So what did you do this weekend?

I saw The September Issue in Manhattan, and apparently so did Anna Wintour. We probs saw it at the same time y'all!!!1!























It was shockingly reminiscent of my everyday life working for a high-end magazine company in New York. The fashion interns, the fashion closet, the jeans-wearing. The lower-level editors meeting with the editor-in-chief and accomplishing nothing because she doesn't really have anything to say - aside from yes, no, yes, no, love it, hate it - and then talking about her behind her back once they leave her office. All of this was very odd to watch from the outside, since I watch it from the inside all the time. Throughout the whole film, all I could think was, "Yep, basically."

The documentary was really well done, too. R.J. Cutler was very subtle in making the point that, aside from the beautiful art created by genius Grace Coddington and her team of photogs/stylists/models, Vogue - at least the fashion side of the book - is basically a hollow place. Anna is clearly affected by the fact that - deep inside - she knows that her job is meaningless. True, she loves fashion, and she knows what she is talking about, and she is well-respected in that world; but, as Cutler shows us, her world is ultimately an empty one.

So natch, immediately following the film, Z and I - so inspired by the depressingly, desolately destitute world of fashion - made a trip to H&M and I bought this amazing/ridiculous/completely inappropriate dress!!!! Minus the hideous belt, of course. Where the fuck am I going to wear this thing?























You can't really tell in this photo, but the shoulders have what can only be described as "wing tips." Z said only I could pull it off. I guess we'll see.

On a related note, I would also like to take this opportunity to officially announce my HLLWN2009 costume: Lady GaGa.























Yep. I take HLLWN very seriously. Costume pieces I have so far: black bra, high-waisted/short skirt, combat boots, ridonk clear plastic necklace, sunglasses. Still needed: disco stick, fishnets, blonde wig, gloves?, bomber jacket (maybe), glitter.

RIP HLLWN2008: You were epic, and cemented my eternal love for Beyoncé and Single Ladies. But I have to move on. This year, it's time to kick it up a snatch. More updates TK.

Until next time.

MTA, not PDA

I took this photo at approx. 2:15 a.m. Saturday night on the L train back to Manhattan. For once, I was not drunk, but everyone else was. I.e., my own personal hell.

Please get out of New York.

Eff today

1. I just realized that today is the one-year anniversary of my first trip to DC to see Andrew.
2. John Krasinski and Emily Blunt are engaged. Welp, there goes my other soulmate.
3. It's raining, and it's gonna keep raining all weekend.
4. Sometimes going out in this city is a reminder that most people, men and women, are completely worthless and/or drugged out.

I've posted a lot of pics of Britney this week, so I thought I would round it out with just one more.

Bonding over burritos

Last night I had a very New York "Am I in a movie?" moment. I went to a pre-din happy hour with one of my co-workers, got (swiftly) drunk on $5 hurricanes and promptly headed to Chipotle for an ENORMOUS burrito. Yeah, all caps. I mean, have you ever had a Chipotle burrito? Seriously.

As I was waiting in line for the hyper-speed burrito artists to stuff my tortilla with meat, rice, cheese, salsa and guac, I looked to my right at the guy in line behind me. Hm, cute. He looked at me. I smiled. He smiled. I had ordered steak, and was a little scared of my decision. Steak is a commitment. I noticed he had ordered chicken. He looked over at my burrito-in-progress.

"Steak. Nice. I almost ordered steak. Went with chicken."
"Yeah, I know. I'm a little scared. Steak is serious."

He laughed. So cute. I was drunk enough to seriously (albeit briefly) consider asking his name. But I chickened out, and then it was time to pay, and goddamnit they move so fast at Chipotle!, and here's my card, "here's your receipt ma'am," and now I'm at my table and where did he go?, turned my head, he's walking past, out the door. Burrito to go.



















I will probs never see this mystery man again. Such is life in New York. But for approximately two to three minutes, I was just drunk and hungry and attracted enough to think I had found my soulmate, right there behind the vats of steaming "gourmet" Tex-Mex.

I love this city.

Of all the wrong ways to ride the NYC subway

This is probably the wrongest.

Welcome to the circus (our lives)

Last night was Britney. You didn't think I was going to relegate the experience of Britney LIVE to just a "PS" did you? Here's the rest.

