1. "Travel is like love, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. That is why the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end. — Pico Iyer"
    (via bangaloregirl)
  2. always wear a smile.

    always wear a smile.

  3. The one that taught me what kind of person I wanted to be, and what kind I didn’t. Bone-straight hair and a lightness that melted people. You could have one conversation with this girl, and you’d glow for hours. Everything she wore looked like it was made for her; if it was too big, it hung effortlessly from her wiry frame. She was the envy of every girl, and the intrigue for every boy. Still is, I assume. At once, she taught me how to celebrate human difference while resolutely maintaining her sense of self. I’ll always appreciate that.

    To the girl with too many sillies. I know you.

    The unimportant one who taught me what naive and intense heart sickness feels like. I barely remember what his face looked like, but I didn’t eat for days. We had a snowball fight once, our team won.

    The one that grew on me slowly. You have such a kind heart, even if you speak so fast it sometimes doesn’t compute.

    The brother whose every tiny success feels like a million. I didn’t know how much I could love someone.

    The boy with the funny accent who can make me laugh with a sidelong glance. You’re one of the good ones.

    The one with the kindest heart I know. Forever and ever, she will radiate a kind of purity that makes you wonder if bullshit like gossip and cattiness even exists.

    The 98 year old regular that reminded me every day that life’s all about routine. I hope your steak sandwich tastes as good tomorrow as it did today. And no, I will not sit on your lap.

    To the woman who validated my reasons for feeling uncertain, insecure, and sometimes imperfect.

    The male friend I have and don’t deserve. When I struggle, he helps me fix it with an intensity that demonstrates how much he loves me - and I don’t know why. He is the furthest thing from artificial in the best possible way; he tells me when I’m wrong, lets me chip away at his character when I need to, and sleeps on the couch after I’ve forced him to share the bed, and then hog it.

    To the girl who doesn’t judge me when I want to eat three brunches. Or get silly drunk to the point of tears. We’re so different, yet kind of the same. Thanks for being my most loyal friend, like a hand print on my heart.

    To the best kisser in the world, move to Canada. Learn English. and ditch the beads.

    To the one that re-charged my batteries and incited a love for food that only seems to grow. You’re a beautiful person.

    To the woman who works cash at the Mac-Correy cafeteria. Your smiling face routinely makes my chocolate milk taste that much sweeter. I admire your dedication to providing exact change.

    To the guy that bought me a beer because he saw me from across the bar, yet didn’t have time to stay. Thank you.

    The one that insisted I occupy space within my own life instead of existing on its peripheries. Thanks for putting up with my uncles. And me. I still haven’t quite figured it out.

    To the one that reminds me of the vast disparities I sometimes ignore between myself and others. She never lets me rest in ignorance.

    The friend that reminded me, after many years of being shy, that it’s perfectly alright to be an English nerd. Hell, everyone is passionate about something. 

    The officer at Gatwick that let me stand to the side before going through security so I could catch my breathe and wipe my eyes. 

    To that girl I tolerate because I need to, but secretly cannot stand. You’ve provided me with a framework for how not to exist in the real world. 

    To the guy with the floppy hair and what I remember as an infectious and irresistible charisma. I miss you, but I hope I never experience a love as claustrophic and unsettling as ours ever again. I’m so glad you’re happy, I’m so glad I’m happy.

    To the Professor that taught the lectures on Roy’s The God of Small Things. I’m still studying English, which may or may not be a good thing.

    To the boy everyone loves. They love you for a reason. 

    The guy that knew himself less than he knew me. I hope you’re happier now.

    To that guy at a bar a few years back that didn’t freak out on me when I dropped the shot he bought me…twice. 

    To the many, many stu-cons that didn’t chuck me out of on-campus bars. Thanks for turning a blind eye.

    My friend’s mother, who continually serves as an example of how to construct healthy, warm, and stable relationships. You wrote me the nicest card I’ve ever received. 

    The one I miss every single day. You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met.

    The one I know will be my maid of honour. After everything in my life, you’re a given.

  4. Scarlett for UK Vogue February, 2013 Sheeeeeeeit, she’s hot.

    Scarlett for UK Vogue February, 2013

    Sheeeeeeeit, she’s hot.

  5. I’ve had a bit of a rough beginning to the start of the year, and woke up this morning looking for a mini-adventure. You know, the kind that doesn’t require too much prep but  brings a little skip to your step? Trust me. If you’re feeling a little low, a mini-adventure should be at the top of your “feel better” list. Along with some extortionately expensive cheese and red wine.

    Anyways, if there is anyone who can pacify my anxious brain it is Brian, of Brian’s Record Option. Yes, we’re buds. Well…as of today at least. I spent almost an hour meandering around his adorably (and at some points frighteningly) full store, shooting the shit, discussing things that didn’t necessarily matter in that beautiful way that still makes them interesting. Sometimes, I need to talk to someone on the peripheries of my life to realize that what is bothering me or stressing me out isn’t the end of the world. Today, I left Brian’s with a new friend and a new Picasso poster that I hung over my bed. 

    I’m telling you people, sometimes, it’s the little things.

  6. I can’t remember when I first realized that I enjoyed words. “Enjoyed” isn’t the right term. “Perplexity” more aptly describes my relationship with the written word because for most of my life, good writing (of any variety) has left me more curious than satisfied; more confused, perhaps, than satiated.  As a kid, I read books religiously. As if conducting some sort of ritual, my free time was spent devouring whatever I could get my hands on. I assume it was deeply frustrating for parents of three small children to have such a voraciously curious kid to entertain. I distinctly recall sitting on our old couch at a family party with some kind of magazine lying in my lap. As my dad tried to greet relatives and offer drinks, I called out shamelessly, “hey daddy, what’s impotence again?”. Needless to say, I’ve never been able to live that memory down. 

    In my second year of undergrad I awoke one morning blessed with one of those rare, clarifying hangovers. It was as if the space of my mind was sky-blue for days. I like to think these moments of clarity are unique to me, but I’m sure most people experience some derivative of these mornings I savour. Sometimes, I employ the clear-mindedness to clean my apartment, therapeutically cleansing myself of the beer stains and pizza boxes while my brain hyperactively hums through the events from the night before. But on this particular morning, I looked down at my scruffy journal, always present amidst magazines and books on my bedside table, and decided to do something with the accumulation of words I scrawl across the pages. Half-drunk, I  rolled out of bed, constructing the semblance of a messy bun on top of my head, and headed to Wallack’s. Returning home ten minutes later, armed with a  bucket of deep purple paint, I splashed words all over my bedroom walls. My favourite quotations appeared everywhere, some large and inevitably loud, and some tiny and hidden surreptitiously for my eyes only. From John Mayer lyrics to Baudelaire’s philosophy, it was all there.  It wasn’t until my housemates woke up, clambering in to my room to see what the hell was going on, that I realized the potential error of my ways. Hands on hips, ‘Cole erupted with laughter: “How do you think the next tenants are going to like the artwork? Because we’re sure as hell not living in this shitbox next year.”

    This obsession with words makes me wonder about my decision to pursue a Master’s in English this year. Six months ago, I wondered when my talent in this field would be outranked by my interest. Although a small part of me still muses over how “talented” I truly am as an English academic, I remind myself that talent is about cultivation. My talent is far from stable, or at least I hope it is. My previous notion of what it means to be an “academic” has proven, in the last four months, to be somewhat misguided. And although I remain uncertain if I belong in the strange but lovable subculture of English academia, I do believe that the fascination I feel for what I currently study is only going to grow as I immerse myself in a world of literature. 

    Oh, and we did move out in third year (Nicole was right, living in our house was reminiscent of living in a dirty, mold-infested fishbowl) and the lucky incoming tenant hated what I’d done to the place. Pretty vocally. Hey, as a fourth year, male, phys-ed major, I kinda get it.

  7. messy in the best way.

    messy in the best way.

  9. There is an art to justification that I seem to have mastered recently. Sometimes it is just so much easier to justify your decisions, choices, and actions than attempting to change them. A new program means new people, all of whom have turned out to be interesting and intellectual and quirky. I feel like collecting new friendships is sort of my thing; I always want to be as open, as immersed in diversity and disparate ways of approaching the world, as humanly possible. However, this dedication to remain open to newness as a concept often leaves me shaken. Although a great deal of what I like about myself is as a result of this open-minded outlook on living, it forces me to ask myself difficult questions about my own authenticity.

    As you meet new people and introduce yourself to new experiences, which “you” are you bringing into each new milieu? Is my own conceptualization of identity on a spectrum?  I’m asking myself these kinds of questions more and more, resulting in a neurotic self-analysis that produces more insecurity than I’d care to admit. It’s a catch 22 when it comes to me and the unknown; in questioning my own identity, I seem to get further from solidifying any concrete understanding of what it means to be an authentic individual (which might be the point in the first place). A lot of the anxiety I experience in social situations stems from my worry that I’m not bringing the best version of myself to the table. I think with the Christmas break’s endless hours of movie watching and cheese-eating (that’s typical right?) I’ve found a modicum of peace in the understanding that I’m never going to know which version of myself another human being is going to like best. Or, IS “best.” Hell, I don’t even know if I could classify the vast expanse of my personality for myself, much less anyone else. I’m quite literally that complex.

    I’m hoping to actively pursue the authentic “meagan” that sometimes sneaks out of the way when the temptation to be a people pleaser becomes paramount. Not only does the pressure I put on myself to please others become a reason I feel disconnected from new people, it doesn’t do me any favours in the friend department, as I end up portraying a slightly “special” version of myself. Naturally, I will not react in a linear or monolithic way to everyone and everything in my life, but I can try to own my actions and my thoughts to remove the heavy burden of public perception that weighs on me as of late.

    Oh, and the temptation to self-justify I touched on earlier? I’m working on it. Trust.

  10. This disgusts me. The blogs I just skimmed through that go beyond celebrating this idea of living, way past the point of condoning this kind of advertising, disgust me. Eat well, take care of your mind and body, and love yourself.

    This disgusts me. The blogs I just skimmed through that go beyond celebrating this idea of living, way past the point of condoning this kind of advertising, disgust me.

    Eat well, take care of your mind and body, and love yourself.

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