meagan feels like ranting. watch your balls.

I don’t do this often. I’m usually passive and happy and kind. This, however, needs to be said.

I would like to say something to anyone who utilizes “interns” or “assistants” or “bitches” for little or no pay.

Have you checked yourself, or have you wrecked yourself?

I have given over a year of my life to a lot of projects and work with amazing people who are unable to pay me but want to make me feel appreciated. Through mentorship, dinners,  pats on the back and cash whenever possible. These people make me feel worth while and irreplaceable even though they are unable to give me the diamond earrings or gold bidet of my dreams.

Some people, however, live in a world where they use and abuse every youngling they cross who wants to offer time in exchange for experience or a little moolah.  I’ve known folks like this my whole life, and they don’t seem to fucking disappear. They disgust me.

So, I ask you, Person-With-An-Intern-or-Assistant, are you checking yourself or wrecking yourself? Are you appreciating the people trying to help you grow, or are you completely unaware of what they’re sacrificing?

Finally, I remind you, that when the End of Days is upon us — you will not be taken to the ship with John Travolta. Or to Heaven with Oprah. Or to CupcakeLand with me.

Just think of that.

End rant.

My uterus. It weeps.

It has become increasingly apparent to me that I am getting old.

Now, I’m only 23, but I have long prided myself on the fact that my friends and I are young enough to be on the cutting edge of provocative shennanigans.

Then … I saw the commercial for this. A film about a ‘pregnancy pact’ that teen girls made – based on this true story from 2008. This blog has never been and will never be a place for me to talk about politics directly, or discuss serious issues in a serious way. So I will say this … WHAT THE FUCK, TEENAGERS!?

When I was your age all I cared about was getting high or drunk and AVOIDING pregnancy in any way possible. Planned Parenthood is the bomb – my friends and I went together to get our first birth control pills and we felt like sexy twentysomethings in doing so. We felt grown up. Without responsibility but with freedom. The perfect combination. The only pacts we made with one another was to throw each other down the stairs if we missed our periods. Just for good measure.

Now? Now kids are *trying* to get knocked up? This is blowing my face off of my face. I do wonder if movies and deliciously awful teevee shows like “Teen Mom” are making this an actual reality for teenagers now. Well … teenage girls. Everything I’ve read and seen thus far (including ‘Teen Mom”) simply shows how uninterested in responsibility teenage boys are. Which is why I was always with older men. That and other reasons. Reasons I don’t need to explain. Amiright!?

Now, having been through the excruciating teen years and the uncomfortable real world, I am more sad than anything. Sad that I’m getting older and out of the cutting edge (thus, less likely to be brought onto Maury). Sad that young girls want so badly to be loved that they make such scary choices with one another. Sad that it’s being shown on Lifetime when ABC Family is so clearly the proper choice. Sad that Thora Birch has reached this point in her career.

So … it’s official. I am no longer cutting edge. I suppose I should give up on trying to be extreme.

I’ve been away … but doing cool things!

I suck.  I suck for not posting for like TWO MONTHS which is the longest stretch I’ve had on UC. I’m sure nobody noticed or cared, but I neglected this sweet baby and it means too much to me to continue doing so.

A lot of things happened over the two months: moved. ate food. laughed. family drove me nuts. purchased clothing. improv performances. joined the cast of Road House: The Play. had my picture taken. laughed more. joined actual improv troupe. started podcast. working on thesis. rinsing. repeating.

Tomorrow, I will write about something normal, but I like to do these recaps when I go through my stressful periods that keep me from blogging.

Also, by “stressful periods” I mean “times when I was doing cool shit and drinking every night so I forgot to blog.”

hairballs.

I have an intense phobia of any collection of hair outside of a human or animal’s body.

Living in a sorority with fifty women meant that after 4pm on Thursday-Saturday nights, I had to cover my eyes walking into the bathroom which had been taken over by brushes, combs, straighteners, curlers and HAIRBALLS.

This is a phobia I have ignored for many a moon because I didn’t think it was serious. I thought that hairballs were simply things I could live without rather than things that induced dry-heaving.

Until last week. I was with some girlfriends watching a movie, when my curly red-headed friend pulled a giant knot out of her own head. I began squealing and she hid it from me, laughing. But I knew it was there. The hair ball. Plotting evil. To fall in my shoe or touch my finger. Waiting. Watching.

Sitting at a pub tonight, the same evil red-head and another friend began discussing this phobia. Again, the dry-heaving and the covering of the mouth and the hacking.

There is NOTHING in this world that upsets me more than a giant ball of hair. I don’t know if this is a good thing. I don’t know where it came from. I don’t know when it will leave. All I know is that it is keeping me from my dream as a professional Celebrity Hair Braider.

Do you have phobias?

throw up your hands in the ayerrr

OMG. See what they did there!? wit.

I often joke that I’ve given up on love for one reason or another. Through the heartbreaks of my friends, or the ones that my own, I often mumble that I’ll die alone. This mumbling usually takes place after two bottles of wine and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s while sipping tea and journaling.

However, I am full of shit.

I still believe that I can and will be in love again. I adore being single and can’t imagine anything else happening in my life right now. Besides – I got used to sleeping alone and living alone and drinking myself to sleep every afternoon. [The heat is TOO expensive. Drinking at noon keeps me warm, okay!??!]

One day, however, I want a pretty white dress and a deliciously oversized diamond and a duvet cover and a real vacuum cleaner and … a husband I guess. By default.

So I wonder — when does the turning point come? When will I mumble into my Riesling under my breath and mean it? Why is it that 20-something women spend so much time pretending to be cynical when we really believe that we will find the man or woman of our dreams at some point?

Will I wake up one day at forty-seven and realize that I’ve hit a wall? Will I look down at my wool socks (because they will never go out of style) and my mismatched fuzzy blankets on my bed and say “Well i suppose it’s just me from here on out!”

big ring. on second thought - this face could = why i'm single.

I’m not sure. Maybe one day I’ll just throw up my hands and yell “I GIVE UP. I’M DONE!” at the sky. Of course, nobody will give a shit and I will continue with my day and my routine and die peacefully – knowing I’ve done all the things I ever wanted.

Fuck it. I can buy myself a ring. (I already have a few big’ns.) And a dress. And a goddamn duvet. They have those at IKEA, right?

why i keep doing this

Well, well, well. Here I am.

Things have been crazy [as usual] thanks to my lovely jobs here [I made that website. Prepare to have your mind BLOWN] and here and school and some other projects I’m bullshitting about over drinks developing with my lovely friend Nathalie.

Also, last week I had the oinkporkswinepigflu! The body aches were horrifying and there … there was a mask involved.

Someone please explain to me how I am not married by now. Just look at the beauty and majesty in my eyes.

This was the most sick I’ve ever been in my young 23 years and I had to take almost an entire week off of work though school got taken care of. Apparently, I have straight A’s right now. So I got that goin’ for me.

Maybe I keep this mask on, now? Maybe it’s a winner?

In between school and working for fabulous Portlanders and pretending to be a writer, I’ve been reading a lot of books. This reminds me of my youth, when I read things for pleasure.

Hah. What a joyous experience it has been. But I don’t see it continuing once my thesis begins. Anyone have suggestions for new books? Please send them my way. If you send me a suggestion and I like it – I will send you a photo of me reading it. Maybe nude. I don’t know. NO promises.

Blogs also. I’ve been reading a lot of blogs. Food blogs, humor blogs, sad blogs, creative blogs. All of them. A lot of time and effort and, often, fear goes into being consistently funny on the internet.

I often think of stopping this. Of just focusing on my other projects and leaving Unclean Conscience behind.

I started this blog to keep myself writing and it’s given me more than that. I was contemplating all of this today, and then I got some not-so-great news.

One of my first loves, the first man who i think really loved me back, took his own life yesterday. I’ve spent this evening in a haze. Trying to figure out how normal people grieve. For some reason – I started thinking about what he would have told me to do.

Write.

I’ve decided to shift some things around and focus on some of my more immediate passions – which I’m very excited about.

I also plan to start spending at least one hour a day watching makeup tutorials on YouTube because they make me feel prettier. Also, I went to here and bought makeup for ONE DOLLAR. No lie. Please, go there. Buy things. Now.

For instance, it is 4am and instead of sleeping (thanks, insomnia), I’ve been watching this amazing woman (who I fully intend on stalking) and trimming my eyebrows. BECAUSE THESE ARE MY PRIORITIES, PEOPLE.

Also, Kiala is going to let me paint her face and dress her. She asked for it, actually. So it’s RESEARCH.

the truth will set you free

There are some things a girl just doesn’t tell people. Liiiikeee – if she stuffs her bra, if she slept with her third cousin (through marriage, you guys!), if she once ate cake out of the trash (ONCE). These are all things you just don’t tell people.

One secret I’ve hidden is eating me away inside. I keep it held tight for fear of judgement and rejection once it comes out. It’s time, though, that I do it. That just let it out there into the Interwebs and hope that you all continue to love me.

It all started two nights ago when I was tired. So tired, in fact, that I could not sleep. I proceeded to drink a bottle of glass of wine in the hopes that I would get drowsy. I ended up drunk, laying in my pitch dark room, listening to my iTunes on shuffle.  CAUTION: THE NEXT FEW LINES ARE SAPPY. PROCEED TO NEXT PARAGRAPH IF YOU WOULD RATHER NOT BE A PART OF IT. I feel, in many ways, that I’m just at the beginning. A new job, nearly completing my Masters degree, a new outlook. At the beginning of anything, though, it’s natural to be scared. I’m starting to feel like I’m growing up too fast. Things are happening so quickly and I’m afraid I won’t get them right.