Before the show, Z, J and I had pre-Brit dinner/drinks at Brother Jimmy's - also known as BBQ central for NYC douchebags - and they were playing loud Britney-era music. I.e., the music from my glorious days as a middle schooler who donned blue mascara, Birkenstocks (What?? They were *so in circa 1999) and generally as much glitter as possible. I.e., Backstreet Boys, *NSYNC, Britney, and Christina. We ordered a "fishbowl." I'm sure you can guess what that is. They blew a whistle when they brought it to us. Oh, and there was a gator in it that Z named, appropriately, Justin. Yeah, it was *awesome.























We sat in one of the windows on 31st street, which is literally right across the street from Madison Square Garden. Here's the view from my plate of pulled pork.























The only thing better than a 30-foot-tall paper Britney is a live and in-person 5'4" Britney. Here's a shitty iPhone photo I took from our seats. Because, like a fool, I left my real camera at home.


















Britney is definitely not the poppin' diva performer she used to be, but all in all it was a really fun show. She performed all her classics (minus "oops," wtf?) and we danced and sang. Unforch there were no crazy/hilarious/amazing moments to report via YouTube, but, you know. Maybe next time.

Breakthrough (Swear to God, last break-up post for a while)

I have spent my afternoon reading my new favorite blog, The Sassy Curmudgeon, and listening to Madonna's Like A Prayer on repeat.

Things you can take away from this: it's a slow afternoon at work, yes, but more importantly, I have had a breakthrough. I have let Andrew go.

I did this via a combination of learning from older mentors (aforementioned blog not excluded), the force of my own sheer will, and clever new break-up tactics such as writing a draft e-mail titled "(More than) 10 things I hate about you." The place in my heart I had reserved for missing him, longing for the past, hoping for things to work out between us - I took that place, emptied it out, and filled it with myself. And when I did, I found myself again. Just like that, I found the Meghan I lost when I entered into our relationship over a year ago. I saw my future, blurry still, but bright: me, laughing, writing, living my life in New York, my best friends, and the future (still mystery) man I will fall in love with completely and insanely, who will love every single crazy beautiful fucked-up part of me, who would rather die than live without me. I have no doubt that he exists, somewhere, and when I meet him I will probs just know it. Maybe not at first, because I am far too analytical for that bullshit, but, you know, eventually.

Until then, as of right now, I can honestly say: I live in my dream city, work my age-23 dream job, I have the best friends in the world, and I love my (newly rediscovered) self. This is not me trying to reassure myself that my life is good *enough without a boyfriend; this is me just simply stating that my life is amazing, period. And I'm so thankful.

Also, I challenge you to listen to "Like A Prayer" without bouncing around like someone who forgot she is in public. It is impossible.



PS, On a not-entirely-unrelated note, Britney was epic last night.

What are you doing tonight?

Thanks for asking! Nothing much, just a quiet evening in.





















With Britney. On our list of activities: pole dancing, cage dancing (clearly), the 808, glitter. The yooj.

Your girl is lovely, Hubbell

Dear Meghan,

You know I loved you, right? I really loved you. When it was good between us, it was really (pause for emphasis) good. We had something really special, and there were times when I thought you were perfect for me. But it just got way too hard. I just think that when you meet the person you're supposed to end up with, it's not that hard. Things were so hard between us... we've done this breakup thing one too many times, and I just can't do it anymore. I've met someone who's interested in me, and I'm interested in her. We're not "dating." We went on one date, and we'll probably go on another date. But this isn't about her... it's about you and me, and the difficulties we encountered in our relationship. I just don't think I can love you the way I did anymore. I loved you so much, and those memories we shared will always be special to me, and I'll never doubt how much I loved you. But I don't love you, not like that, anymore.

But I don't love you like that anymore
But I don't love you like that
But I don't love you like
But I don't love you
But I don't love
But I don't
But I
But

Love,

J
D
Andrew

A little Friday morning perspective

This morning on the train I was looking over this woman's shoulder as she was typing on her Bberry - because I am a bit of a creepy voyeur - and here is what I saw her write.

I have had a hard couple of months or so. My dad died in June and then two weeks later I found out I was losing my job.

I don't know if I believe in God, but I do believe that the universe has a way of speaking to us in its own subtle ways. This was the universe's way of either 1) telling me to notice how amazing my life is, or 2) giving me the heads up that terrible things happen to everyone, and that life is hard, and that I should be prepared.

