Megan Falley's Blog, page 100

lizzanya:not really sure what my legs were doing or what they...

lizzanya:

not really sure what my legs were doing or what they should have been doing. i would have fixed them but evan took this one and has less patience for perfection ; )

If you want to see many pictures of my friend Lizz twisting herself into incredible Matrix poses, you should follow her blog. Lizz and her story mean a lot to me.

"Dear Sugar,I read your column religiously. I’m 22. From what I can tell by your writing, you’re in..."

“

Dear Sugar,

I read your column religiously. I’m 22. From what I can tell by your writing, you’re in your early 40s. My question is short and sweet: what would you tell your 20-something self if you could talk to her now?

Love,

Seeking Wisdom

Dear Seeking Wisdom,

Stop worrying about whether you’re fat. You’re not fat. Or rather, you’re sometimes a little bit fat, but who gives a shit? There is nothing more boring and fruitless than a woman lamenting the fact that her stomach is round. Feed yourself. Literally. The sort of people worthy of your love will love you more for this, sweet pea.

In the middle of the night in the middle of your twenties when your best woman friend crawls naked into your bed, straddles you, and says, You should run away from me before I devour you, believe her.

You are not a terrible person for wanting to break up with someone you love. You don’t need a reason to leave. Wanting to leave is enough. Leaving doesn’t mean you’re incapable of real love or that you’ll never love anyone else again. It doesn’t mean you’re morally bankrupt or psychologically demented or a nymphomaniac. It means you wish to change the terms of one particular relationship. That’s all. Be brave enough to break your own heart.

When that really sweet but fucked up gay couple invites you over to their cool apartment to do ecstasy with them, say no.

There are some things you can’t understand yet. Your life will be a great and continuous unfolding. It’s good you’ve worked hard to resolve childhood issues while in your twenties, but understand that what you resolve will need to be resolved again. And again. You will come to know things that can only be known with the wisdom of age and the grace of years. Most of those things will have to do with forgiveness.

One evening you will be rolling around on the wooden floor of your apartment with a man who will tell you he doesn’t have a condom. You will smile in this spunky way that you think is hot and tell him to fuck you anyway. This will be a mistake for which you alone will pay.

Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith. Be true blue. You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your bitching. Your book has a birthday. You don’t know what it is yet.

You cannot convince people to love you. This is an absolute rule. No one will ever give you love because you want him or her to give it. Real love moves freely in both directions. Don’t waste your time on anything else.

Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you’ll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you’ll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.

One hot afternoon during the era in which you’ve gotten yourself ridiculously tangled up with heroin you will be riding the bus and thinking what a worthless piece of crap you are when a little girl will get on the bus holding the strings of two purple balloons. She’ll offer you one of the balloons, but you won’t take it because you believe you no longer have a right to such tiny beautiful things. You’re wrong. You do.

Your assumptions about the lives of others are in direct relation to your naïve pomposity. Many people you believe to be rich are not rich. Many people you think have it easy worked hard for what they got. Many people who seem to be gliding right along have suffered and are suffering. Many people who appear to you to be old and stupidly saddled down with kids and cars and houses were once every bit as hip and pompous as you.

When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t “mean anything” because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.

The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.

One Christmas at the very beginning of your twenties when your mother gives you a warm coat that she saved for months to buy, don’t look at her skeptically after she tells you she thought the coat was perfect for you. Don’t hold it up and say it’s longer than you like your coats to be and too puffy and possibly even too warm. Your mother will be dead by spring. That coat will be the last gift she gave you. You will regret the small thing you didn’t say for the rest of your life.

Say thank you.

Yours,

Sugar

”

-

DEAR SUGAR, THE RUMPUS ADVICE COLUMN #64: TINY BEAUTIFUL THINGS - By Sugar (via anti-square)

LET’S CRY TOGETHER, EVERYONE!

welcome-to-khaos:All the feels :(Miles Walser needs all the...

welcome-to-khaos:

All the feels :(

Miles Walser needs all the hugs, and a decent girlfriend :(

Miles Walser has a decent girlfriend!

