Why I Blog

Hi!

I’ve been avoiding blogging for a while because I’m sitting on a series I want to do over the summer that sort of has a schedule to it and so I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Not blogging is so hard. Let me take that back, not writing is so hard. I could write all day and just shove it in my drawer and be fine with it. For all the techie stuff that blogging includes, I am pretty terrible at all of it. I cannot code to save my life and my blog never quite looks like the template (speaking of, check out the new template!) The only thing that keeps me posting is that I create a lot of content because I am a crazy person.

I blog because I can’t shut up.

From a young age, I have been a certified fast talker. My handwriting even mimics this– my brother always puts his finger between my words, Kindergarten style, to remind me that I am not leaving adequate space. One of my favorite people to talk to in the world is my mom because she will let me monologue uninterrupted and then will offer a slightly shorter monologue in return. My ideal conversation is basically a poorly paced play. This means a blog is a great format for me because I talk into the void and the void occasionally comments back.

I blog because I love to laugh.

Close to 90% of the jokes I use on my blog wouldn’t work in a real-life conversation. The setup is too long, the words are too complicated, or I would get too excited about it and stutter. This website is the garbage dump of my jokes.

I blog because I am hugely competitive. 

I started writing for fun at a young age because reading and writing were the first things I was really good at. I struggled to read for a few years before I saw one of my friends reading a Bible and I thought she was actually able to read the whole thing, chapter-book style. I learned to read because I didn’t want anyone else to be better than me at something, which is funny because at that time the only thing really exceptional about me was how tall I was (I have been effectively the same height since the fourth grade). I’ve mellowed out considerably and now I love reading what my friends are working on, but I started writing because I liked the praise.

Speaking of the praise–wow!! I just found out I have over 1,800 email subscribers! Thank you all for reading and believing in my work. Also, I am so sorry that you are going to get another email.

Love (really a lot of love),

Megan

 

February

If it had been any other year I would’ve already missed my chance to do a February update. However, fortune favors those who don’t own calendars or something like that.

The past two months have been a whirlwind of activity. I started my second semester of sophomore (really junior because I came in with mad AP credits but I’m refusing to take less than four years) year. It’s been an uncomfortable adjustment. My classes are really hard and there’s a sense of pressure in the air to get an internship and start climbing that corporate ladder. For the first time, the academic pressure might not be created solely by me being a total competitive psychopath. It might actually be real. At the same time, I’ve been reading the controversial book Lean In by Sheryl Sandberg, which deals with women in the workplace and her personal philosophy on work-life balance. It’s been interesting to try to scope out some form of balance in my life when my natural inclination is pedal-to-the metal.

I am lucky to have a great sounding board in this. My mom is a #girlboss, though she would probably argue with that term. She is my personal momager, if only because momtor (mom mentor) and moss (mom boss) sound weird. 

She rocks. In a world that tells me to relentlessly go forward, she reminds me that sometimes it is better to lean out. Earlier this year, I said almost jokingly that if I couldn’t get an internship I would go camp and volunteer at Yellowstone all summer and she asked if she could come too. I was surprised that someone as accomplished and organized as my mother would even consider that to be a valid plan. She reminds me daily that I am young and life is long and no one really has a plan or knows what they’re doing. Word is still out if you will be able to find us in a tent this summer, but I know no matter what she will support me (my dad will also support me– from the comfort of his power recliner).

In the spirit of leaning out, or rather, leaning into only those things I really care about, I became a rho chi recruitment leader. While it doesn’t sound as impressive as some of the other things I work on (no one ever asks me about it in an interview), finding out that I was chosen to help 90 freshmen women find their home during rush week brought me to tears. I screamed and jumped and scared my boyfriend when I found out; I still count it as one of the happiest moments of my life. I think about my chance to make an impact on these women often; I already feel personally invested in their success. If nothing else goes right with my internship search or my summer plans, but I am able to help my rho chi group find community at Alabama, I will feel successful. I am overjoyed to have something in my life that makes me feel so on top of the world, even if it is not an internship or a job (hiring manager$: plea$e con$ider hiring $ome intern$).

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Here is a picture of me dressed as a boy for a skit last year during rush, just for funsies.

Today I leaned in to a warm sunny day, checking my email a reasonable number of times, and spending time watching reality TV with my best friends. I can’t put that on my resume, but I feel good. One of my favorite poems, “The Orange,” by Wendy Cope ends as such: “The rest of the day was quite easy/ I did all the jobs on my list/ And enjoyed them and had some time over/ I love you. I’m glad I exist.”

I am glad.

