keep in mind i'm writing this with a southern accent. read it as so.

see this picture i drew? you can tell the stick-figure in the drawing is me, because a.) i have a body that's quite stick-like, duh, and b.) the hair is kinky (in the bad way) and Texas-big. (not like the size of Texas[-big], but like the women's hair on that show Dallas. *twang, twang*)

this leel pichure is the accompanying illustration to a little story i'm going to tell y'all. some say, "wow meghan, that right there is the story of your life, in an essence! twang twang." and i couldn't agree with those people more. mainly those people consist of my Southern friends (the best kind you can have, if you ask me), who gather in a bunch near St. Elmo's Pub... but that's a whole different story. I remember Georgetown like it was yesterday... *

cue single country guitar chord.


this story all starts on the eve of 2 pm this day, Tuesday, August 24th. there were a few things that were on my mind, this day: the most important being my bladder. not of steel, no, this one is---a couple of coffees later and she be pourin' like niagra. the falls. oh, yes.

 second thing on my mind: when the hell is molly walking out of that junior high school? WHEN. THE. HELL. QUESTION MARK.

third thing on my mind: why in the fuckity-world-fuck, did i buy this shirt? it's uglay. and not in gangsta cheerleader way, no, but in the wardrobe clusterfuck way.

you may be asking yourself, right about now, why in the world was i thinking all these thoughts? she can't handle that much on her mind! (which incidently brings me to  a different story involving my mom putting down my math skills in public, but we shall get to that in due time.)


well, world, gracious and giant world, i was thinking these thoughts, because i had been sitting in the CR-V for no less than TWO HOURS. in the JUNIOR HIGH PARKING LOT. THINKING ABOUT MY BLADDER.  AND OTHER MALPRACTICE SUITS.

granted, the story shutdown a few complaints ago, but you get the picture, so i'll wrap it up-Shrek-style for you. actually i won't, because no one falls in love and lives "happily ever after" until the next follow-up-massivly-grossing-film. uh, no. this story ends like all other real-life stories: a passive aggessive finale. no one was directly confronted about why i had to wait for my sister in a car for so long, and no one got shot. but lemme tell ya one thing, little missy: there were eye-rolls a plenty.


(when this wins a Pulitzer, i would like to thank Erin for all the Southern phrases she's graciously used around me. keep it Texas-big. Go big, or Go Home.Mosey)

such as that right there. points.

*reference to the movie St Elmos Fire