The Origin Story

  
The seed for this blog was sewn when I was living in New York, attending grad school to get my M.A. I would write Facebook posts about the people I encountered: the guy in the library who sounded like he was beating up his computer, only to discover he was playing what could have only been the Tetris game that determined the fate of humanity; the neighbors in the building behind me who would blast the Les Miserables soundtrack for hours as they chased their cats around their patio; the teenagers I would pass on my way to my internship at the Met, taking pictures of their friends pointing at the statues’ genetalia in the Greek and Roman wing. You would not believe the giggling.

But through these chronicles, it appeared that I wasn’t half bad at eliciting a misguided chuckle or two. I would hear time and time again (commence rolling your eyes), that I “should start a blog”! So I started a blog to tell my stories of whimsy and hijinks, but there was a problem. I moved to Wisconsin. Now, don’t get me wrong. Wisconsin isn’t bad. There is just a distinct lack of homeless men yelling, “well, hey Strawberry Shortcake!” at me every time I walk in the library. There is no group of teenagers on public transportation dramatically yelling at people trying to get on, “SAVE YOURSELVES!” when the AC isn’t working in the summer. And the neighbors in the building behind me do not use their patio for cat-chases, but…reading.

 

my flowers live in fear

 
So yes, my self-indulgent Facebook statuses have given way to a self-indulgent blog, but there isn’t quite as much fodder for story telling. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try! I give you…

Meredith’s 2015 Hijinks:

Last night for dinner, I had a bowl full of radishes! Based on the food I had in my kitchen, it was either that, or two creamsicles and a pickle.

A racoon knocked over my tomato plant in the middle of the night on Tuesday. On Wednesday, it pulled up one of my strawberry plants. War has officially been declared, and I plan on standing guard with the only thing I have heavy enough to act as a raccoon-fighting implement: my snow boots.

A sign you may be old: It’s the weekend and you’ve never been more excited to go home and read a history book about cholera.

Not refilling the coffee in the break room is grounds for an Inigo Montoya-style revenge story.

…Exciting, right?

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