megan mchugh, trash day photographer, non-gender-specific 'bachelor' of arts. yeah, no one ever said it would sound that pretty, but you are an effing rock star, mego!
megan has awkward encounters with artists who feed her brie or camembert. we're not really sure which cheese it was. all that matters is soon she too will be one of the elite. she will feed cheese to others in her studio and you will surely not.
the thing of it is, i cannot imagine having to interpret every moment of your existence. often when confronted with your ass, i think, what have i done? then i realize that it is rather what i haven't.
mego, effin in the b: where do you position yourself regarding this issue? megan = sublime distraction, tho she begrudges every moment of it. she is rather like a platypus in this regard.
megan, whenever i see you thrust your pelvis that way, i can only think one thing:
why is she my friend?
then another second thought follows:
at least i am not her mother.
megan is a snoopy little critter with a parapluie on her bicep and blue eyes that i have never requested to take a dip in, tho one might. sometimes i don't know what the hell she is talking about, and thankfully neither does she. all scooters, ass, and liquid awesome, she can't stand that she doesn't know what i am typing right now. soy sauce on everything. single-serving clothing. you probably don't get her now, and i promise that you never will.
'absence does not become the transformed presence.'
