State of the Meg/SOMETHING SO TOTALLY IMPORTANT AND EXCITING!!@!1!

First, let it be known that I just typed out (and deleted) the entire intro to Eminem's "Without Me", replacing every instance of "Shady" with "Meggles". So: a.) I'm back, b.) tell a friend, c.) I'm still just horrible.

2012 got off to a rocky-ass start, you guys. Rocky-ass. As I mentioned, I'm applying (or, have now applied) to a few creative writing MFA programs in New York. Getting my portfolio together and writing my personal statement/memoir outline/literary essay/vomit vomit vomit was rough, to say the least. Nothing I had felt good enough, anything new I wrote sucked, and I started doubting my memoir idea. I'd stay up for these long 18-hour stretches, not eating and just re-writing and re-writing and re-writing and tweeting and re-writing the same sentence over and over again like a crazy person. I have an unfortunate tendency to do that. When I pulled that shit with Chris when we were writing our first book, he'd tell me to stop because I was "splitting hairs". This quickly became "you're splitting pubes", which became "you're braiding your pubes", then "you're cornrowing your pubes", and my personal favorite, the direct, "MEG, STOP BEING OBSESSED WITH YOUR OWN PUBIC HAIR." I needed Chris there to keep my pubic hair in check. Which, of course, is one of the reasons why I want to go to grad school in the first place. I'd like to be able to sit down and write something without needing someone there to tell me to leave my pubes alone. <---- If I could turn back time, that sentence in 72-point CurlzMT would be my personal statement. Period.

This entire grad school application process has really made me feel like shit about myself. I couldn't stop reading these creative writing MFA blogs with their forums of people who'd been to fancy-ass workshops and had MFA coaches. MFA coaches! That's a thing! And then there's me sitting in my parent's basement in a "Hoof Arted?" t-shirt, debating if I should say, "I shoved my breasts into an ill-fitting sports bra" or "I crammed my breasts into an ill-fitting sports bra" for 90-minutes straight. Every now and then I'd need a mental break and do a New York Times online crossword puzzle for "Young Solvers". I fucking love those things. They're easy, but not too easy, and to the casual observer it just looks like you're working that Times crossword like a motherfucker. Also, when you finish, a comical pencil pops up to congratulate you. 

I call him Colonel Twiggins and he his my jam.

One of the saddest moments of this entire process came when I decided to take a break from my Columbia application with the NYT4YS puzzle "Scary Stories". (Sad in and of itself, I realize.) I thought I had successfully solved the puzzle, but could not for the life of me figure out why Colonel Twiggins wasn't popping up. After about ten minutes of throwing pillows at the cat and yelling profanities at my computer, I realized that I had spelled "radio" R-A-D-E-O. I mean...I just can't. Because to recap: while applying to the Ivy league institution, I misspelled "radio" in a crossword puzzle written for elementary schoolers and worked myself into a lather because the jaunty little pencil didn't pop up to validate all of my hard work. I mean, why did I even apply at that point? I should have just sent them an oil painting of myself playing with my own fecal matter in a sweatshirt that says "I hate Mondays" and saved myself the $150 application fee.

But, I finally submitted all of my applications. I thought I'd feel relieved after I submitted the last one, but I didn't. I felt really, really sad. Which was such an odd emotion to have. Because I didn't feel depressed, I didn't feel disappointed, I didn't feel anxious—I felt sad. True to form, I buried those emotions deep, deep down, started to driving to Teresa's birthday party in Silver Spring, and 100% burst into tears around Georgia and August. It was weird, because I'm not really a "crier". I think I can count the number of times I've cried since 2004 on one hand, and most of them have been in the past six months, which is probably a star-spangled, flaming red flag that something is wrong. I pulled over, had myself a good cry, did some rational thinking, and here's what I realized: I've been unhappy about a lot of aspects of my life recently, and I think going to grad school was my quick fix for everything. Like, who cares that I can't find a job? I'm going to go to grad school! Why should I be upset that I'm the only one of my friends who isn't in a relationship? I'm just going to move in August anyway! Etc, etc. But then when I realized that that might not happen, it was like, well fuck—where does that leave me? Crying in an SUV parked outside of a pirate-themed bar in Silver Spring, oddly and specifically enough. But then I realized that even if I do get into grad school, it's not going to magically fix everything. I'll still be unhappy. Just with a lot more debt. And maybe a pug. Depending on my housing. But probably not. Because I can't spell and my personal statement very much included the phrase "hot-ass mess".

Back outside the pirate bar, a spry, gay young gentleman told me something wise: when you're unhappy, there are things you can do about it and things you can't, so do what you can do now and the rest will eventually to fall into place. (That gay man was Alex on the phone with me, by the way. Reading that back over, it kind of sounds like a spindly gay man tapped on my window with his house keys out of nowhere and offered to ride shotgun while we rounded a few bases and swapped life advice.) (Which I would have been into, for the record.) So, I took some time and got my shit together. Or I've started to get my shit together. And it feels good! I don't know if I'll get into grad school and there are things that certainly suck right now, but whatevs. It'll get better. And it the mean time, it's just blog fodder gold, my friends. Lose/Win!

NEXT PIECE OF TOTALLY IMPORTANT AND EXCITING INFORMATION! OK, OK, OK, hee hee hee, OK. I have an announcement to make: this Friday at 5pm 4pm, Chris and I will be guests on Keith and the Girl! I KNOW, RIGHT?!?!?!?11 If you don't know what Keith and the Girl is, you've wasted the past seven years of your life and I feel sorry for you, but for the sake of being a better person, or whatever it is I'm trying to do these days, Keith and the Girl is a free daily comedy podcast hosted by Keith Malley and Chemda Khalili and it's just so good. Their tagline is "Keith and his ex-girlfriend talk shit", and that's pretty much exactly what they do. They live in Queens, they used to date, they have hilarious friends/guests, an intense cult following, and they talk for about an hour and 20-minutes everyday on air about their lives, current events, and pop culture. It's addictive. I started listening to KATG when I moved to New York in 2007 and I've been a daily listener ever since. I swear to God I'm not saying this to suck up to them because fuck it, we already got booked, but do yourself a favor and subscribe to their show on iTunes immediately. It's perfect to listen to in the car, on your commute, at work or around the house. I do all of the above, frankly. It's funny, honest, touching, and life-changing. I say this because it literally changed my life. Which I told them. Which is embarrassing in retrospect, but it did.

It's no secret that my first year out of college in New York was one of the darkest times of my life, if not the darkest. (How dark? Buy the memoir that will in no way be written at Columbia, Hunter, or the New School.) After living in New York for a year, I felt like the only friends I had made were Keith and the Girl and my therapist, which is just as depressing as it sounds. But not only did KATG lift my spirits during a time when I didn't think that was even possible, they also inspired me to quit my job, move back to DC and write this blog. I was listening to KATG one day while riding the F train home from work, being miserable, as per usual, when Keith and Chemda started talking about how infuriating it is when people condescendingly tell that it must be sooo nice to just do a podcast and "work" for only an hour a day and how they wished they could do that. Chemda then started shouting, "THEN FUCKING DO IT! WHAT'S STOPPING YOU, ASSHOLE? YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING CREATIVE, THEN GET A SHIT JOB, PUT IN YEARS OF HARD WORK, AND FUCKING DO IT!" And that, my friends, is how 2birds1blog was born. Well, technically Ex Co-Blogger Eddie and I had created it a few months before as a way to keep in touch after college, but that was the moment when I decided to follow my passion, take full control, and blog five days a week. And thank Christ I did, because if I hadn't, I'd probably either be dead right now or hooking somewhere in Bed-Stuy with Weekend Hair. (Truthfully, the latter doesn't all that bad...)

As you can probably guess, I'm so fucking nervous for Friday that I can barely function. I just can't wrap my head around the fact that we're actually going to meet them. I feel like there aren't enough words to thank them for inspiring me to pursue my writing, and in trying to do so, I'm going to burst into tears, soil myself, and ruin thousands of dollars worth of equipment. Not to mention the fact that we have to BE FUNNY. That's the entire reason we're going on the show! And I'm sorry, but I can either not vomit, or be funny: pick one. Contrary to the cover letter I'm currently half-ass writing in another window, I can not multi-task. Also, their forums are like our comments section on crack. People do not hold back, you guys. They will flat-out be like, "WORST GUEST EVER" 30-seconds into a show and you can't win 'em back! You just can't! My jazzy and elegant solution? Wear a low-cut top. BOOM: tit-tays. Christ only knows what Chris is going to do. Although he keeps obnoxiously texting me about how calm he is. He's so calm. He's just the calmest clam in the...cove. (I don't know if there are clams in coves, but I needed a C to finish the alliteration and THIS IS WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! I CAN'T BE FUNNY WHEN I'M TRYING TO KEEP MY SHIT TOGETHER AND I'M BARELY HANGING ON BY A THREAD!!! I'm like a scared horse that needs to be <--- Stop, Meg. Just stop right there. That "joke" was obviously going somewhere involving Pony Play and you, frankly, look crazy enough right now. Speaking of crazy! Up until about six hours ago, I had every intention of baking and bringing them cookies. I mean, there's really no quicker way to say I'm crazy than to show up sweating profusely with a shaky plate full of cookies all, "I was going to kill myself in 2008, but then you gots-me-a-gigglin'." Wiiiiiink.

Christ. Alright, I have one day to get to New York and pull myself together. If you would like to watch and/or listen to my dream come true, (being a guest on Keith and the Girl, that is, not vomiting in front of my heros) (although dear Mary mother of God, something tells me they're going to be one in the same!) you can go to katg.com and watch and listen live at 5 o'clock 4 o'clock, or you can download it from iTunes shortly after the show wraps. But really, you should subscribe right now. And follow them on Twitter. And shit, follow me on Twitter. OK, time to unwind with the Colonel. And for the first time in my life, that's not a reference to KFC. See, POSITIVE CHANGES!!!1!

<3