maegan writes & takes pictures
-
Posts
- jesus. filling your heart with love is ridiculously easy.
I don’t know why I kept renting it out to anger and jealousy for so long. It’s not like they’ve done anything for me lately. Or ever.
- A little more advice for my former teenage self.. on love:
- Your partner is not “your world.” Be your own world; share it with them when you can.
- Stop saying “I love you” so often. Repeating any word or phrase enough times makes it lose its meaning. Keep that one sacred.
- The correct response to “I love you more” is usually “I think we should see other people.”
Note to self: when in doubt, stop sniveling and reread this.
- on the 70 (they talk)
It’s 10:00 a.m. and the early morning rush began and ended hours ago. All that’s left are the old ladies, a few lucky students who don’t have class until nearly midday, and me. The University Express rounds the corner to its designated pick up point, but by this time of day, most want nothing more than to hitch a ride Downtown. These types are older, browned by age and sun exposure, with soft, deep grooves running down their cheeks. Their fingers are always tightly wrapped around the dirty white handles of plaid nylon bags containing fruit and bottles of Mexican fabric softener. Men are always a bag of mixed nuts that are fewer and further between. The old ladies are always there and they always look the same.
I climb aboard and take a window seat up at the front. Across the aisle sit a boy and a girl who’ve become quite close over the last couple of weeks. I’ve noticed them though they’ve probably never noticed me. The boy was a high school football star. He wears his long hair in a low ponytail sectioned by a series of hair bands a couple of inches apart. He’s into heavy metal and likes talking about his gigs. The girl is objectively cute when you really look at her, but I only really look at her because I see her everyday. She’s only had one boyfriend and regrets having had sex with him.
“You don’t understand, I don’t think I loved him. I mean, not like that you know. I didn’t want to wait until marriage, or anything. I just should’ve waited. I think I cheated him. It should’ve been really special for both of us.”
“No, no,” says the former football star. He’d slide closer to her if he could, but they’re too close already. The seats aren’t roomy and he’s a husky one. “If you cared about him and he cared about you…”
He wants more than a bus buddy relationship and she seems prime for it. The ride is bumpy, I forgot my iPod and keep forgetting to put music on my iPad. I have no music and that poem that’s been nagging me needs some serious working on. My already shoddy draft gets marred by one typo after the next.
“No mija, no, no,” one of the old ladies behind me begins moaning into her phone. At first I think she must be talking to another passenger, but when I turn to look, I see her cradling an old clamshell Nokia. Her eyes are wet. “Aye, dios mio…”
I keep trying to write.
“I think you should let yourself off the hook for this,” the former football star says.
I’m suddenly jealous. I wouldn’t want a man’s attention because he smells blood in the water, but at least the objectively cute girl has a bus buddy willing to lend an ear for fifteen short, bumpy minutes everyday. That’s something I don’t have.
“Yeah I know,” the objectively cute girl responds. “It’s been close to seven months…”
“Aye mija,” the old lady weeps.
The others look absently out the windows, their ears stuffed with ear buds. I hear the rustle of newspapers every few seconds. The bus reaches our destination and everyone begins filing out. The old lady behind me is still crying into her phone. The former football star and objectively cute girl pass by.
“So, yeah, my band is playing there tomorrow at nine…”
I want to follow close enough behind them to hear what happens. I want to know if she’s the least bit interested, but my bag is caught under the seat and it takes me an entire minute to loosen it and when I get to the corner, they’ve already made to the other side of the street.
I updated my Flavors.me site.
It can be viewed by clicking the above image or these words.
And the storm approaches. The warnings came in an hour ago. At the time it was cloudy, but it didn’t look like a storm would blow in our direction. Besides, the warning was for NM and far northeast ELP. Worrying was premature. Winds of up to 70 mph they said. Stay indoors. Keep away from windows. If you can hear thunder you’re close enough.
I just heard a boom in the distance.
Sweet speculations. Note left on the chalkboard for nervous students about take a daunting final exam. Giving students the freedom to interpret and analyze politics constructively makes this professor top notch in my book. Multiple guess is for suckers.
That was pretty damn heroic, all right. I know this firsthand.
But the heroic blogger is a genuine lover of people and an advocate for the world’s poorest. Saving me was just a teensy bit of what I’ve seen her accomplish.
