It Ain’t Nothin But The Truth

To say “I don’t know where my inspiration comes from” would be a lie.

A big fat lie. Everyone knows. No one tells.
Who wants to be that blogger searching for pity or praise? Am I being too humble? (Is that pretentious to even suggest???) Or am I just a big coward hiding being a computer screen?

My inspiration comes from life experiences. Should be obvious, right? But not always. Every single poem is about someone. Although, most likely, that person doesn’t know it. Or probably give two hoots about it. And that’s fine with me. I don’t blog for them anyway. I blog for me. I blog to write down my life experiences to maybe reflect upon them in my wiser years. And for whomever finds me interesting enough to know about my boring everyday life.

Also, I’m funny. Or so I’m told.

Many life experiences remain undocumented,  sadly. Many thoughts and opinions stay locked up in my head – on repeat until my brain fixates itself on something else. Usually cheesecake. Or baking. Or something that will undoubtedly make me fat.

This, my friends, is why I work out.

But yes, the truth. You’ve been waiting for it, and it ain’t nothin but the truth. But I’m afraid of vulnerability. I mean, who isn’t right? Seems like a silly unnecessary thing to state. Saying it makes it real. 

I might be only twenty-seven, but I’ve been through some major life experiences. None of which are publicly documented. And most of which many people have never experienced. And every time I try to write about something so personal –  so emotional – I clam up and stop. That delete button needs to disappear. How ironic?

My struggles and triumphs will become faded distant memories if never recorded. I’m never the one to make promises I cannot keep. So I’ll leave you with a real expectation:

I’ll probably be drunk on red wine when I decide to show my real self. Not that I’m fake now; I’m just vague. None of my posts have been fictional, although I wish some were. So here’s to using my blog as a blog.

Who knew that’s what these were for??

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Weekly Photo Challenge: Colour | Blame It On The Alcohol

Image

IN A NEW POST CREATED SPECIFICALLY FOR THIS CHALLENGE, SHARE A PICTURE IN WHICH COLOR TAKES CENTER STAGE. Click here for more info.

Blame It On The Alcohol

Everyone who knows me, knows I love wine. And while this brand is not a brand I ever buy, the colors caught my attention. Color my world in wine, please! It’s no wonder that people are attracted to the alcohol section of grocery stores. The vibrant colors lure us in. “Buy me! Buy me!”

Do you have the willpower to resist?

All Grown Up

Daily Writing Prompt: All Grown Up: When was the first time you really felt like a grown up (if ever)?

The light bulb flickered above my head. Flashes of adult decisions loomed nearby. I refused to screw the light bulb in tighter because if I did, the beam of light would be constant. And then I’d be an adult. Making adult decisions every day instead of just moments in time when the light flickered, and I pretended to be an adult, for just a moment in time, and then I regressed back to naiveté.

Who really wants to grow up? Doesn’t everyone want to be a Toys ‘R Us kid?

Even after I moved from out of my Mom’s house to Chicago, I still didn’t feel as adult-like as I should. The opportunities to blow entire paychecks here are endless: concerts, museums, tours, wine tastings, fancy restaurants, Blackhawks and Bulls games, Navy Pier, dinner and architectural cruises, beaches Sears Tower (yes, it will always be the Sears Tower for me. Deal with it), parks, operas, Millennium Park, too many stores down the Magnificent Mile, and way too many options to get drunk at way too many bars. And this is just the start.

In order to enjoy Chicago and the copious amounts of activities, how could I be an adult? The longer I stayed here in Chicago, the more I untwisted my light bulb: making fewer and fewer adult decisions.

Then, out of no where, a year passed. An entire year–365 days, 525,949 minutes of my life–gone. The most gratifying part: I wasn’t broke:

I paid my cable bills.
I paid my rent.
I paid my medical bills.
I paid my insurance.
I paid my electric bills.
I paid for my bus passes.
I paid my cell phone bills.
Never late.
Always early.

I bought a new phone. Because I wanted to be like the cool kids.
I bought groceries… and wasted more that I should have. My mom would be disappointed.
I bought too many take out dinners. How am I not fat?
I bought new clothes. What? I had nothing to wear!
I bought a ticket to a three-day music festival in summer. I hope I remember most of it!
I bought more wine that I am willing to admit. I swear I’m not an alcoholic.
I bought new books. That I still need to read.
I bought more candles than I need. And didn’t burn down my apartment!
I bought a plan ticket to Boston. Is it April yet?

I researched neighborhoods to move into in March.
I found a new roommate. (And a new apartment!)
I mastered the public transportation system.
I joined a Writer’s Group.
I volunteer at Big Brothers Big Sisters.
I didn’t die crossing busy Chicago streets in rush hour traffic.
I filed my own taxes.
I kept my job.

So. Wait. HOLD THE PHONE!
I AM an adult? When did that happen?

//Frantically tries to unscrew the light bulb.//

I kept twisting and turning that bulb. Just hoping. Praying. (Wait, I don’t pray.) That the light would flicker again. That I would be able to not care about keeping my life in order. Yet, all along, I WAS somehow subconsciously making good decisions.

Look Mom! I’m an adult!

Daily Prompt: All About Me

From the Daily Writing Prompt: “Explain why you chose your blog’s title and what it means to you”

My last name never appealed to me. Whenever I say my last name, my mouth becomes this tainted hole with remnants of nail polish remover lingering inside: pungent, bitter, venomous. Bad memories plant themselves into my mind and expand and fill my head with grey clouds and rain and empty bottles of wine. I concluded only with one thought: expunge my last name from my life. I craved the sunflowers, jazz music, and chocolate ice cream dripping down my arm on a humid day. Thus, “Megan Elizabeth” emerged.