I found out this weekend that an old...friend...didn't send me an invite to his wedding, but he sent one to my old roommate (who he didn't know as...well...as he knew me) (I'm getting tired of all this vagueness. And ellipses. And parentheses. I'm dying from VAGUE PUNCTUATION!!!!!).
I'm not sure whether to laugh or sing the refrain of "Someone Like You."
(And, of course, as soon as I type the words, that very song starts playing on iTunes).
Please vote:
Should I:
A)Laugh,
B)Feel morally superior,
C)Listen to "Someone Like You,"
D)Laugh AND eat Ben & Jerrys? At the same time?
Vote carefully. Your word is my command.
p.s. If ten people vote on this, I will post a video of me singing "Someone Like You." Perhaps as my alter ego Mike Golf.
Showing posts with label My awkward moments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My awkward moments. Show all posts
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Saturday, December 3, 2011
You Won't Believe the Things My Head Thinks Up
...or maybe you will.
Huh. Hadn't considered that possibility. Am I predictable?
Don't answer that.
Full-speed ahead.
I've been writing a new book lately. It's funny. At least, I think so.
The main character practically walked out of my brain. And when I say "walk" I mean she sped away in a fast getaway car taking with her the family jewels, a million bucks, and possibly my good sense and dignity at the same time.
And I just can't be mad at her.
Poor damaged darling.
I can hardly consider myself a writer yet, but I have noticed that writers tend to talk about their characters like real people. And I get why all of the sudden.
Because when would I in my right mind write a line like this:
"Besides, seeing that hottie Fezzik will probably take my mind off the Other Person. At least for an hour and a half."
Yes. My character's shocking opinions and questionable taste in men have taken over. (For those who aren't as nerdy as me, Fezzik is the giant from The Princess Bride. Also, some of you may remind me that I too have questionable taste in men: Daniel Radcliffe anyone?).
I'll be expecting a call from my mental health professional first thing Monday morning. You know. The one from my nursing home. I'm sure that one of you kind-hearted Samaritans can be thanked.
Also:
Huh. Hadn't considered that possibility. Am I predictable?
Don't answer that.
Full-speed ahead.
I've been writing a new book lately. It's funny. At least, I think so.
The main character practically walked out of my brain. And when I say "walk" I mean she sped away in a fast getaway car taking with her the family jewels, a million bucks, and possibly my good sense and dignity at the same time.
And I just can't be mad at her.
Poor damaged darling.
I can hardly consider myself a writer yet, but I have noticed that writers tend to talk about their characters like real people. And I get why all of the sudden.
Because when would I in my right mind write a line like this:
"Besides, seeing that hottie Fezzik will probably take my mind off the Other Person. At least for an hour and a half."
Yes. My character's shocking opinions and questionable taste in men have taken over. (For those who aren't as nerdy as me, Fezzik is the giant from The Princess Bride. Also, some of you may remind me that I too have questionable taste in men: Daniel Radcliffe anyone?).
I'll be expecting a call from my mental health professional first thing Monday morning. You know. The one from my nursing home. I'm sure that one of you kind-hearted Samaritans can be thanked.
Also:
Monday, November 14, 2011
Et tu, Brute?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason.(Antony, Julius Caesar, Act III, scene 2)
I'm reeling. Absolutely reeling. I feel like I've been hit by a semi. I can't believe this.
This is perhaps the worst thing that's happened to me all week.
Behold:
Oh my treacherous eyes! I think that DANIEL FREAKING RADCLIFFE is attractive in this photo (I can't believe I think it. I can't believe I'm admitting it).
...but there's more. Oh yes, there's more to this absolutely reprehensible treachery.
I think that he looks like Mr. Thornton (from North and South) in this photo.
Go ahead. Judge me. I just compared Daniel Freaking Radcliffe to the most gorgeous male movie lead ever.
I'll leave you now. I'm off to go all Oedipus on my eyes.
Monday, July 11, 2011
So Blog about It!
My dad always says that one of the things he admires most about me is my never-give-up spirit.
It's true. I have a never-give-up spirit. And high spirits. And low spirits. And The Spirit. Any way you look at it, I am spirited.
I guess the real word is attitude. He's seen me fall flat on my face so many times, yet I always get "back in the saddle" time and again until I get the thing right.
Saying this is very sweet of my dad. I appreciate it a lot. I think it's true too.
But let's move back a step or two. Maybe even ten steps.
It also means that I have vast amounts of experience at failing. Vast, like the ocean or sky or [insert really big nature thing here]. (See? Sometimes I fail at making similes and metaphors. FAIL.)
It probably all started when I was little. And then I got older. And older. Finally, I arrived at junior high. Cue sinister music.