A true hero indeed.
- then.
January 1, 2011
Things I’ll need in the coming year: a wall map, some cork panels, suspension rods, old sheets, new music, poster frames, lined paper, postage stamps, a Coca-Cola-free refrigerator, a newly drawn budget, an even temper, a restructured plan and some patience. Best of luck to all of you in the year ahead. xo
I dislike it when people fake-swear. If you don’t want to pollute your vocabulary with filth, that’s cool. I respect that. But “friggin’”? “Gosh darnit”? Lighten the fuck up and have the guts to say what you want to say the way that you want to say it.
January 17, 2011
Defending the ‘blood libel’ remark is impossible. The only way Sarah Palin can save face at this point is by splashing herself with water and melting away.
February 2, 2011
I’m going outside to experience what 9 degrees feels like.
February 14, 2011
AHEM. Whether you’re blissfully attached, bitterly single, or pining for someone you have no business pining for, HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY. Try not to catch or spread anything.
March 1, 2011
Hey, did you know that at least 56 species of cuckoos can only reproduce if and only if they partake in parasitic brooding? In layman’s terms that means that they dump their eggs in some other fool bird’s nest and let said fool bird raise it.
March 5, 2011
So my studying has been a little stop-n-go. I eased the pain of bordom and tediousness by checking out my turgid professor’s ratings. “Grumpy, frog-looking little man”; “Has contempt for humanity as a whole”; “Just do whatever he says and you’ll be fine” are what I found. So far I can’t contest any of those assessments.
March 26, 2011
The not-so-cool part about getting older: you lose complete touch with popular music. The totally cool part about about getting older: it doesn’t really matter because most of it’s shit anyway.
March 27, 2011
For the record, if any man told me that he’d catch a grenade for me, my respect for him would dwindle to subzero levels. I mean, if I could get him to do that, I could probably also get him to do my laundry, cook my dinner, paint my toe nails and possibly even floss my teeth. But if he SANG those sentiments and I felt like dancing, there’s no telling what I’d do. (I just wouldn’t respect him in the morning.)
In an effort to keep the Monday melancholy away, I’ve decided to think about how awesome my weekend was instead.
- we were sitting in the kitchen waiting for grammy and grampy to finish their beers.
In 24 hours they - my grandparents and mom - will be on a plane bound for Isreal. I wasn’t invited. They knew better than to extend the invitation. I was toying with the tassels of the placemats and the light seeping through the bay window was turning a dull purple. It might’ve been a pretty sunset, but the shade in the back garden combined with all the dirtied air from this week’s windstorms were enough to make even the most breathtaking backdrop look like a dusty bookshelf. They were nursing their Budweisers and I was getting impatient.
“Maegan I’ve got some things to show you,” my grandmother said, taking the final swig of her Bud. She got up, shuffled to the credenza and pulled out a small stack of papers from the drawer. From her pocket she drew a tiny tarnished-looking ring with a pair of small keys hanging from it.
“Here are the keys to the safe, a copy of the will and the contact information for our attorney,” she took a folded up napkin and pat-dried the beads of sweat beginning to bubble up around her hairline.
“You can’t get to anything, anything at all without our lawyer’s help,” my grandfather said. “He’ll advise you. If he starts pressuring you for money, just say ‘probate’”.
My mother began running her finger along the rim of her water bottle.
“I don’t want to have this conversation,” I said. My stomach felt like a balled up fist trying to fight its way out of my throat. “How about we all just agree that we’ll talk every couple of days and I’ll see you in a few weeks? Sound good?”
“Sounds good. Here, I’ll show you where we hide this stuff… ” My grandmother busied herself with her hiding place.
“Hey, do we have any wine?” I asked.
My grandfather opened a bottle of pink moscato and we drank to us and wished each other safe and happy travels in the year ahead. When we killed that bottle, we moved on to spumante and started talking about Matt Damon, George Clooney, creepy Christopher Walken and the death of Natalie Wood. A few hours later I fell asleep slightly happier than expected.
Note to self: nestled somewhere among these restaurants is where I ate the best Thai food I’ve ever had. I must go back, fill my tummy and check out what all The Hill staffers are sporting.
-
Photos
