus was a mad radical with a lot of good things to say (and quite possibly a drinking problem, but that’s understandable.) And I believe hugs make everything better (but not communicable diseases. Do not hug anyone if you have a communicable disease.)

So, am I a Christian? Um, I guess so. Just not a very good one. Haha. 

People, Like Me

13th October 2017

“Authentic self” is a phrase I learnt in 2015 with a seemingly very well balanced university counselor. She used words like “genuine”, and “identity”, along with some choice analogies to parallel my life choices, which were very obviously driven by some “deep psychological wounds”. Again, all her words, not mine. I really liked her words though. Her Japanese heritage and the cool text tattooed on her forearm made all of her insight seem so much more legitimate.

I don’t like it when people say “authentic self” now. It’s everywhere. There are just so many authentic selves; and my authentic self is overwhelmed by the overwhelming number of authentic selves. It could be because I’m a bit possessive of it, like, “I knew what this meant before it was cool.” But I think it’s more the fact that it just sounds a bit wanky. Like, good wanky, I guess. The kind of wanky that makes you feel better about yourself, but still wanky. Was it wanky two years ago? You know what, probably; but I thought I was really cool back then, so it was obviously cool simply because I, ultra cool Meg, knew what it meant.

I am not cool now. I am very, very not cool. I wasn’t cool back then either, really, but that false sense of confidence was all I had in terms of identity. And that is absolutely fine. It served its purpose, up until my brain was like “hahahah, let’s switch things up a bit.” It’s done that my entire life, the little bitch.

Anyway, back to identity, and me not being cool.

For a very big portion of my life, I’ve been isolated. My mental illness caused me to miss a lot of school; and when I was at school I’d spend all of my time in the school counselor’s office. When I wasn’t in the school counselor’s office, I was crying in class, because there was just so much bullshit going on in my tiny brain. Naturally, I was bullied because I cried (kids are savage). I also had buckteeth, which didn’t help (but I’ll grant those taunts, I looked like a little horse).

The whole me not going to school, because my brain is a fucktard thing, carried on throughout high school. The bullying thing also carried on, because I had some intense orthodontic work going on, my eyes were too big, I was smart, and I did choir. Things got better as I progressed into the senior years, and realised that the dickheads could go fuck themselves. And I made some excellent friends, who are still very excellent friends right now.

But since leaving school, and sporadically moving around the country in search of a home, I have been extremely lonely. I’ve met some definitely cool people, and I can say I’ve done all of these things; but my mind hasn’t allowed me to settle anywhere I can connect with people like me. (My authentic self hasn’t found similar authentic selves, which kind of cancels out the authentic – but you get the idea). Sure, everything blowing up in my face last year was probably one of the best things to have happened in my short life.

But I have endured all of the demolitions and reconstructions in my solitude. Yes: doctors, psychiatrists, counselors, psychologists, nurses have come, gone and stayed to offer the necessary support. Mum and Dad have always been my financial rocks, because I haven’t been able to hold down a job (thanks, parents). My friends have even spectated from the sidelines, throwing me flowers, and offering me delicious assortments of milk and dark chocolates.

I’m still picking up all of the pieces alone, though. And I know nobody can pick up the pieces for me; but last year, my cousin said I should go to the National Young Writers Festival, and then I said, “yeah, alright.” So, last weekend I went to the National Young Writers Festival. And I try to never expect things anymore. And my medication was being awful. And I was nervous about meeting people in the state that I was in, because I really don’t feel pleasant when drugs hijack my ability to walk. But the thing is, I met a whole bunch of misfits who were picking up their own pieces, and it was just like a picking up pieces party. I heard from other people with disabilities, atypical brains, mental illnesses, queer people, feminists, activists, cartoonists, poets, bloggers, other people from rural Australia, different ethnicities, religions. And they were all talking about the things that I’ve been thinking about throughout my entire isolation.

On the last night, I plucked up the courage to go to the sea baths after the Late Night Readings. People got drunk, and went skinny-dipping, and talked in big groups, and I felt uncomfortable. My tactic though, is to target the person sitting by themselves, and go in for the conversational kill. I don’t actually kill them though; unless the conversation is so painful they feel like they’re “literally dying”. I streamlined towards a guy who was looking wistfully over the ocean, and said to him, “Hello, I’m Meg. I’m very awkward.” To which he responded with, “Hi Meg, I’m Sebastian. Me too. Actually, everyone here is. We just ignore it.”

How fucking good is that?

These were people like me. To feel not alone without fear of never feeling it again was the best feeling I’ve had since I was very, very small. People say things like, “I’ve found my tribe,” and to be honest that’s wanky too. But this entire blog post is wanky, so I’m going to use it anyway. Actually, nah, I’m just going to say I’ve found people like me. 