I AM GETTING AMAZING MESSAGES ALL THE TIME WHERE Y'ALL ASK ME TO COME TO YOUR CITY

What you don’t know is this—-we can make that happen SO EASILY. But not through TUMBLR. Send me an e-mail at meganfalley@gmail.com and we will talk about how we can make this happen. Cus I’d love it just as much as you!

Please come back to Ann Arbor!

Send an email and we will make it happen!

You should come to the University of Georgia. Athens is a huge cultural hub of the South so I'm sure you would have a great audience!

Hey you! I’ll be in Georgia NEXT WEEK and I have a lot of open days to do a show. Send me an email and maybe we can work one out? Meganfalley@gmail.com ! Sooner the better !

"Every morning while we are eating breakfast, a car smashes through the front window, the glass..."

“

Every morning while we are eating breakfast, a car smashes through the front window, the glass shattering silently—a chorus of wind chimes in a vacuum. The tires shred up the carpet like a naughty house-cat. It roars past me, and claws for her. Every morning she is pinned to the wall by the hood. We know it is coming. My job is to sit still and wait for it to vanish. I am not even to sweep up the shards or filter the smoke out the dining room. My job is to wash the dishes while she wiggles her way out.

The first time it was messy—bruises down her spine, red blooming across her abdomen. Sitting in the bath together, I told her how much it hurt to watch. So look away, she said. I lost the urge to flee months ago. It happens whether or not I am there to witness it.

I have learned she pens each day however she likes—picks the make and model of the car, the speed at which it storms into her. Once, I swear the car moved so slowly it was trying to nuzzle into her lap. The next day it zoomed so fast I didn’t even know to break the conversation until I heard her scream. Every day, she cleans the wreckage herself, gets into bed without complaint. The limp disappeared months ago—these days, she doesn’t even seem sore.

There is no version of the story where I rip off the engineer’s hands so he can’t build the car, no way to set back every clock so she never thinks it’s time to eat. There is no version where I leap in front of her and save her from impact—my job is to trust that she knows the escape route of each telling.

Sometimes I sit alone in the kitchen and listen for squealing tires, thinking if I wish hard enough the engine will roar for me instead. It is always silent as a blank page. I cannot own this crash. I cannot will myself into understanding. I can be there when the wheels reverse across the rubble, the headlights disappear from the kitchen, and she finally writes the beast back out the window.

”

- Miles Walser, The Writer (via literarylibido)

"Everyone wants to give a writer the perfect notebook. Over the years I’ve acquired stacks: One is..."

““Everyone wants to give a writer the perfect notebook. Over the years I’ve acquired stacks: One is leather, a rope of Rapunzel’s hair braids its spine. Another, tree-friendly, its pages reincarnated from diaries of poets who now sit in cubicles. One is small and black like a funeral dress, its pages lined like the hands of a widow. There’s even a furry blue one that looks like a shag rug or a monster that would hide under it— and I wonder why? For every blown out candle, every Mazel Tov, every turn of the tassel, you gift-wrap what a writer dreads most: blank pages. It’s never a notebook we need. If we have a story to tell, an idea carbonating past the brim of us, we will write it on our arms, thighs, any bare meadow of skin. In the absence of pens, we will repeat our lines deliriously like the telephone number of a parting stranger until we become the craziest one on the subway. If you really love a writer, fuck her on a coffee table. Find a gravestone of someone who shares her name and take her to it. When her door is plastered with an eviction notice, do not offer your home. Say I Love You, then call her the wrong name. If you really love a writer, bury her in all your awful and watch as she scrawls her way out.””

-

Megan Falley, “If You Really Love a Writer” (via pigmenting)

“After the Witch Hunt” makes a good holiday present, gives money to a small publishing press and not a crazy corporation, helps me out, and brings poetry into the world. Think about it!

30 Day TV Show Meme : Day 3Your Favorite New Show :...

30 Day TV Show Meme : Day 3

Your Favorite New Show : Girls

wonderdave:Megan Falley performs Glutton at the new shit show...

wonderdave:

Megan Falley performs Glutton at the new shit show at Viracocha in San Francisco.

this is the only recording of this poem yet. it isn’t perfect, but its important to me.