Megan

An Open Letter to My Case of Pink Eye

Dear Pink Eye,

Remember me? The innocent girl who could never figure you out? I remember when we first met. I was in a sorority meeting and someone asked me if I was high. I was not high on marijuana, but in fact high on the inevitability of our future affair.

At first, I was so naive. I believed you were just irritation from using the cheapest brand of eyeliner and applying it directly to my eyeballs. I lived in denial for days, but it never got easier. I had never had pink eye before, even as you tore through elementary schools and freshman year dorms, leaving a wide, red, gooey trail. My friends danced around the subject, afraid to tell me that I looked like both Cheech and Chong.

Eventually, it was time to face the music. I woke up with my eyes crusted shut, like a metaphor for the blindness I had had to our situation. When I got the diagnosis that I had pink eye in both of my eyes, my world stopped. For an entire week, I would have to use eyedrops and not wear eye makeup, but you never cared. When I put those eyedrops in, it felt like the tears that were ready to fall down my face. It was over.

In fairness, I neglected you, too. I frequently forgot to put my eyedrops in every four hours– even though I once tried to in the middle of a fraternity party– which allowed me to string you along for several more days than necessary. I’m sorry.

Years from now, I’ll think back on all our good times, like when you made me look totally blazed the first week of classes or when people asked me if I had slept in my contacts. I’m sure when I look back, I will know that a passive-aggressive open letter was the best way to deal with our situation. Because I need you (and all our mutual family and friends and everyone else on the internet) to know how I feel and how you changed my life. And I need the ad revenue.

For anyone who went to a group workout class at the rec and got pink eye, I am sorry. I refused to deal with my problems and now you have to deal with them. I hope you can find some solace and inspiration in the fact that I didn’t let pink eye stop me from getting my spring break bod.

With love,

Megan

Megan Anderson: Insufferable Goodie-Goodie

One thing most people don’t know about me is that I am a big ole nerd. Not in a cute or sexy way either, like a play-by-the-rules, dinner before dessert kind of way (except in the actual case of dessert; it’s just a metaphor, y’all).

I take school very seriously. I cheated on something, once, in the sixth grade, and I cried about it for four-ish days. Part of the trauma was because, even to this day, I am a massive teacher’s pet. Of course, I got caught. While I’m not above a little homework assistance that maybe doesn’t fit the exact tutoring specifications, I don’t play around with serious honor code violations.  I am not as bad as my friend Emily Garbutt, though. If Emily was in a bizarre, Saw-like situation where she had to cheat on a test to save her own life she would probably at least vomit. I don’t think she would die, but she would be extremely uncomfortable. I choose to take a lot of classes with Emily because even though she freaks me out when she talks about studying for tests two weeks in advance, she’s a really good influence.

People who follow me on Instagram and don’t read my blog (sticks in the mud, all of them) don’t know that my social life is not as intense as it seems. Many people, upon seeing me after a while, will say something like It looks like you’re going to a lot of theme parties he he he with this weird, raspy Frenchman-lurking-behind-a-tree laugh at end like it isn’t rude to make value judgements based on social media. The secret is that I post something Every Time I Go Out. True socialites don’t do that because they’re out so much they would probably overwhelm Instagram’s servers but I have to because I go out (leave the house at all) probably half as often. I own six independent photo editing apps so I can make the one blurry photo I took look good because I have an accounting test and this is my one shot at relevancy this week. D-List stars that get a lot of plastic surgery and I: we’re not so different.

In closing, I would like to say that I stayed up sort of late applying for internships and I’m on a new flossing kick. Even though I try to pretend I am fun and flirty I am actually just that girl in the second grade who had to wear blue retainers full time and take them out at lunch, leaving a spitty puddle on her tray (this actually happened for nearly 3 years and my friend Connor will never let me forget it).

Retainers still dutifully in,

Megan

I Was Wrong: A Once-in-a-Lifetime Admission

Forget everything I said in my last post. Coffee creamer, laying on the ground– what was I thinking? Those are inadequate treats for finals week. They are perfectly fine for your run-of-the-mill Tuesday, but not for finals week. Listen to me very closely:

Get a massage. 

Go to a really ritzy salon and get a massage. I did this a few days ago and I would describe myself as “too relaxed to drive.” I am confident that if I ever went through something very traumatic and had to imagine my happy place, the spa I visited would be it. Sometimes, in our lives, events mark a before and after– a crossroads, after which nothing is the same. That massage is a crossroads in my life. Never in my life will I have extra funds, because I am now a massage addict. Veritably, I can see myself as a homeless person begging on the street when someone sees me and crassly tells her child, “Don’t give her anything; she’ll just spend it all on massages.”