As I lay there in my bed, intoxicated, and thinking about these new changes – a song came on that spoke to me. It was like the songwriter was IN MY HEAD. I wept. I wept openly. And it felt great. A few of the lines go like this:

So scared of getting older
I’m only good at being young
So I play the numbers game
To find a way to say that life has just begun

Had a talk with my old man
Said “help me understand”
He said “turn sixty-eight
You renegotiate”

“Don’t stop this train
Don’t for a minute change the place you’re in
And don’t think I couldn’t ever understand”

So I have just decided to admit it. The man who wrote those lyrics fucking gets me, you guys. And I don’t care what you say — he’s an amazing guitarist. Just don’t look at his face. Eric Clapton can NOT be wrong (seriously. look it up online. Clapton hearts him).

And yeah – his persona? A bit douchey. I ask this of anyone I know in real life: Do I like douchebags? Yes. Yes I do.

His new song references smoking the marijuana and booty calls. Backed a sensual voice and calming guitar. Not many men can do that these days.

I am a fan of John Mayer.

Deal with it, world!

.gumbo.

Okay, I’m a horrible human being.
Almost a month, me!? A MONTH without blog posts?

Jesus Christ. I’m back in the game now. I’m re-focused.

I’m just going to jump into it: I’m still really kind of broke, dating a lot (read: slut), back in school, working for a great company, learning how to put together a website, shoe shopping often, learning how to cook, reading a lot of books, drinking gallons a bit of wine and wishing I were funnier.

There you have it. Me, updated.

There is something happening in the world, however, which I would like to discuss here and now.

Hot older men banging chicks that work for them. Case in point: David Letterman. The Original Silver Fox.

I would like to know — where the fuck these men are and why I’m not working for them? I’m an alright looking gal. I have a nice situation up top. I have been known to make a man giggle. I have been known to do another thing or two for a man. And yet — I haven’t run into one with power over me who wanted to use it to his advantage.

WHERE ARE THEY!?

Can I please work for someone who wants to have a dangerous love affair with me? Is this something one could put on Craigslist? My experience in writing copy means I could put something together fast. Something like this:

Seeking: hot older man in need of a writer, personal assistant, babysitter, lounge singer, personal shopper or house painter who never hesitates to  give a little ’something extra.’ Prefer a man under 70 with great hair and large wallet. Compensation discussed on a task-by-task basis.

Sound good? I’ll post it as soon as I get some approval from you all.

There. A mixed bag post. A gumbo, if you will. See you tomorrow, bitches.

bumberpoop and stuff.

I spent last week panicking about my trip to Bumbershoot Music Festival, and spent the weekend at said event. Now I’m back and catching up on work.

Also, after skipping around Seattle, I may have broken my kneecap. And by broken, I mean I pulled something and I hurt and am a pussy about it.

So, please watch this video by The Tontons. <3

Wasting my fourth hour

So sorry to be behind, kids.  One of my amazing projects, The Miracle in July, has been blowing up and I’ve been so busy keeping up that this poor blog has been neglected. Again. But I’m not a fucking quitter, so I refuse to stop. I choose to regularly apologize for not posting.

The topic of this post?

Kathie Lee Gifford.

I want to know how this bitch has been famous for SO LONG and why I can’t seem to get on the teevee.

And she’s not a real journalist! The woman makes money because she’s bat shit crazy! She consistantly makes Hoda uncomfortable on the “fourth hour” of the Today Show.  She cackles like The Wicked Witch of the West and her face is plastic.

So why do I find myself here, once again, watching her show? Because I want to see her do something stupid. Like the time that she almost made out with Hoda (seriously. google it) or the time that the guest chef they had on the show told her and Hoda to shut up (seriously. google it) or the time she dissed MC Hammer in front of his own son (you know what I’m going to say here).

More than anything, I want to see her fall down.  I want to see Hoda finally lose it and choke KLG on camera. Jezebel has hinted at this possibility here. I want to see their poor assistant Sarah finally give them both what’s what. I’ve been an intern. I know how one gets treated. I mean – Kiala and Melissa Lion and MediaChick are all great — hahaha — they’ve NEVER been cruel to me. Ever. What? Nevermind.

So I will keep watchin KLG & Hoda. Waiting for the moment to come. I leave you all with the above photo for your pleasure.

Here’s to hoping they’ll both crack so Hoda can go back to being a serious journalist and KLG can finally die retire.