Hey, remember when I moved to San Francisco and had my power turned off in the second week?

I moved to San Francisco in June of last year and last week, during what was my sort-of anniversary of moving to the city, I dug out the journal I started when I first moved here. And, oh man, I had forgotten what a hard couple of months I had there at the beginning. I didn’t tell anyone this at the time, because I was much too embarrassed, but I had my power turned off because I waited too long to call PG&E to set  things up. As a result, I spent a couple of nights in the dark feeling sorry for myself.

What follows is a short selection from my journal during that time. They are incredibly embarrassing entries but they’re also pretty hilarious and I’m proud of them in a way. They are the best and worst parts of me, and serve as a good reminder that shit happens, people mess up, things do get better, and as long as I can keep laughing at myself and using excessive amounts of profanity, then I’ll be just fine. Well, better than fine actually. I’ll be great.

June 25, 2011

A while back, in another journal, I told myself I wasn’t going to start a new journal until I finished the one I was writing in. Obviouisly, I didn’t stick to that. At the time I felt like I was trying to start a journal every other week–I always start a journal when I need/want to make a break with the past or start a new chapter so to speak. It’s such obvious symbolism but it helps. I just feel bad because it’s a waste of paper. Also, the fact that I have about ten journals with only one or two entries in them could be somewhat symbolic as well. Symbolic of what, I’m not so sure. But it probably has something to do with me wanting to start over too much, failing a lot, and being unhappy and not wanting to admit it.

But bla, who wants to talk about that? Certainly not me. Certainly not now.

So yes, this journal is a break from the past but it’s also the start of something new. I mean, like duh. Aren’t all new beginnings at the end of something? Isn’t that what that old pop song says? “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” This journal will be like that. It will also be like everything else I write (and do and think and feel) these days: Confused.

June 27, 2011

So yes, I got a new job, quit my old one, packed up my stuff, left Santa Cruz, and moved to San Francisco. I don’t know why I thought this would be a smooth transition—probably because I’m an idiot–but it hasn’t been.

Changing your life can be like, really hard.

So ya, I’ve kind of fucked up. A lot. The shit I do sometimes, is so ridiculous, it amazes even me. Lately I feel like I’m one minor screw-up away from completely ruining my entire life. But you know, that’s kind of what makes it fun. And I need to remind myself that this is what I wanted. I wanted a challenge. I wanted something hard. “The hard is what makes it great.” I wanted to be scared and uncomfortable. I wanted this.

God, what a dumb bitch I was.

I should probably mention that I’m writing this while sitting on the floor of my new apartment in the dark. I forgot to call PG&E and they’ve turned off my power. Ooops.

I would also like to add that so far I have received three parking tickets and two angry notes from my neighbors about my inability to correctly park my car. Also, I took the wrong train home tonight and ended up riding around the city for a good hour and a half–okay, two hours–before I figured out where I was and how to get home. Nice eh?

But it’s  all okay because I have candles, I have red wine, I have an awesome sleeping bag, I have books (I always have books), and I’m actually feeling rather romantic sitting here on the floor of my empty apartment with Rupert on my lap, purring in that soft soothing way of his. And the bottle next to me is looking all tall and dark and beautiful and  half-finished here in the dim light. (No, I won’t say half-empty or half-full, because it doesn’t matter if I’m drinking it all tonight. Hahaha…)

There is great hope and promise in an open bottle of wine.

And yes, I’m getting cheesy and weird but so what? I’m sitting on the fucking floor in the dark, I can do what I want.

So I need to be able to bitch about life stuff in here because, frankly, I’m stressed the fuck out and I always try to be profound and talk about life and I dunno, my lame fucking feelings in here when I should just stop being an ass and start using my journal for what it’s supposed to be used for–bitching and laughing at how incredibly stupid I can be.

Years from now when I read this I’m hoping this will be an especially entertaining entry. “Hey, remember when I moved to San Francisco and had my power turned off in the second week? That was fucking hilarious.”

Oh well, it’s not that bad. Now I just deal. Fuck it you know? I’m just going to jump in and fail a lot. And make mistakes. Hopefully that will work out for me.

It’s dark. I’m writing by candlelight. Rupert has left my lap and now I can hear his claws click as he explores the next room, and the cough of the man walking by outside my window. There are car doors being opened and closed. The dog in the apartment above me scampering overhead. Buses stopping and starting again. Everything is moving. Everything makes this great noise–a communal hum of life and living. And yet here, in this room, I can hear the soft pat of my pen as it moves across this page, joining it all, and it feels so quiet.

I guess not having electricity will do that to you.

June 29, 2012

Ah yes, there’s nothing so romantic as cleaning a cat box by candlelight. Day two of no power and I’m surviving pretty well. I looked like absolute shit at work today but it rained so I might have looked that way regardless. I got another parking ticket. This time for parking too far from the curb. Or I think that’s why. I’m never sure since I obviously don’t know how to park here. So yes, fuck me.

I can’t wait until I have my power back on tomorrow and I can do my hair! Ha, it’s the little (shallow) things that make a difference.

I’m oddly happy though. It definitely feels like I’m squatting and that I don’t really live here, that this is all some sick joke, but that will pass. I’m excited to get paid, and finish and start a new book. And I have this weekend all to myself. I plan on doing absolutely nothing. I can’t wait.

June 30, 2012

The power is back on! Woooo hooo! I got home, played with the cat, then spent the rest of the night on the internet. Did I mention that I really love the internet? Because I do. I really do.

Oh man… but yes, now I have light and coffee in the morning, I mailed my rent, I need to pay my parking ticket. But life is good. Work is good. I have so much learning to do.

It’s good. It’s that time again. The time for me to kick some fucking ass. To let people tell me what I can’t do and do it anyway. To let my own mind tell me what I can’t do and do it anyway.  It’s fun. I forgot this feeling. I forgot I was even like this.

I don’t want to be one of those scared broken people. I don’t want to be afraid. I want to be stupid and crazy and in love with the world, just like I was when I was 14… and 16… and then again at 18, and 21, and 24, and now 27. I want to cry because it’s all so beautiful and I’m such a hopeless mess. I want to laugh long and hard and without control. I want to smile while I walk down the street alone and also at strangers on the train, at the bar, at the supermarket, or outside my window. I want to love everything without shame. I want to feel horrible and wonderful and confused all at the same time. To get home from work and run until I can barely breathe, to stop in the midst of it all and gasp, bent over with my hands on my knees. I want to fail and fail and fail time and time again. And learn everything there is to know from failing. I want to hurt too. I want to yell and scream. To shake and sob. To run on beaches. Trip down stairs. I want to embarrass myself. I want to be stupid and careless and also thoughtful and perceptive. I want it all. I want everything. I want so much. I don’t care anymore. Fine, I’m going to fuck up. Great. Watch me everyone. Watch me fuck up! Me–Megan Fucking Murray–I’ll fuck up more gloriously and  passionately than anyone has ever fucked up before! And I’ll fucking love it too. Every fucking second of it. It’s going to be great. I’M going to be great.

Turn the page and see.

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