Duly noted.

Until next time.

PS, I really hope it's the first one?

Proceed with caution!

Like a month or so ago I signed up for Mint.com, which is just a site that keeps track of your finances and what you spend your money on. They e-mail me updates sometimes, and this friendly one just popped up in my inbox.










First of all, my account does not that have much money in it. Not even close. Secondly, if it did, I'd be like HELL YES PRAISE JESUS I GET PAID TOMORROW AND THIS IS HOW MUCH MONEY I ALREADY HAVE?!?!

Cleary Mint.com does not take into account (pun intended) that I am a 20-something living in Manhattan, eating mostly things made of bread, refined sugar and soup.

Until next time.

This is your brain on breakup

What have you done? Maybe you're a fucking idiot. A is the perfect man. Short of being gay, he really is the perfect man, which makes him even more perfect because he also happens to like vadge. He's kind, he's thoughtful, he's funny, he's cute, he's in shape. He has a good job, good friends, a good life. He loves his family, really respects women, he's romantic. Remember that time he got you the best gift you ever got from a guy? Valentine's Day? He knows how to take care of himself, a rare quality in men. He is well-groomed. He made mistakes but they were all pretty honest. What are you doing?

Are you making a mistake? Why couldn't it have worked out? What if we had lived in the same city? Maybe you're just scared because he is *too perfect for you, too close to the ideal. Or maybe he's just good on paper guy and you are making the right decision. Why don't you know what you want? Why are you so fucking fickle? BLAHHHHH.

Time will tell. Time will tell. Just be patient and let him go and see what happens after some time passes. It will get better. You will be fine. Calm down. Ugh why do you suck so much? Why are you even focusing on this? Your life in New York is awesome, and you are doing exactly what you moved to this city to do. You have a great job, great friends, a great apartment, supportive family. You have everything you could ever want at age 23. So shut the fuck up and focus on something else. Write. Blog. Focus on your job.

That's it, maybe you're just completely focused on the wrong things. Who cares about boys and being in love and relationships? It's not like you went to school for 16 years so you could start a career in being a good girlfriend. Why do people even want to be in relationships? What's the point? You should just be pouring all your energy into making the life for yourself that you always wanted. Make yourself a writer, editor. Read some good books. Meet a lot of new people. Yeah, you'll be fine. You don't need anyone. Nothing is missing.

But his crooked smile. His eyes. The way he talked with his hands. His voice. His laugh.

Ugh, fucker.

COLD

With the help of my good friend Jenny - and her superior upper body strength - I have achieved air conditioner success. Behold.























A thing of beauty, isn't she? This really is going to greatly improve my quality of life in NYC, for a few reasons.

1. She's cold.
2. She blocks out 95% of the street noise.
3. She has a remote and a sleep timer!

The guy also sold me a 2-year warranty plan for half price, so this bitch is gonna be in my life for a while. Boys may come and go, but AC Sasha (this is what I have decided to name her, just now) is here to stay.

Life is good right now. I feel happy. My job is going well - I'm starting to really like and appreciate what I do - and New York, once again, is proving to never get old. There's always something new to discover, new to learn, new to love. I've been to a lot of cities in this country, and nowhere feels like home like New York does.

Speaking of traveling, I have decided I will travel out of the country by the time I am 25. I never have, which is completely insane. Jenny was telling me at dinner tonight about a couple of her friends who are enrolled in a "life abroad" program where you basically set aside $5,000 and this company hooks you up with a job and a place to live and all that stuff in a foreign country. It's like study abroad for adults. I want to do it. I would love to pack my bags and leave the country for six months - maybe even a year - and live somewhere totally foreign to me. I would love to blog about it, and be a real journalist for a year, writing about all the new things I would discover. Maybe it will be my 25th birthday present to myself.

Another thing I've decided, in one of my brilliant shower epiphanies: if and when I ever decide to get married, I want my hubby-to-be to call me his "beyoncé." I mean, it rhymes with fiancée, and I bet in everyday conversation - "my beyoncé and I went to a movie this weekend," "my beyoncé makes badass salads," "my beyoncé made me put a ring on it" - it sounds *just like fiancée. Like I bet people wouldn't even notice. Anyway, the man I deem worthy of marriage will have no problem doing this, and he will do it willingly, because he will find it hilarious. Because it is.

