Monday, June 13, 2005

Apologetics. I, Meg Fowler, am a pathological apologizer. I feel responsible for anything and everything that goes awry. If I counted out the sheer number of apologies I issue in the space of a day, I could probably compete with my Catholic friends in terms of unrestrained guilt. Not that all Catholics feel guilty...they just feign it long enough to put on a good show in the confessional. But me? I'm actually apologizing sincerely. I don't know why I think I'm the one making all the mistakes, but it could have something to do with a lifetime's worth of ridiculous moments: klutzy times where I broke things; dippy times where I acted without thinking; fiesty moments where I yelled before I thought to hold my tongue; and silly moments where I cared more about getting a laugh than showing good common sense. None of these are particularily wise habits in 31-year old women, but those same old habits die hard, and I'm left making amends more often than I'd like. My friends tell me I apologize too often, and for things that a) aren't my fault, or b) aren't really so bad that anyone needs to apologize for them. I also apologize for things that really have nothing to do with me, like people being tired (even though I wasn't the one keeping them up!), or bad weather. This drives a few of my pals up the wall, and they've threatened more than once to make me sorry if I didn't stop apologizing. It doesn't work. I just end up apologizing for apologizing. And then they get more irritated, which only leads to...you guessed it....another apology. I suppose I could try and stop, but I cant stand it when people do something dumb or offensive, and don't own up to it. It just seems insensitive. I know that it's just as bizarre and annoying to take the burden of everything on your shoulders, but eh...it feels better than shrugging everything off. I'll probably get over it one day. But until then, well.....sorry, but that's just how I am. 9:46:19 PM    build me up, buttercup... [] Late Night Confessions. I have never left North America. I often forget to brush my teeth before I go to bed. I owned a Backstreet Boys album. Granted, it was given to me, but I didn't use it as a clay pigeon. I listened to it. My pajama pants are a shade of green that I swore for years that I would never wear. I think chocolate chips in muffins are a travesty. I will get up at 4 am sometimes to check locks that I somehow wasn't worried about at 11:30 pm. I find orange juice really boring. I've given up trying to remove gray hairs as they arrive. I think Margaret Atwood is kind of....obvious. The things in life that flare my anger the most often, and the most quickly, are computers and men I love. For six months out of the year, my voice sounds a lot like a duck. I cried while watching an Adam Sandler movie. First Ashton, now Adam. I'm now avoiding Vin Diesel movies, just in case. To know that you've disappointed someone you love, and that they still love you, is both the most humbling and the most wonderful feeling in the world. I have pretty big feet for my height -- 9 1/2. Irish Cream is a really, really icky flavour. I sincerely believe, and have accepted the fact, that I will never, ever learn to juggle. I don't read newspapers nearly often enough to dream one day of becoming a journalist. I have no desire whatsoever to attend a women's retreat of any kind, nor join any club that is just comprised of females. I do, however, enjoy the hell out of my girlfriends, and am thankful for them each and every day. Twisting my ankle makes me nauseous. I have a tendency to overuse hot sauce. I sometimes fall asleep while talking on the phone. I wish that I were more flexible. I long to be told that I'm beautiful. And when I hear it, I believe it about 5% of the time. I have no clue how to fish. I've written essays on books I haven't read, and realized later that my A's on those papers were not badges of rakish achievement, but probably more the scarlet kind that someone should have sewn onto my shirt. I never really got into the whole Snapple thing. I suck at hula-hooping now. Except around my neck. I still really love salad bars. I talk like my mom. I think like my dad. I don't generally enjoy reading mystery novels. I just get impatient. Egg salad is gross.. Satire makes me happier than many things on earth. I don't even know you, and I hope you're happy. Really. When I'm good, I'm very, very good. But when I'm bad, I'm...whiny. On the day I get married, I imagine that all my girlfriends will rush to hug my groom, and say, "You are so lucky to get Meg. Take good care of her!" And all my male friends will say, "Shit, man, I hope you like hockey." 1:51:37 AM    build me up, buttercup... []

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