Little known fact: In the seventh grade, I was failing/getting Ds in the majority of my classes. My parents, quite the cunning team, figured out that the best medicine was and is humiliation. Mom and Dad dutifully set up parent-teacher-and-failing-student conferences (wow that was a lot of hyphens). I was so humiliated by the whole experience that I decided to stop failing. And I did. Look at the geek I am today if you want proof.
What's the point of this post?
My parents decided it was time for me to enter the pristine and glowing halls of adulthood, and by adulthood I mean the pristine and glowing halls of having a credit score. And even though I'm 24, have lived on my own for six years, including in a foreign country, and have gained quite a bit of wisdom and cunning of my own throughout my life, somehow they managed to trick me into buying a car.
It's a funny story. Ask me about it sometime. :)
It's true. I have a never-give-up spirit. And high spirits. And low spirits. And The Spirit. Any way you look at it, I am spirited.
I guess the real word is attitude. He's seen me fall flat on my face so many times, yet I always get "back in the saddle" time and again until I get the thing right.
Saying this is very sweet of my dad. I appreciate it a lot. I think it's true too.
But let's move back a step or two. Maybe even ten steps.
It also means that I have vast amounts of experience at failing. Vast, like the ocean or sky or [insert really big nature thing here]. (See? Sometimes I fail at making similes and metaphors. FAIL.)
It probably all started when I was little. And then I got older. And older. Finally, I arrived at junior high. Cue sinister music.
Little known fact: In the seventh grade, I was failing/getting Ds in the majority of my classes. My parents, quite the cunning team, figured out that the best medicine was and is humiliation. Mom and Dad dutifully set up parent-teacher-and-failing-student conferences (wow that was a lot of hyphens). I was so humiliated by the whole experience that I decided to stop failing. And I did. Look at the geek I am today if you want proof.
What's the point of this post?
My parents decided it was time for me to enter the pristine and glowing halls of adulthood, and by adulthood I mean the pristine and glowing halls of having a credit score. And even though I'm 24, have lived on my own for six years, including in a foreign country, and have gained quite a bit of wisdom and cunning of my own throughout my life, somehow they managed to trick me into buying a car.
It's a funny story. Ask me about it sometime. :)
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
You Are a Failure
Just another manic Monday...except it's Wednesday.
Yo, peeps. It's been a while. All nine of you miss me a ton, I know. I get your fan mail; I even read it. Sometimes. Stop crying yourself to sleep at night and listen.
'Cuz Gadd's back.
I think it's time for another post about things that are funny. Or not funny. You decide.
Today in my soul-sucking-brainpower-draining theory class(I think the teacher calls it Eng 452: Modern Critical Theory or something like that) we had a full on verbal battle. And by we, I mean NOT ME.
Contrary to popular belief, I don't like contention. Contention is so AWKWARD.
God bless our teacher...for something. I'm sure there's something God can bless him for. I want to like him. Really, I do! He seems like a cute, eccentric old man. But I can't, repeat, cannot, accept his teaching style.
February 2, 2011 (Based on REAL and TRUE events. No postmodern critics were harmed in the making of this dialogue. Even though I tried real hard).
Professor: "Class, you are all woefully underprepared. The system has failed you."
Student 1: "So, you're saying we're stupid?"
Professor: "No, you're not stupid. The C+ I gave to all of your papers [I know right? First C+ in my entire life] means that English students in other countries actually know what they're talking about when they open their mouths. You idiots resemble widemouth bass, for crying in the non-existent bucket. Have you guys even heard of Derrida?"
Student 2: "But I just don't understand how you can grade us like this when we haven't even talked about the critic or his essay and you told us before we started that you'd be shocked if any of us actually understood him. I mean, how is that fair?"
Professor: "So you're saying that you don't think this is fair?"
Student 3: Loudly and passionately: "Well, I think that you guys should just stop worrying so much about your grades. I mean, they're not that important. You should just stop whining and pay attention. Gosh."
Professor: "I mean, I didn't even read your papers. I knew you all failed abysmally and I didn't even bother on most of them. Sometimes I just wrote, 'Tough isn't it?'"Professor chuckles to himself.
Megan to her friend: "OMG. That's what he wrote on mine!"
Friend: "Me too."
Megan shrugs. Class grumbles. So on and so forth.
Yes, this is what class was like today. I wasn't making that dialouge up. I was quoting. Ridiculous.
But you know what? I don't care. I've accepted that I'm a product of a failing educational system. And you know what? You should accept it too. You are a failure.
Then THANK your teacher for the C+ and for making you realize just how stupid you are. I mean, when you think about it, he's being totally merciful. Saves you a lot of embarrassment in the end with the whole "smart" thing.
Pssh, yeah.
Megan
Yo, peeps. It's been a while. All nine of you miss me a ton, I know. I get your fan mail; I even read it. Sometimes. Stop crying yourself to sleep at night and listen.