Sigh. Until next time.

HOT

This is what the surface of the sun looks like.
















Pretty, right? Well it's also how my room felt last night. As a result, I tossed and turned all night, totaling what I approximate to be about two hours of sleep. Because I am a total g'maw and I need at *least 6 hours of sleep every night to function well, I have made the decision every New Yorker eventually makes, no matter how much they insist they "really don't need one."

Tonight, I will venture uptown and buy an air conditioner. Of course I made this decision on the one day a week I also wanted to wear heels to work. So I'll be in PC Richard's in my kitten heels and cocktail dress, lugging around a box that will probs be huge, and praying that somehow I can get it into my apartment by myself.

That's pretty quintessential single girl in Manhattan though, right? I am also gonna have to figure out how to get it in my window, like approximately now, because it's 90 degrees outside right now and my apt is going to be so hot when I get home that I might get the vapors (pronounced: vay-puhs).

Wish me luck. Updates to come later.

Until next time.

Shit out

One of the best things about blogging is the community it creates. I really love writing, but I also love reading new blogs and commenting. I have a list of my favorite blogs over there, to your right and down a bit (that's what she said), but I wanted to plug one of my favorite recurring features on my friend Z's blog: Snippets from IM.

It might be something that is only funny to me and him and the rest of the people he chats with, but I happen to think some of it is pretty hilarious, objectively. Basically he posts particularly memorable/ridic/funny gChat convos he's had. I forgot that we live chatted one of the prez debates between Obama and McCain, back in October. Haaaa.

I'm in there a lot. Try not to be too shocked.

Until next time.

Gagasession 2009 continues

As if I needed another reason to adore and worship and love this amazing artist, she gives me one.



In case you missed it, here it is again:

"If I was a guy, and I was sitting here with a cigarette in my hand, grabbin' my crotch, and talkin' about how I make music because I love fast cars and fucking girls, you'd call me a rock star. But when I do it in my music and in my videos, because I'm a female, because I make pop music, you are judgmental. And you say that it is distracting. I'm just a rock star."

I. love. her.

Scratch that

That last post was ridic. Possibly the most emo thing I've written, ever? But I'm going to leave it up here because I wrote it from the heart, and I actually kinda like how I wrote it. I was just really upset last night.

Dramatic, passionate, honest, heartfelt, sort of bizarre and macabre.



Until next time.

To separate into parts with suddenness or violence

Why do they call it a break-up?

It seems they ought to call it a tear-down, or a rip-apart, or a twist-away. A break implies something clean and even. If you break a bone, the cut is usually straight and uncomplicated. If you fracture a bone, it's a little more jagged; and if you shatter a bone - which I actually have - it's nasty. What used to look like a part of your anatomy now looks like a garbled mess of twisted wire, or a scattered egg shell, or the remains from a tree trunk that has burned.

That's what has happened to my once loving, happy relationship. It is not broken. Nor is it fractured, really. It's shattered. This is what it feels like to "break up" with someone you are in love with: you feel like you're sitting on a bench on a sidewalk in a busy street, and something terrible is happening in front of you - you can see a person lunging at you, with a knife or something, and no matter how hard you try to dodge in any open direction, your body refuses to move. You know something awful is about to happen, and it's gonna hurt really bad, and you want nothing more than to stop it. But, somehow, events just keep happening around you - swirling around you, unstoppable, like a big city often does - that lead to the lunge and the knife at the end of it.

You feel it go in. At first it hurts a lot, then adrenaline kicks in and you feel nothing. Then, after all that wears off, the pain returns, except it's worse than it was before, deeper, more complicated, shredding you from the inside out. You look down and realize this shit has happened to you, and it's irreversible, and you will have a scar forever, and you just scream and scream, but the person who lunged is already gone.

The worst part is that the person who lunged is also the person you loved, and the person who once professed love for you. The knife is still with you, and all its fucking remnants, but the attacker is gone.

And you're left, sitting alone on a bench in New York, wondering what in the world just happened and why couldn't you stop it and when will you stop bleeding and how long will it be before you don't even notice the scar anymore and it just becomes a part of who you are, like your fingernails or that weird mole on your left knee.

Yeah, they should really call it something else.