Pleb for Plebs

3rd September 2017

“Aw, fuck. Here’s another opinion on the Same Sex Marriage plebiscite. I’ve already made up my mind, Meg.”

And that’s cool, whoever’s reading. I’m not setting out to change your opinion. I honestly don’t have the brain capacity or stamina to get into a debate about who’s right or wrong. And yeah, I’m sick of the whole debate too. It’s been quite draining on my end. Not only has the Same Sex Marriage debate been sucking at my soul for the past however long it’s been going on for; but the whole “is being gay evil?” thing has been ever since I saw a very attractive woman in a bikini at the age of eight.

For those who aren’t aware, I’m bisexual. I mean I’m sure I’ve mentioned it, but I like the ladies, and I like the gentlemen. I’m not mentioning this for praise, or to contribute to the quirky and left-of-centre image I so desperately try to attain (tell me I’m cool). I’m just saying it so you can get an idea of where I’m coming from as you (hopefully) keep reading this somewhat self-indulgent blog post.

This isn’t a coming out story. I want to make that clear. I don’t feel like I made a big announcement; it was more a process of self acceptance, and the people who helped me along with that were the only ones who needed to know (whether their responses were positive or not doesn’t matter). And this isn’t going to be a post aimed at slamming the people who oppose Same Sex Marriage. I’m not going to reprimand them, because I used to be a homophobe in every sense of the word. Institutional. Internal. Interpersonal. Cultural. So, I can say I kind of understand where they’re coming from in regards to their stance on the Marriage Act (even if they’re not homophobes).

I was brought up a Christian; and, at the age of eleven, I made a conscious effort to dedicate my life to God, and make sure that his “will be done”. One of his supposed wills being to rebuke anything gay. And there are enough passages in The Bible for Christians to grasp onto that suggest being gay is wrong in God’s eyes. I grasped onto them too, because I thought they were right: especially if I wanted God’s approval, to get into heaven, and to avoid an eternity of sadness in hell (for the record, I’m still an approval seeker). And so the usual suppression of ladylove ensued as per bi girl in church story goes.

At eight, I realised women were extremely, very sexy. At eight, I also asked someone what God thought of gay people. Their response was, “ah, not good.”  Bam. Must shut that feeling down if I want to go to heaven.

I found out my uncle was gay at about the same time, and I didn’t believe it: so we just decided to change the meaning of “gay” to “happy” in order to avert the conversation of what “gay” can actually mean. For a very long time, I was scared of the word “gay” and couldn’t bring myself to say it. You should have seen me last year when I tried to say “I like women” for the first time. It was like a mild exorcism.

At thirteen, a woman who was preaching at youth group very aggressively told us about how she’d told her daughter to, “not hang out with that girl, because she’s a lesbian!”

“Homosexuality is an abomination in the sight of God!” Is another one of my personal queer stomping favourites. As is, “bisexuals are just horny and greedy, in my opinion.” (I’m probably not the best person to challenge that preconception though…)

Okay, so it sounds like I’m making these people out to be terrible and mean and ignorant. And I believed all of these things. And it would be as easy to say that they’re all horrible homophobes as it is that I was a horrible homophobe. And some of them probably are blatant dickheads. But I grew up with a number of them; and I can understand that they hold these beliefs because it’s what their faith has taught them to be right. I know these people to be kind and caring and generous to anyone. If you rocked up on their doorstep, it wouldn’t matter if you were the zombie corpse of Osama Bin Laden, they would feed you and give you a bed. They don’t set out to harm other people for the sake of harming them. They say and do these things in an attempt to protect something that has comforted them and given them a sense of identity for, often, their entire lives. Their actions are self-preserving; and change can be seen as a threat to what they know, no matter it big or small.

Keep reading, please.

While I can appreciate why you people hold your beliefs; I think it’s important to note that while you may not be raging, hateful homophobes; you must understand that sometimes the things you say and do are homophobic (see quotes above). It’s like, I’m not a vegetarian, but sometimes I eat vegetarian food. Or, for want of a better comparison, I’m not a racist, but sometimes I say racist things. I don’t want to be a racist; and if I catch myself saying something racist, then I check myself. Because it’s definitely something I need to not do. Do you know what I mean? Like, in regards to this plebiscite: you can vote No if you want. That’s your opinion. In my opinion, it’s a shitty opinion to have (but that’s just my opinion). But please, please, please don’t be a twat about it. It’s fucking exhausting to be a queer person who has to listen to their parents talk about drawing dicks and balls on their votes because they don’t think it’s an important issue.