I now have to get good grades so I can grow up to one day support my massage habit. Call that finals motivation.

“Can you spare a dollar?”

Megan

 

I Found The One!

Sometimes in your life, you stumble upon something magical, breath taking, once in a lifetime. You create memories, discover each other, and grow as human beings, together.

This is not about that (I would never write that poorly. I hope you know that). It’s about two hair products and a lipstick.

This is not normally a beauty blog because anyone that knows me knows I don’t care what I look like half of the time. But the other 50%, I love trying (and buying) new and different products, which are sometimes delightful and often disappointing. After many years of restless wandering, these are the (drug store because I’m college poor) products that have proved their loyalty to me, in sickness and in health, till death do we part.

Herbal Essences/ Aussie Shampoo & Conditioner

She’s started out strong, you might be thinking, Two grocery store staples. Classy. Classic. And to that I say, I just listened to a sermon on anger, so I’m going to be very patient with you. I have elbow-length hair. I have tried everything. These chemical laden, skating-rink-packed-with-middle-schoolers-scented products are my salves. One day, when I am a mature adult, I will progress to Aussie, but for now, I’m a Herbal Essences girl. I smell like cheap fruit and puberty, and boys like that, I think.

Frogs kissed: Paul Mitchell, L’Oreal, Organix, not washing my hair

Covergirl Outlast Lip Color

This stuff lasts all night, through drinks and confessions and kisses and pizza rolls and all the way through math lab the next morning. The only things more lasting than this lipstick/gorilla glue hybrid are swallowed gum and embarrassment. Caution: if you apply outside the lines, you may require a skin graft to return to your natural shape.

Frogs kissed: LipSmackers, MAC, Burt’s Bees, literally every other lip product known to man

Not Your Mother’s Beach Babe Texturizing Cream

Am I allowed to be mad that wavy hair is popular now? It doesn’t matter; I am mad. I looooove your hair, everyone says. Really. Because you didn’t love it in 2008 when wavy hair was not even a heard of “thing” and I was straightening my hair every day so I could look like Paris Hilton and everyone else in the seventh grade. I’m still bitter, but if you’re bitter and lazy like me, this is the product for you. It smells like vanilla and manages frizz without being crunchy. It’s also only $5 and it tells you you’re a babe every morning which is more than most of us can say about our dates. Bring this into your life and manage any long-standing self-esteem issues is what I’m saying.

Frogs kissed: TIGI Catwalk Curls, some ginger-smelling salon products, GEL (!!!!!)

This has been a wrap up of the only products I would consistently trust if I was a dead body and I was having an open casket viewing. If you thought this was going to be about my boyfriend, lol, gotcha, you’ve been a victim of shameless click bait. I don’t talk about the boy online. Tacky.

Prank Team Out,

Megzzzz

Anything For a Joke

I have tried to blog many times, all of them secret, and all of the unsuccessful. I think what I was going for was super famous, Hannah Montana-esque double life but a blogger? I don’t know– I’m really not funny enough for that. But I’ve seen my friends start blogs that they foster with love, and their fledgling words become purposeful and meaningful. I admire that. So on this blog I’m going to be very open, very frank, and very unguarded, something that my friends understand comes easily to me in sharing my opinions but not in sharing my feelings. That sets this blog apart from my previous endeavors, but, additionally, I have something to write about. I’m on the greatest adventure of my life to date, and it’s only getting more interesting by the day. I know I have been terrible about keeping in touch– with EVERYONE– back home but I’m hoping this blog will help me share my experiences with greater clarity and spread. That being said, let me explain the name.

“Anything for a joke” has been my personal spoken motto since sophomore year of high school, but has really been with me much longer. Some guide their lives by the principles of honor, justice, or hard work; I guide mine by the pursuit of that which is sort of funny. Countless times in high school I found myself (usually on the sideline of a basketball game if we’re being honest) smirking at my best friend Callee after the plotting of an outlandish, ridiculous, totally-a-grab-for-attention idea and saying, in evil-villian-like unison, “anything for a joke.” The cult of “anything for a joke” never spread very far, being that it requires one to abandon all personal dignity and spend much of one’s time formulating pranks that could only be successful in niche circumstances. Still, it is a phrase my mom has come to dread, because she knows it will result in

a.) awkward stand up comedy attempts in front of the church

b.) bad dancing in front of the entire crowd at football or basketball games or

c.) derailing all serious meetings by using them as my own personal captive audience.

Still, living in the spirit of “anything for a joke” exemplifies spontaneity, adventure, and joy, characteristics with which  I’m never ashamed to be associated. It’s not about the quality of the joke– it’s about the zest for life with which it is made. Welcome to my zesty life.