'Cuz Gadd's back.
I think it's time for another post about things that are funny. Or not funny. You decide.
Today in my soul-sucking-brainpower-draining theory class(I think the teacher calls it Eng 452: Modern Critical Theory or something like that) we had a full on verbal battle. And by we, I mean NOT ME.
Contrary to popular belief, I don't like contention. Contention is so AWKWARD.
God bless our teacher...for something. I'm sure there's something God can bless him for. I want to like him. Really, I do! He seems like a cute, eccentric old man. But I can't, repeat, cannot, accept his teaching style.
February 2, 2011 (Based on REAL and TRUE events. No postmodern critics were harmed in the making of this dialogue. Even though I tried real hard).
Professor: "Class, you are all woefully underprepared. The system has failed you."
Student 1: "So, you're saying we're stupid?"
Professor: "No, you're not stupid. The C+ I gave to all of your papers [I know right? First C+ in my entire life] means that English students in other countries actually know what they're talking about when they open their mouths. You idiots resemble widemouth bass, for crying in the non-existent bucket. Have you guys even heard of Derrida?"
Student 2: "But I just don't understand how you can grade us like this when we haven't even talked about the critic or his essay and you told us before we started that you'd be shocked if any of us actually understood him. I mean, how is that fair?"
Professor: "So you're saying that you don't think this is fair?"
Student 3: Loudly and passionately: "Well, I think that you guys should just stop worrying so much about your grades. I mean, they're not that important. You should just stop whining and pay attention. Gosh."
Professor: "I mean, I didn't even read your papers. I knew you all failed abysmally and I didn't even bother on most of them. Sometimes I just wrote, 'Tough isn't it?'"Professor chuckles to himself.
Megan to her friend: "OMG. That's what he wrote on mine!"
Friend: "Me too."
Megan shrugs. Class grumbles. So on and so forth.
Yes, this is what class was like today. I wasn't making that dialouge up. I was quoting. Ridiculous.
But you know what? I don't care. I've accepted that I'm a product of a failing educational system. And you know what? You should accept it too. You are a failure.
Then THANK your teacher for the C+ and for making you realize just how stupid you are. I mean, when you think about it, he's being totally merciful. Saves you a lot of embarrassment in the end with the whole "smart" thing.
Pssh, yeah.
Megan
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I Do Not Ogle Freshmen
One anecdote, then I’ll move on to the meat of this post.
The most awkward scene from Stranger Than Fiction (one of my favorite movies) is when Harold apologizes to Ana for ogling her (“Apology accepted…but only because you stammered”).
I do not ogle freshmen. No. Not even the ones that don’t look like they’re only 18. Definitely not the ones that pass me in the Cannon Center while I’m working. I’m more mature than that. THE END.
Now, this next part might seem a little tame to some of you, but it’s time to pay homage to one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver. And by “one of my favorites” I mean my FAVORITE poet. And my favorite poem.
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it is over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
Mary Oliver
From New and Selected Poems by Mary Oliver (Beacon Press, 25 Beacon St, Boston, MA 02108-2892, ISBN 0 870 6819 5).
Hmmm. Beautiful.
*Mary Oliver-inspired moment of silence* NOW_____________________________________.
The most awkward scene from Stranger Than Fiction (one of my favorite movies) is when Harold apologizes to Ana for ogling her (“Apology accepted…but only because you stammered”).
I do not ogle freshmen. No. Not even the ones that don’t look like they’re only 18. Definitely not the ones that pass me in the Cannon Center while I’m working. I’m more mature than that. THE END.
Now, this next part might seem a little tame to some of you, but it’s time to pay homage to one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver. And by “one of my favorites” I mean my FAVORITE poet. And my favorite poem.
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it is over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
Mary Oliver
From New and Selected Poems by Mary Oliver (Beacon Press, 25 Beacon St, Boston, MA 02108-2892, ISBN 0 870 6819 5).
Hmmm. Beautiful.
*Mary Oliver-inspired moment of silence* NOW_____________________________________.
Monday, August 9, 2010
How Many Megans Does It Take To Calculate Real Friends?
Hi. It's me. Blogging for a third time. Everybody look at me, I'm so cool right now.
A few items of business: First, if I'm measuring my real friends as opposed to my fake friends (parameters being facebook) 6 of my 473 friends are real. The rest are fake.
How did you measure that number, you ask?
Comments. (And maybe I didn't count right, but drop it because math is a TOUCHY subject with me. In case you were wondering 9x9 equals forty-freaking-nine and don't tell me its 81 BECAUSE I SAY IT'S NOT. See what I mean? Touchy).
So, you other 473 minus 6 friends (You do the math)ARE YOU REAL FRIENDS OR NOT? Consider this your challenge.
