The Time That Ravioli Was My Excuse to Miss Class

The first time you meet me, you might have a few different impressions. Either I come across bitchy and cold, extremely talkative, or quiet and nice. You may think, hmm, Megan seems interesting, with lots of hobbies and passions. Maybe she likes being active, or exploring, or doing something entirely different?

In actuality, one of the major parts of my personality is that I have a terrible sense of balance. Just like all those other quirky girls you may have met…except I can’t. fucking. do. anything. without. spilling. shit.

It isn’t a quirk, but instead a stark and daunting reality that every day, I might royally fuck something up. I could probably bore you with all the times I’ve spilled mustard on a white shirt, or spilling coffee down my freshly laundered work pants. I could tell you the tale of tripping over absolutely nothing while walking across my college campus. But, those stories are fucking boring. I’ve found that if I don’t do one small clumsy thing a day, all the clumsiness will build and the universe will be out of balance and I will have to do one BIG, ENORMOUSLY clumsy thing. Here is just one (with many fucking more to follow or until I learn how to not fall):

The Rocketing Ravioli

ravioli

Have you ever had a day where everything goes fucking wrong? I’ve had too many to fucking count, but here’s the one I so desperately try to forget, but that friends will bring up time and time again if my ego becomes too inflated. This story usually brings me back to earth with a fucking thud.

Back in college, I usually tried to juggle too many things at once, as one is wont to do when they overload their schedule with 15 units of classes on only two days of the week while working a part-time job on all other days. I thought that, with two years of college experience under my belt, I knew it all. I was a fucking rock star. I could balance homework, papers, a balanced diet, AND a life worthy of social media all at the same time. I was at my fucking peak.

One day, I was intensely hungry, like always, and craved Chef Boyardee ravioli. I calculated I had about fifteen minutes to make it, cool it, eat it, and be ready to catch the shuttle to take me to class from our one bedroom apartment. I sighed in relief at the knowledge that I was growing up to be a successful adult, with a whole life of possibility ahead of me. So I made the damn ravioli.

I had placed all the shit I needed right next to the couch so I could easily grab it and go once I was done. I also had a pile of clothes I had been folding and piling the night before, and let’s face it, I probably wouldn’t move them until I actually needed to wear them. My pristine black and white couch with my comfy white pillow looked so inviting, and I couldn’t wait to enjoy my pre-class snack.

The microwave dinged – the bowl was hot as fuck. I grabbed a towel and cradled the bowl in my hands. The warmth of my meal radiated into my fingers, and I slowly walked across our beige carpeted floor to my already prepared seat on the couch.

Then, it happened – a moment that I could almost sense was about to happen, a premonition that turned into a sudden realization as my fingers lost their gripĀ – and for a whole second the word “FUCK” seemed to flash on like a brilliant marquee in my mind – as the bowl slipped from the towel I was holding and tipped upside down, rocketing ravioli in all directions of my living room.

The noodly meat squares plopped onto the ground in a sad lump, while the damn sauce seemed to ricochet off of nearby objects and grow exponentially in distance and damage. The reddish brown liquid first hit the beige carpet and soaked into the dirty recesses below in a deep pool. Next, it hit the pile of clothes that sat beside the couch, including one of my favorite sweaters on the very top and my white work pants, now destroyed in the mayhem. It splattered onto the side of the couch like blood spurting from a crime show victim, and somehow a huge glob hit my beautiful, dainty white pillow like a fucking rocket, seeping into the fabric. How the fuck had specks of Boyardee managed to get on the wall, the lamp, the coffee table, AND the window? Steam from the radiated microwaved meal rose from every area it touched, like the remnants of a fire slowly burning out. Sauce splatter littered my pants and the reek of fucking processed beef and tomatoes filled my nostrils.

I stood among the wreckage of my now burnt orange apartment and sighed. I wasn’t going to make it to fucking class that day.

A Letter to my Showerhead.

day 1: write a letter to an inanimate object you hate.

I can’t easily avoid you, like I can with the humans I despise. I can’t be rid of you, because I desperately need you to feel clean, pure, anew…in a way, I love you. But you abuse me. You beat me again and again and again when all I’m trying to do is mind my own business. I know you never mean to, but you never say sorry, either. You just stay where you are, with that stoic, metal look on your face, pretending as if you didn’t just smash yourself into my skull leaving a round imprint for weeks.

Do you know how hard it is to show myself in public after you hit me? I have no one to turn to. No one can stop you because you’re too powerful, your metallic curve a menacing question mark shape permanently fixed onto my life, my soul.

And yet, I can’t stop myself from coming back to you, day after day, to feel you drip soft waves upon my skin and soften me. You sicken me, but not as much as I sicken myself for crawling back to your silver mouth for comfort.

I beg you to care for me. Just return my love, that’s all I ask. I want to be free of fear, to shower with the knowledge you won’t hurt me again.

Doesn’t everyone want that from their showerhead?

yours,

Megan

stupid

last year I was stupid
just like the year before
I said stupid things, yet did
stupid things even more.
I had stupid friends and
wrote stupid stories down,
I must have caught the stupid train
and moved to stupid town!
stupid words and stupid books,
idiocy GALORE –
next year, I’ll look back and say
I was more stupid than before.

Day 6: A letter to a stranger (aka Ode to the Girl With A Rolling Backpack)

I know not your name,

but I’ve seen you before.

You roll your backpack

all over the floor.

I just don’t know why

you own that thing

on the shuttle it takes up

one whole person’s seat.

That is not a backpack.

That is a hearse.

Please, at least let me

buy you a purse,

or maybe even just a

NORMAL backpack with straps

to hold all your books

on your way to class.

I really don’t know you,

don’t know you at all,

maybe you have back pain,

or suffered a fall-

maybe your ailments

are the cause of this mess…

maybe it’s psychological…

alas, I digress.

My issue is, stranger,

that you keep hitting my toes

every time I pass you, but

I guess that’s just how it goes.

At least can you promise

to not take the bus?

I really do not want to

make such a fuss,

but SERIOUSLY woman –

this bus is for humans,

not rolling backpacks…

Thank you,

a student.