People wonder why the LGBTQI community gets so revved up about this, and “disrespectful” to anyone who disagrees with their points of view. But you have to ask yourself, “Why are they so disrespectful?” Hint: look at the history of Gay rights (any country will do).

I thought that finally being open with my sexuality would mean not giving a fuck about other peoples’ opinions, but I was wrong. It still pains me to think, “They’re going to be so disappointed if I ever have a girlfriend,” every time they show me a photo of a guy they think I should marry, even if they are making a joke. And the passive, sometimes rude, remarks about an issue that may directly impact my future relationship(s) makes me feel like shit. I’m sick of feeling ashamed. I mean you should feel guilty about kicking a dog in the face, not for thinking about banging someone with the same body parts as you. (Please note that I have never kicked a dog in the face.)

Anyway, like I said. I’m not going to tell you to vote No, nor am I going to tell you to vote Yes (it would be a bit hypocritical for a bisexual to tell you to pick a side). But will you do me a favor? I think it would be really cool if the world had a little more empathy, so be empathetic to anyone who has a different view to yours. No matter how awful or irrelevant you think it may be. This has just been mine, but there are plenty out there. Be respectful. Listen more than you talk. Be a grown-up about the whole thing. And no dicks and balls on voting papers, because that would be so great.  

A Hugger

5th August 2017

I’ve been doing a lot of really interesting things, in quite a short period of time, and have been in contact with lots of interesting people. If you know me well, you’ll know I’m a hugger. I’m not just a hugger of close friends and family; I’m a hugger of strangers, and trees, and sometimes my car (I love you, Fiona Ford Focus). This stranger ran into the back of Fiona one time with her husband’s Jaguar, and felt so awful about the whole situation that I absolutely needed to give her a hug. And then I hugged my car, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she hugged her car too.

What I’m basically getting at is I’ll hug anyone and everyone. And for the past three or so months, I’ve been in contact with, and hugged, lots of interesting people, both old and new. And when I say both old and new, I don’t mean that the people were either old or baby (although there have certainly been babies and the old). I mean they’ve been a person who has been a part of my life for a long time, or not a long time at all. There are also the people who sit in that grey section, and they confuse me a little bit if I’m honest.

As a hugger, I’ve scrutinised the ways in which the people in my life have hugged me. Or how they’ve hugged other people. Below you will see a kind-of-not-really-extensive list of human-to-human embraces. (Specifically hugs though, you can read Cosmopolitan Magazine to learn more about other human-to-human embraces, if you get my gist.)

The Virgin Hug

When the person is new to human contact with anyone who isn’t his or her mother. They will take all measures to ensure no part of their body touches the recipient for fear that it will lead to a full blown proper decent hug. Either that or they just have no idea how to do it yet. They are especially terrified of the kiss on the cheek, because they have no idea what that even means. Virgin Hugs can be seen amongst twelve year old girls, the very British, and, most prevalently, in seventeen year old males. Like with sex, they can improve their hugging skills with research, practise, open-mindedness, and open-arms.

The We’ve Never Met Before Hug

And hugging feels really awkward but it would be even more awkward if we didn’t hug. It isn’t dissimilar to The Virgin Hug, because both parties are afraid of committing to the unknown; but both know that the only thing that would make this encounter even more uncomfortable is if they were to look like two teenaged boys avoiding unexplainable erections. As a result: the hands lightly touch the other person’s shoulders, the heads are turned away, they let their torsos touch for about three seconds, and very quickly let go. You can see these kinds of hugs when: somebody is dragged along to a party by their friend and they meet a heap of people they don’t know, but their friend insists they’re really nice so you have to pretend to be friends with them, and just before you leave for the night you hug everyone to put the cherry on top of the introvert’s worst nightmare. The We’ve Never Met Before Hug is also a must at any first date with a Tinder match.

The Obligatory Filial Hug

So, this one can be broken down into a few categories, but I’ll only mention two. The hug you want to give, and the hug that, like a bad Christmas present, you have to pretend to be okay with. The first Obligatory Filial Hug is the hug you give that Aunty who makes you good food and tells you you’re so beautiful: this hug is warm and brief, but only brief because you have to hug everyone else in the family. The second Obligatory Filial hug is the one enforced upon you by that creepy uncle (is he even your uncle?) who smells, and licks his lips as he looks you up and down: you must be wary of bum grabs, and prepared for the inevitable kiss. I strongly recommend taking a long shower afterwards (and making sure all windows and door gaps are concealed).

The Baby Hug

I didn’t realise how clucky I was until I was hugged by a baby, oh my Lord.