Second, my blog layout is boring. How do I remedy this situation? All of my other friends with blogs have awesome formats and fonts, and things that glitter and make them money. I really like glitter. And money. Any suggestions?
Third, I'm planning on running away from home for Winter semester 2011. I've been researching ways to get to Florence on this cool website called transitionsabroad.com. That site is a veritable spark to my travel fever. Add a few thousand dollars and BAM! I'd be hopping on a plane right now if I could. Anyone want to 1) run away with me and 2) fund our adventure? Make checks payable to me. I'll take care of the rest.
Fourth, yesterday I said something goofy in front of my family that I need to get off my chest. Tell me if this is not hysterical and typically me. Spenny (my little brother) was telling us yesterday about EFY. He loved it. Anyway, working in Helaman Halls I've become acquainted with the quaint habits of the EFY and sport camps students. Yeah, that means that I think that they can be obnoxious, bless their hearts. We love them anyways. Somehow in the course of the conversation I referred to them all as EFers. Sound that out. effers. Yes. That is what I said. EFY-ers...Efyers...effers. I didn't do it consciously, but my subconscious was having other ideas.
Fifth, I have a new idea for a novel. Let me back up here a few steps and talk about how I'm losing in the great Katherine Gee/Megan Gadd Writing Face-off. It's okay because Katherine is losing too. Basically, this is the idea. We have established three milestones: 10,000 words, 25,000 words, 50,000 words. Best two out of three wins the competition, buying me a plane ticket to her wedding. (It makes perfect sense in our heads). Anyways. I am stuck on my novel at 7,000 new words (meaning since the contest started) and about 15,000 total words. I need to get unstuck and soon. I don't have money to buy a plane ticket to her wedding.
But yesterday as I was sitting in Relief Society, this new idea starting pouring out of my brain into my notebook. I've never had a plot come out so fully formed. It's practically screaming to be written. And my fingers are itching to get to it.
I guess I could tell you what my two novels are about, but I probably won't. Sorry.
To all of you real friends, vi voglio tanto bene.
To all of you fake friends, meh.
:)
Third post, out.
A few items of business: First, if I'm measuring my real friends as opposed to my fake friends (parameters being facebook) 6 of my 473 friends are real. The rest are fake.
How did you measure that number, you ask?
Comments. (And maybe I didn't count right, but drop it because math is a TOUCHY subject with me. In case you were wondering 9x9 equals forty-freaking-nine and don't tell me its 81 BECAUSE I SAY IT'S NOT. See what I mean? Touchy).
So, you other 473 minus 6 friends (You do the math)ARE YOU REAL FRIENDS OR NOT? Consider this your challenge.
Second, my blog layout is boring. How do I remedy this situation? All of my other friends with blogs have awesome formats and fonts, and things that glitter and make them money. I really like glitter. And money. Any suggestions?
Third, I'm planning on running away from home for Winter semester 2011. I've been researching ways to get to Florence on this cool website called transitionsabroad.com. That site is a veritable spark to my travel fever. Add a few thousand dollars and BAM! I'd be hopping on a plane right now if I could. Anyone want to 1) run away with me and 2) fund our adventure? Make checks payable to me. I'll take care of the rest.
Fourth, yesterday I said something goofy in front of my family that I need to get off my chest. Tell me if this is not hysterical and typically me. Spenny (my little brother) was telling us yesterday about EFY. He loved it. Anyway, working in Helaman Halls I've become acquainted with the quaint habits of the EFY and sport camps students. Yeah, that means that I think that they can be obnoxious, bless their hearts. We love them anyways. Somehow in the course of the conversation I referred to them all as EFers. Sound that out. effers. Yes. That is what I said. EFY-ers...Efyers...effers. I didn't do it consciously, but my subconscious was having other ideas.
Fifth, I have a new idea for a novel. Let me back up here a few steps and talk about how I'm losing in the great Katherine Gee/Megan Gadd Writing Face-off. It's okay because Katherine is losing too. Basically, this is the idea. We have established three milestones: 10,000 words, 25,000 words, 50,000 words. Best two out of three wins the competition, buying me a plane ticket to her wedding. (It makes perfect sense in our heads). Anyways. I am stuck on my novel at 7,000 new words (meaning since the contest started) and about 15,000 total words. I need to get unstuck and soon. I don't have money to buy a plane ticket to her wedding.
But yesterday as I was sitting in Relief Society, this new idea starting pouring out of my brain into my notebook. I've never had a plot come out so fully formed. It's practically screaming to be written. And my fingers are itching to get to it.
I guess I could tell you what my two novels are about, but I probably won't. Sorry.
To all of you real friends, vi voglio tanto bene.
To all of you fake friends, meh.
:)
Third post, out.
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