SHORT:
At Jewish Day School we weren’t allowed to celebrate Halloween because it was a pagan holiday. I told my classmates that I went trick-or-treating, and they called me "Megan The Pagan" for the rest of the year.
MEDIUM:
I went on a date two months ago. I kept looking at the girl’s lips and hair and glasses thinking– be brave, be honest. But there’s a checking mechanism in me– a little thudding clock that likes to pop up and lose its shit at random. I didn’t want to come on too strong. I also didn’t want to seem boring; but my conversation topics, my attempts at initiating… anything... were watery.
The stupid thudding clock makes me freak out about “free will” and whether I should just wake up and trust that everything will fall into place, or whether that’s laziness. Or delusion.
I try really hard, I make schedules, I set goals, I stay up late doing things nobody asks me to do. I wonder if that’s depleting a certain acquiescent spirit that’s actually the key to connection and purpose. True withholding and releasing are both so hard. I know that’s not a new thought, but I think it’s worth recognizing and re-recognizing.
I really like the girl. And I don’t want to mess things up. The other day I sent her a goofy picture of myself. She replied with an emoji. What does it all mean? I hate being alive and having to play these games. I like being alive and getting nervous before sending a stupid photo to a girl. My roommate says I smile when I text her; she catches me smirking at my phone. It all feels very elementary school, and I wonder if it will feel this way until the world explodes or melts.
LONG:
4pm. I run outside in a pair of giant grey basketball shorts that I ordered online. I’ve allotted just enough time to get to the park and back before I have to hop on a Google Hangout with my satire group (because I love demanding to be funny and pretending to be politically aware while sitting in my bed, positive that I do not matter and cannot make a difference).
I pat myself on the back for leaving my phone at home. The only thing I have with me is a dirty pair of keys that I pass between my left and right hand as I go.
I catalogue what I’ve eaten in the past day: cheese stick, cereal, chocolate milk, popcorn, and an almond-croissant-that-I-bought-from-the-cafe-on-the-corner-that-I-thought-would-change-my-life-or-at-least-up-my-mood-but-it-actually-just-sunk-like-a-rock-in-my-stomach-and-I-lost-4-dollars.
The barista who works at the croissant-cafe is so mean. I love it. One time she called this 40-year-old guy “a cuck” because he shaved weird designs into his beard and demanded that she “say something nice about it”. He won’t go inside the cafe anymore. He peers through the window as his friend goes in and orders his whole milk latte for him. The barista flips him off through the glass. I don’t know why he and his friend keep coming back, but I enjoy watching the wackadoo exchange when I happen to be around.
After a few blocks of running, somebody calls my name. I stop and squint at a set of shapes on the front steps of a remodeled apartment. It’s this guy Spencer. I went to school with him and he’s one of the sweetest people in the world and he told me he was moving nearby and I promptly forgot. When I don’t leave my phone at home, I’m an asshole.
I slow to a stop, heaving and certain that Spencer is judging me for my giant shorts. The night prior, I took the shorts out of their packaging, tried them on, and thought “this is the most comfortable I’ve ever been.” I took a photo to remember the feeling.
It’s Spencer’s birthday.
I, of course, didn’t know this when I went out for my run and serendipitously ran into him– but shortly after I stopped to chat, his roommates exploded out the door singing with brownies and cupcakes and cupcakes. It was so beautiful and wholesome and I was just… there.
“Oh my god,” I laugh. “Happy Birthday!”
They offer me brownies.
I turn them down, insisting that they celebrate in peace.
“I’ll get back to my run.”
“Happy birthday again, wow!”
I take off down the street. Run to the park. Past the tattoo shop with the big red sign. Past the middle school and high school and grocery store. I beat myself up for not remembering that Spencer lived on Greene Street and for not knowing that it was his birthday. I tell myself that I need to “reach out more”– to Spencer... to everyone.
I unlock the gate and climb the stairs to my apartment. I shower, dry off, and forget about the birthday brownies.
I log onto Google Hangouts and hope that funny people will love me.
Did you enjoy this? Did you hate this? Should I go as “Megan The Pagan” for Halloween? Are you annoyed that I completely make up where and when I put commas/semicolons/dashes/etc. in my writing? I wanna know ur thoughts!
-Meg
Social- @megspope@mpopetweets
Venmo- @mpope-venmo-26
Website- meganpopework.com
Donate to The Audre Lorde Project
Thought Of The Week: The difference between buttered toast, a butter croissant, and buttered bagel shouldn’t be huge (if u think about it scientifically) but randomly? the difference is monumental.
Watch Of The Week: What The Constitution Means To Me
I also watched Circle Jerk, Emily In Paris, This Bad Horror Movie, and Heroes Of The Fourth Turning [if they do another round of Zoom Heroes, please watch it].
Poem Of The Week:
