Quiet possibly the creepiest thing I've ever written.

This week our computers are being encrypted at work. All of the external media devices we use are being password-protected.

During this time I decided to clean up the external hard drive that I use for all my personal stuff. While doing this, I found a folder called "Old Papers" and the files for a portfolio I created for my final project in my "Literature of the Avant-Garde" course in college.

Strange, people. Very strange.

Apparently part of the project was to write four Avant-Garde plays of my own. I opened the file for this play called, "The End/Denouement".

Stage: The scene is set in a living room. There is one chair and the room is lit by one singular lamp. A man is seated in the chair. He’s staring off to his left, face in a relaxed hang, as though in thought.

Light flickers a bit. Almost unnoticeable.

Man: Singing. This is the end, beautiful friend, the end.

Man looks at his watch, sings again.

Man: This is the ennnnnd.

Man stops singing. Sits forward and speaks.

Man: Tell me what you see when the darkness finally ceases and tell me, do you like it?

The light goes out completely and for a moment the entire stage is dark.
A faint voice is heard, a radio broadcaster reporting traffic.

The stage is suddenly filled with white light, the chair is gone and in its place is a small boy. In one hand he holds a string, at the end of it is a green balloon, soaring above his head. In the other, a gun, pointed at the audience.

Boy: In a whisper. Bang.

Lights dim, curtains close, the radio program turns to static, then fades out.

Pretty dark for a girl who was known to wear tube tops and platforms while singing Def Leppard songs on the tops of tables.

I mean, is it Avant-Garde? Maybe. Creepy? Definitely.

I was pleasantly surprised to find this. I'll let you know if I find any more that are post-worthy.

Megan's Top Twenty-Five Lists

Top Twenty-Five List of Things That are Good:

Falling asleep in the grass when it's sunny
Having your boss tell you to leave work early on a Friday
Finding money in a pocket
Email
Wrigley Field hot dogs
Hot sex dreams
McDonald's french fries, extra salty
Having stamps when you need them
Using my KitchenAid mixer
Killing time with someone you like
Cheap gas
Trader Joe's Honey Wheat pretzels
Used book stores
Flirting with strangers
Burritos at 3 a.m.
Waking up next to someone who says you look beautiful in the morning
The smell of the air at the lake house
An ice cold fountain Diet Coke
Air conditioning
The movie "Rachel Getting Married"
The entire second floor of the Art Institute
Blaring Biggie Smalls in traffic
Change
Californication
Philip Larkin poems

Megan's Top Twenty-Five List of Things That Are Bad:

Overdraft charges
Steven Segal movies
Racism
Falling off the elliptical machine
Standing in line anywhere
"Some" assembly required furniture
Uncertainty
People who pretend to be on a cell phone to make fun of people who talk on their cell phones at baseball games
Unrequited love
Series finales
People who shout out the wrong answers to Jeopardy and try to convince you why they are right
Forgetting where you put something important
Paper cuts
Not being able to tell someone how you feel about them
Sleeping with someone who snores really loudly
Raise and bonus freezes due to the "economy"
Guns, guns, guns
Seeing a spider on the ceiling above your bed, going to get something to kill it with and coming back to find that it's gone
Doubt
Burning your tongue on the first sip of a delicious tea. Not only did you burn the shit out of your tongue, but now you can't drink your tea
Hangovers
Girls in those fucking ruffly short mini-skirts
The price of beer at Wrigley
Red Bull

And this is just how I feel today.

Feel free to add your own.

Reflections

After spending eight hours of my life at O'Hare Airport this past Friday, here are some conclusions I arrived at:

Things that are sad:

Airport Chili's patrons
Airport Chili's employees
Price of beer at airport Chili's
People who enjoy themselves at airport Chili's

Things an airport should have:

Movie theater
Catwalk (what good are all these hot outfits I packed if they just sit in my suitcase?)
Screaming room (exactly what it sounds like)
Shooting range
Make your own sundae bar
Nap room
Photo booths
Suicide rooms (this seems a perfectly appropriate alternative to another eight hour layover)
Wii stations

And all of this should be free.

I also severely dislike women who sip their Starbuck's coffee through a straw, men who wear anything, especially anything denim, with a Mickey Mouse insignia on it, and anyone with an underbite.

...

Conflicted minds cause silent tongues.

Samesies!

In case I don't get the opportunity this weekend to follow my yearly tradition, today I am gonna go ahead and wish my sister a happy early 29th birthday!



Here's to never knowing a day without you by my side. And never wanting to.

Warm days bring warm memories.

Looking back at the evolution of things, of me and where and who I am now, I don't think I've ever been the type of person who has all the answers. As with a lot of things, sureness has always teased my fingertips with its allure, but I've never been able to get a good grasp.

It just seems that I am destined to wear this heavy necklace of uncertainty, always dangling near my heart, whispering fears I can never seem to turn a deaf ear to.

But I'm also not someone who deals well with impossibilities.

"I love yous" that are buried so deeply it takes years of digging to unearth them.

The senseless turn of your attention. The tide of you.

Us.

But I've learned how to be patient. And this stubborn will is learning to bend instead of always finding itself hurled against a wall. I've grown tired of sweeping up that mess.

I long for days when easy words yield easy answers though I know I will always have to fight for them.

For days like that.

Whitman was never my thing.

In fields of grassy splendor,
An army of thin blades swipes at my shins,
It is here that I heed the gentle wisps
Of who I am.

Have you heard the whispering of the acres?
Have you felt your own breath slip in through the pine, vine,
Earthy meadows, purpled shadows, whiskers and into open spaces
To disintegrate into dust?

Have you seen the notes of your song
Dancing along the chords of a tree branch?

I have possessed nothing,
Only this and from this day forward I shall possess
Nothing but this.

And now, it seems the widening rays of the sun
Capture me like bars of a prison.

And I feel that I am at home on this earth.
And I feel not at all like a prisoner.

I lay and because I understand the lyrics,
You understand them.

They linger and sidle dirty skyscrapers,
Riding on top, mastering and taming them
Until they are polished and beautiful and the architecture
Of their faces shows lips pursed in the singing of a note.

And the city too, knows its song.

The lyrics bounce around with the desert sand
Careening and tumbling over and above the dunes
A quiet and explosive sound.
And an ocean of brown and gold and white spreads its body vast.

The waves roll and its song is played.

And the language of the lyrics I understand
Because I have always understood.

Rejoice and celebrate for your song is that of my own,
And of the city and of the desert.
But it is yours.

Like this one.
Like that one.
Like this one.