The I Don’t Hug People Hug

This one is pretty self-explanatory. I have a few friends who just don’t like being hugged, so I just send them huggy vibes. I don’t understand why they don’t like being hugged, in the same way I don’t understand why people like capsicum; but I respect them and their preferences nonetheless (because what kind of human would I be if I didn’t?)

The I Can’t Believe I Just Hugged You Hug

Okay, so this might not happen to many of you. But it does to me, because it seems I have very little self-control when it comes to giving surprise affection. Lady in Jaguar is just one example. I’ve hugged a waitress, because I realised I’d never see her again. Old people are also common targets. These are proper good hugs, with a quick kiss on the cheek, and the recipient unsure of whether or not to feel mildly violated. In my defense though, I’ll always ask, “Can I hug you?” To which they’ll respond with, “Oh, um, yes, sure, I guess so?”

The Virtual Hug

Despite me being in places where hugs have been readily available, there are still specific people I wish I could be hugging. But I can’t, because they’re a very long way away from me. It’s kind of like sexting, I suppose. Only instead of sending naughty things like how you’d like to lick Nutella off of their face, you just send them a message saying, “I’d like to hug you, and listen to your heartbeat.” Isn’t that nice? I can feel my sister judging me from where ever she is right now.

The Full Blown Proper Decent Hug

The kind of hug where both huggers have no shame; they fuse themselves together into a singular blob of human mass, they fall to the floor, and forget about war, terminal diseases, and homeless kittens. My Dad gives pretty good Full Blown Proper Decent Hugs, as does my friend, Aidan. They can last from one minute, to an hour (all depending on how much either person needs it). I also give pretty good Full Blown Proper Decent Hugs, not to brag or anything.

The Best Hug You Will Ever Get Hug

Currently taking applications*, as I am yet to receive The Best Hug You Will Ever Get Hug. I’m imagining they should smell good and know how much squeeze is just enough. (*May be an elaborate plot to hug more people.)

I Can't Remember

8th June 2017

Let me just start by making it perfectly clear that I have no intentions of becoming one of those people who will incessantly remind everybody else that they’re sick. I know it may seem like I am, with a majority of my posts having to do with medication, and brain references, and shit (sorry). But I swear to my God and yours that I wish I had more to write about than just my drug-dulled life; in the same way I wish I could talk to people about more than how “I haven’t worked or studied in over twelve months.” Caringly, or not so caringly, the people almost always ask, “Oh, so what are you doing now?” to which I respond with, “Fuck all, Susan.” I’m joking. Not everybody who asks is called Susan. And I’m not doing just fuck all; I’m also developing my skills as an egg breeder. That was also a joke; I’m not that interesting. Or that funny, as it turns out. Somebody help me.

Actually, somebody told me I was interesting the other week. Having spoken to me a little more, somebody probably will not help me because somebody has probably discovered that I’m not as interesting as my mysterious façade would allude to (HA). But seriously, over the past couple of weeks I’ve been put in social situations (shudders) where a variety of people have asked me a variety of questions about me. You’re all probably thinking, “You should have no problem with that, Meg, you talk about you all the time.” Yeah, to a computer screen that doesn’t ask me about my ten-year plan, or the kinds of music I listen to, or what I’ve read lately. “Wait, those all seem like decent, normal questions.” Yeah, they are decent, normal questions (except the ten-year one, that makes me uneasy). The problem is, person whom I assume to be reading, I can’t remember anything.

What you have to understand (brace yourselves for the sick talk), is I’ve been put on a whole lot of mind-altering substances in a very short period of time. And throughout that time, I’ve lost bits of me that equated to a whole person. Or maybe not lost, maybe just dropped. Until about a month ago, I was unable to hold a conversation with someone, and hold onto whatever the fuck we were talking about. I’ve only been driving by myself for the same amount of time. I could only learn my lines for a play three weeks from opening night, because I’ve been unable to read and process information. I’m only now trying really hard to listen to music, and watch movies, and enjoy them as pieces of art (because I’m cultured). Not only do I forget the things that made me, me, but my senses seem to have dulled. I used to experience the extremes, and now my emotions have been dampened just incase they get too out of hand. I haven’t cried in a month, do you know how odd that is for me? It’s very odd. I’m lucky I haven’t gone through ECT (Electroconvulsive Therapy) though, because apparently that really messes with your sense of self.

So, yeah, I mightn’t be the most riveting, or intellectual person you’ve ever spoken to. And it might take a while for me to answer any of your questions. But if you do talk to me, just imagine me scavenging around on the floor, looking for a broken piece of Meg, picking it up, and giving it to you for keepsake. It’s probably dusty, but you know. I forgot to vacuum. Which is probably a good thing, otherwise you’d never get that piece.

And if you don’t want it, well: fuck you, Susan. (I’m kidding, Susan is very nice.)